“Nothing to pay?” she asked, as she took the basket into her hands.
“No. Widows thrive well in these parts, and wear the luck of the rowan-berry in their cheeks,” said Will, flicking his whip.
“Comes of losing men-folk’s company, Will—though thank ye for the basket.”
“Men-folk are always wrong, ’twould seem, Widow Fletcher. Came of listening to a woman in those far-off Bible-times.”
“Ay, Adam blamed Eve, and Eve’s been blaming Adam ever since. So we’re quits, Driver Will.”
“Tongues are longer than time,” said Will, with a happy laugh. “I’ve naught to do with Eve and Adam, Widow, but I have to be at Keta’s Well come twelve o’clock.”
“Like a man,” said the widow to herself, as she watched the coach go swiftly in the van of the light, smooth April dust. “Like a man, to be worsted by a lone widow’s tongue, and then to flick his horses up and drive away.”
The driver checked his team again, a mile further up the road, to take another parcel from underneath the roomy driving-seat. This he laid on the top of a gate that opened on a farm-track.
“Only a ham for farmer Joyce, Miss Priscilla,” he said, with the trick he had of laughing over his shoulder at passengers behind. “Seems he’s not just hungry, yet, or he’d be here for it.”
“Mr. Gaunt,” said Cilla, as they rattled forward, “it is odd that you should be going to Keta’s Well to-day. I go so seldom, and you would be riding, surely, if you were not lazy?”