The King's Daughters Part 17

"Why, my dear hearts!" cried old Mrs Silverside, as the children came in. "How won ye hither?"

"Please, we haven't been naughty," said Will, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

"Father's come too, so it's all right," added Cissy in a satisfied tone.

Mrs Silverside turned to Robert Purcas. "Is not here a lesson for thee and me, my brother? Our Father is come too: G.o.d is with us, and thus it is all right."

"Marry, these heretics beareth a good brag!" said Wastborowe the gaoler to his man.

It is bad grammar now to use a singular verb with a plural noun; but in 1556 it was correct English over the whole south of England, and the use of the singular with the singular, or the plural with the plural, was a peculiarity of the northern dialect.

"They always doth," answered the under-gaoler.

"Will ye be of as good courage, think you," asked Wastborowe, "the day ye stand up by Colne Water?"

"G.o.d knoweth," was the reverent answer of Mrs Silverside. "If He holds us up, then shall we stand."

"They be safe kept whom He keepeth," said Johnson.

"Please, Mr Wastborowe," said Cissy in a businesslike manner, "would you mind telling me when we shall be burned?"

The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner.

"Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon," said he with a laugh.

"I must, if Father is," was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, I suppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing will be so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you, please, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Marry come up, thou sc.r.a.p of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler, half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds, 'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it."

"But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted.

"Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takes care of Father."

Mr Wastborowe, who was drinking ale out of a huge tankard, removed it from his lips to laugh.

"Mighty good care thou'lt take, I'll be bound!"

"Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe," replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dress Father's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care of him, isn't it?"

The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very good joke.

"And who takes care of thee?" asked he.

Cissy gave her usual answer. "G.o.d takes care of me."

"And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer.

The sneer pa.s.sed by Cissy quite harmlessly.

"G.o.d takes care of all of us," she said. "He helps Father to take care of me, and He helps me to take care of Father."

"He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned," said the gaoler coa.r.s.ely, taking another draught out of the tankard.

Cissy considered that point.

"Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care of than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won't signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose."

"Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe.

"I don't know what heretics are," said Cissy; "but every body who loves the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with Cissy.

"Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her head.

"Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong, did I?"

"There's somewhat wrong," responded he, "but it's not thee, child."

Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the short command, "Fill that."

"You may tarry till I've done," answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong side up."

"Come, wife! I can't wait," replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest.

Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the s.h.i.+rt which she had just finished, and laid another on the board.

"You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe," said she; "you've had as much as is good for you already, and maybe a bit to spare. I can't leave my ironing."

"Am I to get it myself, then?" asked the gaoler, sulkily.

"Just as you please," was the calm response. "I'm not going."

Wastborowe took up his jug, went to the cellar, and drew the ale for himself, in a meek, subdued style, very different indeed from the aspect which he wore to his prisoners. He had scarcely left the door when a shrill voice summoned him to--

"Come back and shut the door, thou blundering dizzard! When will men ever have a bit of sense?"

The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to the dungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that his men whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with his mistress." Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned and called him into the courtyard.

"Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nigh all, methinks." And he read over the list. "Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, Margaret Simson, Robert Purcas, Agnes Silverside, John Johnson, Elizabeth Foulkes."

"Got 'em all save that last," said Wastborowe, "Who is she? I know not the name. By the same token, what didst with the babe? There were three of Johnson's children, and one in arms."

"Left it wi' Jane Hiltoft," said the gaoler, gruffly. "I didn't want it screeching here."

The Bailiff nodded. "Maybe she can tell us who this woman is," said he; and stepping a little nearer the porter's lodge, he summoned the porter's wife.

Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms.

"Well, I don't know," said she. "I'll tell you what: you'd best ask Audrey Wastborowe; she's a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knows everybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She'll tell you if anybody can."