Part 10 (1/2)
Dan sat down on the form, and put a big hand on each knee.
”Well, it's some'at like t' shepherd comin' to count t' sheep, to see 'at none of 'em's missin',” said he. ”It's so easy to get lost of a big moor full o' pits and quagmires. And this world's some'at like it.--Ah, Avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of a mixtur' when they gets home.”
”A very pleasant mixture, Uncle,” said Avice. ”Pray you of your blessing, holy Father.”
Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on his broad wrinkled forehead.
”Did thou get a penny?” asked Dan.
”I got two!” cried Bertha, triumphantly. ”And Aunt Avice got one. Did you, Father?”
”Nay, la.s.s--none o' my luck! Silver pennies and such knows better nor to come my way. Nor they'd better not, without they'll come right number. I should get tore to bits if I went home wi' one, as like as not. She 'd want it, and so 'd Ankaret, and so 'd Susanna, and so 'd Mildred; and atwixt 'em all it 'd get broke i' pieces, and _so_ should I. And see thou, it's made i' quarters, and I amn't, so it wouldn't come so convenient to me.”
Pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that they were easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for there were no separate ones coined.
”Father, have one of mine!” cried Bertha at the beginning of Dan's answer.
”Nay, nay, la.s.s! Keep thy bit o' silver--or if thou wants to give it, let Emma have it. She'll outlive it; I shouldn't.”
The silver penny changed hands at once. Avice had meanwhile been hanging up her hood and cloak, and she now proceeded to prepare a dish of eggs, foreseeing company to supper. Supper was exceedingly early to-day, as it was scarcely three o'clock; but dinner had been equally so, for n.o.body wanted to be busy when the Queen came. A large dish of ”eggs and b.u.t.ter” was speedily on the table--the ”b.u.t.tered eggs” of the north of England, which are, I believe, identical with the ”scrambled eggs” of the United States. The party sat down to supper, Father Thomas being served with a trencher to himself.
”And how dost thou get along wi' thy Missis, my la.s.s?” said Dan to his daughter.
”Oh, things is very pleasant as yet, Father,” answered Emma with a smile. ”There's a mixture, as you said just now. Some's decent la.s.ses enough; and some's foolish; and some's middlin'. There's most of the middlin' ones.”
”I'm fain to hear it,” said Dan. ”La.s.ses is so foolish, I should ha'
thought there 'd be most o' that lot. So 's lads too. Eh, it's a queer world, this un: mortal queer! But I asked thee how thou got on with thy Missis, and thou tells me o' th' la.s.ses. Never _did_ know a woman answer straight off. Ask most on 'em how far it is to Newark, and they'll answer you that t' wind was west as they come fro' Barling.”
”Thou hast not a good opinion of women, my son,” said Father Thomas, who looked much amused.
”I've seen too much on 'em!” responded Dan, conclusively. ”I've got a wife and six la.s.ses.”
”Bertha, we'd better mind our ways!” said Emma, laughing.
”Nay, it's none you,” was Dan's comment. ”You're middlin' decent, you two. So's Avice; and so's old Christopher's Regina. I know of ne'er another, without it 's t' cat--and she scratches like t' rest when she's put out. There _is_ other decent 'uns, happen. They haven't come my way yet.”
”Why, Father!” cried Emma. ”Think who you're lumping together--the Lady Queen, and my Lady at the Castle, and Lady Margaret, and the Dean's sister, and--”
”Thou'll be out o' breath, if thou reckons all thou'st heard tell of,”
said Dan. ”There's cats o' different sorts, child: some's snowy white (when so be they've none been i' th' ash-hole), and some's tabby, and some's black as iron; but they all scrats. Women's like 'em.--You're wise men, you parsons and such, as have nought to do wi' 'em. Old Christopher, my neighbour up at smithy, he says weddin's like a bag full o' snakes wi' one eel amongst 'em: you ha' to put your hand in, and you may get th' eel. But if you dunna--why you've got to do t' best you can wi' one o' t' other lot. If you'll keep your hand out of the bag you'll stand best chance of not getting bit.”
”It is a pity thou wert not a monk, my son,” said the priest, whose gravity seemed hard to keep.
”Ay, it is!” was Dan's hearty response. ”I'm alway fain to pa.s.s a nunnery. Says I to myself, There's a bonnie lot o' snakes safe tied up out o' folkses' way. They'll never fly at n.o.body no more. I'm fain for the men as hasn't got 'em. Ay, I am!”
Avice and her young cousins laughed.
”Do you think they never fly at one another, Uncle Dan?” asked the former.
”Let 'em!” returned that gentleman with much cordiality. ”A man gets a bit o' peace then. It's t' only time he does. If they'd just go and make a reg'lar end o' one another! but they never does,”--and the smith pushed away his trencher with a sigh. ”Well! I reckon I mun be going.