“Well, Mrs Temperance, I reckon you’ll be best judge o’ that,” said Charity coolly. “Seems to me I am: but that scarce makes sure, I count.”
“But, Charity!—what Ezekiel?”
“’Zekiel Cavell, Mrs Edith. He’s i’ th’ kitchen: you can see him if you’ve a mind.”
“Ezekiel Cavell! Aunt Joyce’s coachman! Where on earth has he come from?”
“Well, I rather think it was somewhere on earth,” answered the calm Charity, “and I expect it was somewhere i’ Oxfordshire. Howbeit, here he is, and so’s th’ coach, and so’s th’ horses: and he says to me, ‘Charity,’ says he, ‘will you ask my Lady when she’ll be wanting th’ coach?’ So I come.”
Everybody looked at everybody else.
“Is it possible?” cried Edith. “Has dear Aunt Joyce sent her coach to carry down Mother home?”
“Nay, it’s none hers, it’s my Lady’s,” said Charity, “and nobry else’s; and if she’s a mind to bid me chop it up for firewood, I can, if Mestur ’Ans ’ll help me. We can eat th’ horses too, if she likes; but they mun be put in salt, for we’s ne’er get through ’em else. There’s six on ’em. Shall I tell Rachel to get th’ brine ready?”
“Charity, what have you been doing?” said Hans, laughing.
“I’ve done nought, Mestur ’Ans, nobut carry a letter where it belonged, and serve ’Zekiel his four-hours.”