“Say that again,” he muttered.
“Cilla has promised to marry me, and I’m going to be better than the Reuben Gaunt you’ve known.”
It was seldom that the yeoman could find a low voice or a harsh one; but now he did, and his big, clean-cut face had in it the look of a man when he meets an enemy in righteous battle and lusts to kill him.
“You’re a liar, Gaunt of Marshlands,” he said quietly.
Gaunt flushed. “Will you come down to the house, then, and ask Cilla with me there, whether or no I’m a liar?”
“Ay, by God I will! Seems you’re a fool, as well as a liar, or you’d never put it to the test. What, my Cilla mate wi’ the likes o’ ye? Ye’ve been drinking overmuch at race-meetings, or somewhat of that sort, to fancy such outlandish nonsense.”
“Come to the house with me, and ask Cilla,” said the other, obstinately crushing down his spleen. “Is that fair, or isn’t it, Mr. Hirst?”
“Fair? There’s naught fair when you come by with your slippery ways. But I’ll take ye into my house, all the same—for the last time—and I’ll set ye face to face with my lass, and we’ll shame ye out of Garth, she and me between us.”
The wind, that had been quietly veering all day to north of west, blew shrewdly as they went across the croft, at the far end of which Billy was overlooking the work of his three comrades. Hirst did not heed the change of wind; he was warm with faith of his little lass, and hot with anger against Gaunt.
“Come ye in,” said Hirst, leading Reuben round to the front door, whereas he would have ushered David in with little ceremony through the outer kitchen. “Come ye in, Mr. Gaunt, and I shall offer ye neither bite nor sup, though that would seem a shameful thing for Good Intent.”