Sarah had regained her spirit a little, in spite of her poor tea. She straightened herself on the plush chair and answered calmly.
“They can say what suits ’em and welcome, as long as they let me be. You know what put me about, Eliza, and nobody to thank for it but yourself. As for folks laughing and making game o’ me and suchlike, it was you they was sniggering at plain enough when I come out.”
Eliza’s colour rose, but she struggled to keep her virtuous air. She looked at Sarah with a sorrowful eye.
“I wouldn’t get telling lies about it, Sarah,” she observed kindly, “I wouldn’t indeed! Mrs. Addison’s listening, think on, and she’ll be rarely shocked at suchlike ways. Caif-folk were shocked more than a deal, an’ me just having a friendly talk an’ all!”
“It’s a queer sort o’ friendliness as puts folk to open shame!” Sarah’s colour was flying a flag, too. “It’s nobbut a queer sort o’ friend as goes shouting your private business at the end of a bell!”
“There isn’t a deal that’s private, surely, about the mess o’ things you’ve made on the marsh? …” The fight was really begun now, and Eliza turned in her seat, fixing her adversary with merciless eyes. Sarah could see very little but a monstrous blur, but she felt her malignant atmosphere in every nerve. She could hear the big, solid presence creaking with malice as it breathed, and had an impression of strained whalebone and stretching cloth. But it was always Eliza’s most cherished garments that she visioned when they fought—the velvet gown that was folded away upstairs … gloves, furs, and a feathered hat; furthest of all, the wedding-gown and the flaunting veil. …
“Private!” Eliza repeated the sneered word as if it were something too precious to let go. “There can’t be that much private about things as we’ve all on us known for years. What, folks has puzzled no end why you’ve never ended in t’bankruptcy court long since! Will and me could likely ha’ tellt them about it, though, couldn’t we, Sarah? Will an’ me could easy ha’ tellt ’em why! Will and me could ha’ tellt where brass come from as was keeping you on t’rails—”
Will had been lending a careful ear to Simon’s surly talk, but he lifted his head at the sound of his name.
“Now, missis, just you let Mrs. Simon be!” he admonished, with a troubled frown. “You’re over fond of other folks’ business by a deal.”
“I’ll let her be and welcome, if she’ll keep a civil tongue in her head!” Eliza cried. She went redder than ever, and slapped a teaspoon angrily on the cloth. “But if our brass isn’t our business, I’d like to know what is, and as for this stir about quitting Sandholes, it’s nothing fresh, I’m sure! We all on us know it’s a marvel landlord didn’t get shot on ’em long ago.”
The last remark galvanised Battersby into lively speech. Hitherto he had been busily concentrated on his food, but now his mean little features sharpened and his mean little eyes shone. He bent eagerly forward, leaning on the cloth, knife and fork erect like stakes in a snatched plot.
“What’s yon about quitting Sandholes?” he asked, in a thin voice. “Are you thinking o’ leaving, Simon? Is it true?”
“I don’t see as it’s any affair o’ yours if it is,” Simon answered him, with a sulky stare.
“Nay, it was nobbut a friendly question between man and man. If you’re quitting the farm it would only be neighbourly just to give me a hint. There’s a lad o’ mine talking o’ getting wed, and I thought as how Sandholes’d likely be going cheap. Has anybody put in for it yet wi’ t’agent, do ye think?”
“Nay, nor like to do, yet awhile,” Simon answered glumly, full of sullen hurt. All his love for his tiresome dwelling-place rose to the surface at this greed. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Battersby, as you ax so kind, that I give in my notice but it wasn’t took. Mr. Dent would have it I mun think it over a bit more. Your lad’ll just have to bide or look out for somebody else’s shoes.”
This dreadful exhibition of meanness aggrieved Battersby almost to the verge of tears.
“Well, now, if yon isn’t dog-in-the-manger and nowt else!” he appealed to the company at large. “What, you’re late wi’ your notice already, and yet you’re for sitting tight to the farm like a hen on a pot egg! I shouldn’t ha’ thought it of you, Simon, I shouldn’t indeed. Here’s a farmer wanting to quit and my lad wanting a farm, and yet the moment I ax a decent question I get sneck-posset geyly sharp. You’re jealous, that’s what it is, Simon; you’re acting jealous-mean. You’ve nobbut made a terble poor job o’ things yourself, and you want to keep others from getting on an’ all!”
Simon gave vent to an ironic laugh.
“Nay, now, Sam, never fret yourself!” he jeered. “You and your lad’ll get on right enough, I’ll be bound, what wi’ your heaf-snatching and your sheep-grabbing and the rest o’ your bonny ways! What, man, one o’ your breed’d be fair lost on a marsh farm, wi’ nowt to lay hands on barrin’ other folks’ turmuts, and never a lile chance of an overlap!”
Battersby’s reputation was well known, and an irrepressible laugh greeted Simon’s speech, but was instantly cut short by the terrible spectacle of the victim’s face. Only the smug cousin went on laughing, because he was ignorant as well as smug, and did not know
