She broke down suddenly, for the strain of the past night, of the day’s labour at the churn, had told on her. She had no tears left; but her eyes were full of a soft mist, such as a warm gloaming draws from Garth Valley in the spring. Peggy was beautiful to-day; her tragedy was that of the ages, but her pathos was her own, single and direct in its appeal.
The cool, whitewashed dairy framed her; the warm, rich smell of milk and butter was about her.
“Peggy,” said Reuben Gaunt, “God knows ’tis hard to part from ye.”
“Ay, and God knows that Peggy Mathewson knows your lies—knows them within and without—as she knows her own face—her face, Reuben, that was bonnie enough to catch ye, but not bonnie enough to hold ye afterwards. See ye, lad, ye’re bent on killing me one way or another. Why not take some handy stave and do it now? Better soon than late, Reuben, if a body’s got to die.”
“I’m marrying Priscilla of the Good Intent,” said Gaunt doggedly.
“Oh, I know so much since yestere’en. D’ye think to give her happiness, Reuben? I could never tell, myself, what was in your mind, or out of it, at any moment.”
“Come for a walk in the fields, Peggy,” he said, after a restless silence.
“Can as well talk here, and thank ye. As I was saying, ye puzzle me. A bit like thunder-weather, ye—the wind blows one way and the clouds drive forrard t’ other way. Reuben, do ye think to make a happy wife of Miss Good Intent?”
It was characteristic of this upland lass that she bore no malice toward Cilla. Her quarrel was with Reuben here, with her own weakness, with life itself; Priscilla was a harmless and unmeaning bit of flesh to her, counting for little either way, save that she chanced to be the one to come between herself and Gaunt.
“I’m going to make her happy—yes. May a man never begin the good life, Peggy?”