“Rubbishy auld nonsense! ’Tis woman’s play to show ’e the worth of her. They’m built that way an’ think no man can value ’em right unless he sees they’m for other markets so well as his. Do ’e know what that vixen wants ’e to do? Why, she’s awnly waiting for ’e to give t’other chap a damn gude hiding! Then she’ll cuddle round again—like a cat arter fish. I know ’em!” John’s jaw dropped before this sensational advice. Now he was more than ever convinced that his master knew nothing of the truth. It appeared to him the most fantastic irony that a father should thus in ignorance condemn his son to such a sentence. Then Aggett put a question that shewed quickening of perception. “If ’twas your own flesh an’ blood, what would ’e say?” “Same as I be sayin’ now. Burned if I’d blame any man for sticking to his own.” “It be your son,” declared John, shortly. “I know it,” answered the other. “That’s why I’m here. You’m not the fule you look, Jan, an’ you know so well as I can tell ’e this match ban’t seemly nohow. I ban’t agwaine to have it—not if the Lard Bishop axed me. An’ I tell you plain an’ plump—me being your master—that you must stop it. The girl’s your girl, an’ you must keep her to her bargain. An’ you won’t repent it neither. Marry her out of hand an’ look to me for the rest. An’ if a word’s said, send him as sez it to me. I’ll soon shut their mouths.” “Ban’t the folks—’tis her. She do love your son wi’ all her heart an’ soul—an’ he loves her—onless he’s a liar.” “Drivel! What does he know about love—a moon-blind calf like him? I won’t have it, I tell ’e. He’s gone his awn way to long! Spoiled by his fule of a mother from the church-vamp{70} onward till he’ve come to this bit of folly. It’s not to be—dost hear what I say?” “I hear. Go your ways, maister, an’ prevent it if you can. I’ll not meddle or make in the matter. Sally Belworthy have chosen, an’ ban’t me as can force her to change her mind.” “More fule her. An’ between the pair of ’e, she’ll find herself in the dirt. ’Tis in a nutshell. Will ’e take the cottage an’ make her marry you? I lay you could if you was masterful.” “Never—ban’t a fair thing to ax a man.” “Best hear me through ’fore you sez it. If you’m against me in this, you can go to hell for all I care. If you won’t help me to keep my son from disgracing me an’ mine, you’m no true man, an’ I doan’t want ’e any more to Bellever Farm. ’Tis a wife an’ a home rent free ’pon wan side, an’ the sack on the other. So you’d best to make choice.” “I’ll go Saturday.” “Of all the ninnyhammers ever I saw! You gert yellow-headed cake, can’t you see you’m spoilin’ your awn life? Or was it that t’other side offered ’e better terms? If that’s so, you won’t get ’em, because Tim Chave’ll be a pauper man the day he marries wi’out my leave.”