It Might Have Been. Emily Sarah Holt

blankly. “I’m glad to see thee, schuzheaw.” (Note 2.)

      “Dost thou mean to carry yon for th’ rest o’ thy life?” demanded Charity, laying hands on the carpet-bag. “Come, wake up, lass, and look sharp, for there’ll be some supper wanted.”

      A very expressive shake of Rachel’s head was the response. But she set down the bundle, and began to unfasten her sleeves for work. Sleeves were not then stitched to the gown, but merely hooked or buttoned in, and were therefore easily laid aside when needful.

      “What’s the price o’ eggs this road on?” asked she.

      “Nought. We ’n getten th’ hens to lay ’em. Down i’ th’ market they’re four a penny.”

      “Eggs—four a penny!” ejaculated the horrified cook.

      “Ay—they’re a bonnie price, aren’t they? Ten to a dozen the penny at Keswick. Chickens be twopence and threepence apiece.”

      Rachel turned and faced her colleague with a solemn air. “Charity Ashworth, wilt thou tell me what we’ve come here for?”

      “ ‘To do our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us,’ ” said Charity, sturdily. “There’s twenty hens i’ yon yard at th’ end o’ th’ garden, and two cows i’ th’ shippen, and three black pigs i’ th’ sty—Mistress Joyce ordered ’em—and two pairs o’ hands, and two brains, and two hearts, and the grace o’ God: and if thou wants aught more, thou’lt have to ask Him for it. So now let’s be sharp and see to th’ supper.”

      As they sat at breakfast the next morning, which was Lady Day and Sunday, Lady Louvaine said—

      “I would fain know what manner of neighbours we shall have here, whether pleasant or displeasant; for some of our comfort shall hang thereon.”

      “Oh, there’s a capital fellow at the Golden Fish,” cried Aubrey. “His name is Tom Rookwood, and his sister Dorothy is the prettiest girl I have seen this month. I know nought of the Angel.”

      “Ah!” said Hans, and shook his head, “I have seen the Angel.”

      “And is he angelic?” responded Aubrey.

      “There be angels good and ill,” Hans made answer. “Madam, I were best forewarn you—there’s a tongue dwelleth there.”

      “What manner of tongue, Hans?” said Lady Louvaine, smiling.

      “One that goes like a beggar’s clap-dish,” said he; “leastwise, it did all the while I was in the garden this morning. She greeted me o’er the wall, and would know who we were, and every one of our names, and what kin we were one to the other, and whence we came, and wherefore, and how long we looked to tarry—she should have asked me what we had to our breakfast, if I had not come in.”

      “And how much toldest her?” inquired Temperance.

      “Not a word that I could help,” answered Hans. “Indeed, that is the only comfort of her—that she asks questions so fast you can scarce slide in an answer. She was free enough with her information as well—told me her name, and how many children she had, and that she paid three-and-fourpence the yard for her perpetuance gown.”

      “And what is her name?” asked Faith.

      “Silence Abbott,” said he.

      “She scarce answers to it, seemingly,” replied Temperance.

      “Where made you acquaintance with your Tom Rookwood, Aubrey?” said his grandmother.

      “At the door,” said he. “His father is a gentleman of Suffolk, a younger son of Rookwood of Coldham Hall. He has three sisters—I saw not the other two; but I say, that Dorothy’s a beauty!”

      “Well!” replied Temperance. “Folks say, ‘As mute as a fish’; but it seems to me the Golden Fish is well-nigh as talkative as the Angel. Mind thy ways, Aubrey, and get not thyself into no tanglements with no Dorothys. It shall be time enough for thee to wed ten years hence.”

      “And have a care that Mr. Rookwood be himself an upright and God-fearing man,” added his Aunt Edith.

      “Oh, he’s all right!” answered Aubrey, letting Dorothy go by. “He saith he can hit a swallow flying at eighty paces.”

      “More shame for him!” cried Edith. “What for should he hit a swallow?”

      “He has promised to show me all sorts of things,” added Aubrey.

      “Have a care,” said Lady Louvaine, “that he lead thee not into the briars, my boy, and there leave thee.”

      The Monday morning brought a visitor—Mrs. Abbott, from the Angel, after whose stay Edith declared that a day’s hard work would have fatigued her less of the two inflictions. This lady’s freedom in asking questions, without the remotest sense of delicacy, was only to be paralleled by her readiness to impart information. The party at the White Bear knew before she went home, that she had recently had her parlour newly hung with arras, representing the twelve labours of Hercules: that she intended to have roast veal to supper: that her worsted under-stockings had cost her four-and-sixpence the pair: that her husband was a very trying man, and her eldest son the cleverest youth in Westminster.

      “Worsted stockings four-and-sixpence!” cried Temperance. “What a sinful price to pay! And I declare if they ask not three shillings and fourpence for a quarter of veal! Why, I mind the time when in Keswick it was but sixteen pence. Truly, if things wax higher in price than now they are, it shall be an hard matter to live. This very morrow was I asked a shilling for a calf’s head of the butcher, and eightpence for a lemon of the costard-monger, whereat I promise you I fumed a bit; but when it came to threepence apiece for chickens—Lancaster and Derby! It shall cost us here ever so much more to live.”

      “It shall not,” said Hans. “There be five acres of garden, and save for foreign fruits and spices, you shall ask little of the costard-monger shortly.”

      “But who is to dig and dress it?” moaned Faith. “Aubrey cannot, all the day with his Lord, even if he were not away o’ nights: and Charity shall have too much to do.”

      “I have two hands, Madam,” answered Hans, “and will very quickly have a spade in them: and ere I do aught else will I set the garden a-going, that Rachel and Charity can keep it in good order, with a little overlooking from you.”

      “Me!” cried Faith, with a gasp of horror.

      “Right good for you!” said her sister. “I’ll not help at that work; I shall leave it for you. As to foreign fruits and spices, we’ll have none of them, save now and then a lemon for the Lady Lettice—she loves the flavour, and we’ll not have her go short of comforts—but for all else, I make no ’count of your foreign spice. Rosemary, thyme, mint, savoury, fennel, and carraway be spice enough for any man, and a deal better than all your far-fetched maces, and nutmegs, and peppers, that be fetched over here but to fetch the money out of folks’ pockets: and wormwood and currant wine are every bit as good, and a deal wholesomer, than all your sherris-sack and Portingale rubbish. Hans, lad, let’s have a currant-bush or two in that garden; I can make currant wine with any, though I say it, and gooseberry too. I make no count of your foreign frumps and fiddlements. What’s all your Champagne but just gooseberry with a French name to it? and how can that make it any sweeter? I’ll be bounden half of it is made of gooseberries, if folks might but know. And as to your Rhenish and claret, and such stuff, I would not give a penny for the lot—I’d as soon have a quart of alegar. Nay, nay! we are honest English men and women, and let us live like it.”

      “But, Temperance, my dear,” suggested Lady Louvaine, with a smile, “if no foreign fruits had ever been brought to England, nor planted here, our table should be somewhat scanty. In truth, we should have but little, I believe, save acorns and beech-nuts.”

      “Nay, come!” responded