“You can speak like that—you, my awn wife—you, as ought to be heart an’ soul with me in everything I do? An’ the husband I am to ’e. Then I should reckon I be fairly alone in the world, an’ no mistake—’cept for mother.”
Phoebe did not answer him. Her spark of anger was gone and she was passing quickly from temper to tears.
“’T is queer to me how short of friends I ’pear to be gettin’,” confessed Will gloomily. “I must be differ’nt to what I fancied for I allus felt I could do with a waggon-load of friends. Yet they ’m droppin’ off. Coourse I knaw why well enough, tu. They’ve had wind o’ tight times to Newtake, though how they should I caan’t say, for the farm ’s got a prosperous look to my eye, an’ them as drops in dinnertime most often finds meat on the table. Straange a man what takes such level views as me should fall out wi’ his elders so much.”
“’T is theer fault as often as yours; an’ you’ve got me as well as your mother, Will; an’ you’ve got your son. Childern knaw the gude from the bad, same as dogs, in a way hid from grawn folks. Look how the li’l thing do run to ’e ’fore anybody in the world.”
“So he do; an’ if you ’m wise enough to see that, you ought to be wise enough to see I’m right ’bout the gate-post. Who ’s Martin Grimbal to offer me money? A self-made man, same as me. Yet he might have had it, an’ welcome if he’d axed proper.”
“Of course, if you put it so, Will.”
“Theer ’s no ways else to put it as I can see.”
“But for your awn peace of mind it might be wisest to dig the cross up. I listened by the window an’ heard Billy Blee tellin’ of awful cusses, an’ he ’s wise wi’out knawin’ it sometimes.”
“That’s all witchcraft an’ stuff an’ nonsense, an’ you ought to knaw better, Phoebe. ’T is as bad as setting store on the flight o’ magpies, or gettin’ a dead tooth from the churchyard to cure toothache, an’ such-like folly.”
“Ban’t folly allus, Will; theer ’s auld tried wisdom in some ancient sayings.”