“So I thought myself—and, by that token, I slipped the bridle from his mouth and laid it under the wall here. Will ye take it with ye, Mr. Gaunt, or shall Peggy bring it over to Marshlands? We’re simple, and ye’re reckoning to be one o’ the gentry-born nowadays; so I fancy ye’d think it ill demeaned ye, like, to go carrying a horse’s bridle in your hands.”
Gaunt took the bridle, keeping his temper as best he could. Quiet or stormy, Widow Mathewson always cut like hail against his face.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me where the cob went, the last you saw of him?”
“Up the moor, and seemed to relish his liberty. He may be at Linsall by this time—though I doubt the marshes on that side o’ the heather would stop him—or happen he’s taken t’ other road, and got to Keta’s Well—or—”
“Then where the devil am I to look for him?” snapped Reuben.
“God knows—which, as I’ve seen life, means always that human-folk can’t guess. Where are Peggy’s wits, Mr. Gaunt? God knows again—for bless me if her mother does.”
Reuben went off, the bridle dangling from his arm; and Widow Mathewson turned across the paddock.
“Reckon he’ll have a longish walk before him, any way,” she said. “Beggars don’t ride most times—and neither does Reuben Gaunt to-day.”
Gaunt himself abandoned all thought of seeking the cob. It would reach home, or he would hear of its whereabouts to-morrow. Meanwhile, he was glad of this further respite from his talk with Yeoman Hirst.
“It would be too late, by the time I walked to Good Intent,” he thought. “I’ll ride up about supper-time, and catch John Hirst in his ripe, evening humour.”