“I think that I had better take my leave of you,” he said, coldly.
“Ah, do so, by all means. Your righteous self-conceit sickens me.”
“Madam, I came to try and tell you the truth as courteously as I could.”
“Tell me no more lies,” she said; “as for your conscience—I snap my fingers at it.”
Jeffray, mortified and not sorry to escape, bowed once more to the lady, and left her to her tears, her smelling-salts, and her brother.
The evening of the day that Jeffray rode to break his betrothal with Miss Hardacre, Isaac Grimshaw came limping across from his cottage to find Dan plastering new tiles on the roof of his small byre. Isaac stood at the foot of the ladder, squinting up at his son against the evening sunlight, his white hair shining under his hat.
Dan pressed a tile home upon its bed of plaster, and, laying his trowel on the roof, looked down at his father.
“What be ye a-wanting?” he asked, scratching his beard with a black thumb nail.
Isaac was frowning and looking fierce and out of humor.
“Come down, lad, I ain’t going to bellow at ye.”
Dan climbed down and stood with one hand on the ladder, staring inquisitively into his father’s face. It was not often that Isaac’s complacency was ruffled by a grievance. His arbitrary nature found few foul winds to trouble him in Pevensel.
“That damned old she-dog Ursula’s in a pet.”
“So I say, lad, but the old fool has a tongue, and a meddlesome tongue, too, bad blood to her. She might be doing us a deal of harm unless we quiet her silly old soul.”
“Guineas, lad; she be as sweet on the gold dirt as Solomon on his liquor.”
Isaac leaned against the wall of the byre and explained the nature of the old woman’s grievance. The gist of it was that Isaac had never given her the eighty guineas that he had promised her on Bess’s marriage. Ursula Grimshaw was slipping into her dotage, and, like many an old creature in that maudlin December of life, she had waxed querulous and testy, jealous of her rights and greedy of her due. Her love of gold had increased with the waning of her intellect, and she was forever bemoaning Bess’s absence and grumbling at her brother for cheating her of her rights. Isaac, who was never eager to disburse gold, and had kept the real secret of their wealth from all save Ursula and Dan, his son, had met the old woman’s complaints with banter, and chuckled at her demand for the guineas he had promised. Ursula, however, had flown at last into a fit of senile rage, spread her claws, and spluttered like a cat. She would have the money, or Isaac should repent of cheating her because she was old and feeble. Had not Dan given Bess the brooch of emeralds? The girl should hear the whole truth unless the money was forthcoming. With dramatic spite, Ursula had tottered up out of her chair, shaken her stick at Isaac, and cackled out threats that had made her brother change his tone.