“Caan’t wait no more,” declared Mr. Chown. “If he’s in bed, us’ll take un in bed. Come on, you!”
Thus ordered to proceed, Lamacraft set his face resolutely forward and was just entering the farm when Phoebe appeared. Her tears were dry, though her voice was unsteady and her eyelids red.
“Gude mornin’, Mr. Chown,” she said.
“Marnin’, ma’am. Let us pass, if you please.”
“Are you coming in? Why?”
“Us caan’t bide no more, an’ us caan’t give no more reasons. The Law ban’t ’spected to give reasons for its deeds, an’ us won’t be bamboozled an’ put off a minute longer,” answered Chown grimly. “March, I tell ’e, Peter Lamacraft.”
“You caan’t see my husband.”
“But we’m gwaine to see un. He’ve got to see me, an’ come along wi’ me, tu. An’ if he’s wise, he’ll come quiet an’ keep his mouth shut. That much I’ll tell un for his gude.”
“If you’ll listen, I might make you onderstand how ’tis you caan’t see Will,” said Phoebe quietly. “You must knaw he runned away an’ went soldiering before he married me. Then he comed back for love of me wi’out axin’ any man’s leave.”
“So much the worse, ma’am; he’m a desarter!”