At first Walford scarce regarded the chill reception extended to him by the daughter of his host. He was too much elated at the prospect—of being soon disembarrassed of his dreaded rival—to pay attention to the frowns of his mistress. At that moment he believed himself in a fair way of becoming master of the situation.
By little and little, however, his jealous misgivings began to rise into the ascendant—mastering even the potent spirit of the juniper.
A movement which Bet had made towards the door—where she stood looking wistfully out, as if expecting some one—forcibly arrested Walford’s attention; and, notwithstanding the presumed restraint of her father’s presence, he broke out in a strain of resentful recrimination.
“Da-ang thee!” he exclaimed, angrily blurting out the phrase, “Thee be a’ stannin’ in that door for no good. I wonder thee allows it, Dick Dancey?”
“Eh! lad—hic-hic-ough!—what is’t, Wull? Say Bets’! what ha’ ye—hic-hic-ough—eh?”
“She be danged! An’ thee be a old fool, Dick—to let her go on so wi’ that fellow.”
“Eh, Wull? Wha’ fella—who ye meean, lad?—hic-cuff!”
“She know who I mean—she know well enough, wi’ all her innocent looks. Ha! He’ll make a — of her, if he han’t did it a’ready.”
“Father! will you listen to this language?” cried Bet, turning in from the door, and appealing to her natural protector against the vile term which her drunken suitor had applied to her. “It isn’t the first time he has called me by that name. Oh, father! don’t let him say it again!”
“Your father ’ll find out some day that it be only the truth,” muttered Walford doggedly.