“Mother,” he said quietly, “it seems we’ve to know one another better. D’ye think I’m feared o’ the fever, if Peggy has caught it?”
She stood away from him. In the hour of fear she could not rid herself of this habit of denying all courage in a man.
“Fever means little to me,” she said drily. “I’m over and done with, Reuben, and care niver at all whether I lig me down or no. But ye’re young, lad—”
“And a coward,” broke in Reuben.
She glanced again at his face. “Well, no,” she said. “I was wrong there, and I own it. But, Reuben—there’s one i’ five lives on to tell on’t if they catch the fever.”
“Then Peggy must be the one, that’s all, mother. We’ll save her yet between us.”
He had no thought of himself. His face, after he had heard her news, was softened, yet full of quiet strength. The widow felt a grudging admiration for this man, with whom she had fought so bitterly in days gone by; she looked again at his trim, healthy body, at the young health in his face, and she was filled with pity.
“Reuben, lad, go back ower th’ moor,” she said, peremptorily. “If one’s to die, there’s lile use killing two. I tell ye,” she broke off, with a touch of her old bitterness, “the fever takes no more count o’ Mr. Gaunt o’ Marshlands than it does o’ plain Peggy Mathewson. ’Tis not just a risk ye’re taking; ’tis as near to certain as aught i’ this life can be that ye’ll catch it, an’ die on’t, an’ no more o’ Gaunt o’ Marshlands.”
“Well, there’s not much to boast of as it is. If you put it that way, I’m risking little.”
Widow Mathewson, though she and Peggy had lived high up above the peopled villages, had a sure instinct for truth or meanness in her fellows. She could detect no sign of cowardice under Gaunt’s quiet acceptance of his destiny. There was no bluster, covering a weak purpose. He meant to share Peggy’s trouble.