"Now then, who goes home?" cried the cheerful voice of Mrs Wade, when
the sermon was over. "You, Mistress Benold?--you, Alice Mount?--you,
Meg Thurston? You'd best hap your mantle well about your head.
Mistress Silverside, this sharp even: yon hood of yours is not so thick,
and you are not so young as you were once. Now, Adrian Purcas, thee be
off with Johnson and Mount; thou'rt not for my money. Agnes Love,
woman, I wonder at you! coming out of a November night with no thicker a
mantle than that old purple thing, that I'm fair tired of seeing on you.
What's that? `Can't afford a new one?' Go to Southampton! There's
one in my coffer that I never use now. Here, Doll! wherever is that
lazy bones? Gather up thy heels, wilt thou, and run to my great oak
coffer, and bring yon brown hood I set aside. Now don't go and fetch
the red one! that's my best Sunday gear, and thou'rt as like to bring
red when I tell thee brown as thou art to eat thy supper.--Well, Alice?"
"I cry you mercy, Hostess, for troubling of you; but Master and me,
we're bidden to lie at the mill. Mistress Ewring's been that good; but
there's no room for Rose, and--"
"Then Rose can turn in with Dorothy, and I'm fain on't if she'll give
her a bit of her earnestness for pay. There's not as much lead to her
heels in a twelvemonth as would last Doll a week.--So this is what thou
calls a brown hood, is it? I call it a blue apron. Gramercy, the
stupidness o' some folks!"
"Please you, Mistress, there was nought but that in the coffer."
"What coffer?"
"The walnut, in the porch-chamber."
"Well, if ever I did! I never spake a word of the walnut coffer, nor
the porch-chamber neither, I told thee the great oak coffer, and that's
in my chamber, as thou knows, as well as thou knows thy name's Dorothy.
Put that apron back where thou found it, and bring me the brown hood
from the oak coffer. Dear heart, but she'll go and cast her eyes about
for an oak hood in a brown coffer, as like as not! She's that heedless.
It's not for lack of wit; she could if she would.--Why, what's to be
done with yon little scraps! You can never get home to Thorpe such a
night as this. Johnson! you leave these bits o' children with me, and
I'll send them back to you to-morrow when the cart goes your way for a
load of malt. There's room enough for you; you'd all pack in a thimble,
well-nigh.--Nay, now! hast thou really found it? Now then, Agnes Love,
cast that over you, and hap it close to keep you warm. Pay! bless the
woman, I want no pay! only some day I'd like to hear `Inasmuch' said to
me. Good even!"
"You'll hear that, Mistress Wade!" said Agnes Love, a pale quiet-looking
woman, with a warm grasp of Mistress Wade's hand. "You'll hear that,
and something else, belike--as we've heard to-night, the King will come
forth and serve you. Eh, but it warms one's heart to hear tell of it!"
"Ay, it doth, dear heart, it doth! Good-night, and God bless thee!
Now, Master Pulleyne, I'll show you your chamber, an' it like you. Rose
Allen, you know the way to Dorothy's loft? Well, go you up, and take
the little ones with you. It's time for babes like them to be abed.
Doll will show you how to make up a bed for them. Art waiting for some
one, Bessy?"
"No, Mistress Wade," said Elizabeth Foulkes, who had stood quietly in a
corner as though she were; "but if you'd kindly allow it, I'd fain go up
too and have a chat with Rose. My mistress gave me leave for another
hour yet."
"Hie thee up, good maid, and so do," replied Mrs Wade cheerily, taking
up a candlestick to light Mr Pulleyne to the room prepared for him,
where, as she knew from past experience, he was very likely to sit at
study till far into the night.
Dorothy lighted another candle, and offered it to Rose.
"See, you'll lack a light," said she.
"Nay, not to find our tongues," answered Rose, smiling.
"Ah, but to put yon children abed. Look you in the closet, Rose, as you
go into the loft, and you'll see a mattress and a roll of blankets, with
a canvas coverlet that shall serve them. You'll turn in with me."
"All right, Doll; I thank you."
"You look weary, Doll," said Elizabeth.
"Weary? Eh, but if you dwelt with our mistress, you'd look weary, be
sure. She's as good a woman as ever trod shoe-leather, only she's so
monstrous sharp. She thinks you can be there and back before you've
fair got it inside your head that you're to go. I marvel many a time
whether the angels 'll fly fast enough to serve her when she gets to
Heaven. Marry come up but they'll have to step out if they do."
Rose laughed, and led the way upstairs, where she had been several times
before.
Inns at that time were built like Continental country inns are now,
round a square space, with a garden inside, and a high archway for the
entrance, so high that a load of hay could pass underneath. There were
no inside stairs, but a flight led up to the second storey from the
courtyard, and a balcony running all round the house gave access to the
bedrooms. Rose, however, went into none of the rooms, but made her way
to one corner, where a second steep flight of stairs ran straight up
between the walls. These the girls mounted, and at the top entered a
low door, which led into a large, low room, lighted by a skylight, and
occupied by little furniture. At the further end was a good-sized bed
covered with a patchwork quilt, but without any hangings--the absence of
these indicating either great poverty or extremely low rank. There was
neither drawers, dressing-table, nor washstand. A large chest beside
the bed held all Dorothy's possessions, and a leaf-table which would let
down was fixed to the wall under a mirror. A form in one corner, and
two stools, made up the rest of the furniture. In a corner close to the
entrance stood another door, which Rose opened after she had set up the
leaf-table and put the candle upon it. Then, with Elizabeth's help, she
dragged out a large, thick straw mattress, and the blankets and coverlet
of which Dorothy had spoken, and made up the bed in one of the
unoccupied corners. A further search revealed a bolster, but no pillows
were forthcoming. That did not matter, for they expected none.
"Now then, children, we'll get you into bed," said Rose.
"Will must say his prayers first," said Cissy anxiously.
"Of course. Now, Will, come and say thy prayers, like a good lad."
Will knelt down beside the bed, and did as he was told in a shrill,
sing-song voice. Odd prayers they were; but in those days nobody knew
any better, and most children were taught to say still queerer things.
First came the Lord's Prayer: so far all was right. Then Will repeated
the Ten Commandments and the Creed, which are not prayers at all, and
finished with this formula:--
"Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on:
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels at their head;
One to read, and one to write,
And one to guard my bed at night.
"And now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray that Christ my soul may keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray that Christ my soul may take;
Wake I at morn, or wake I never,
I give my soul to Christ for ever."
After this strange jumble of good things and nonsense, Will jumped into
bed, where the baby was already laid. It was Cissy's turn next. Ever
since it had been so summarily arranged by Mrs Wade that the children
were to stay the night at the King's Head, Cissy had been looking
preternaturally solemn. Now, when she was desired to say her prayers,
as a prelude to going to bed, Cissy's lip quivered, and her eyes filled
with tears.
"Why, little maid, what ails thee?" asked Rose.
"It's Father," said Cissy, in an unsteady voice. "I don't know however
Father will manage without me. He'll have to dress his own supper. I
only hope he'll leave the dish for me to wash when I get home. No body
never put Father and me asunder afore!"
"Little maid," answered Elizabeth, "Mistress Wade meant to save thee the
long walk home."
"Oh, I know she meant it kind," replied Cissy, "and I'm right thankful:
but, please, I'd rather be tired than Father be without me. We've never
been asunder afore--never!"