“It puts me past my patience,” said he, turning into Tibble’s special workshop one afternoon. “Here hath Mistress Hillyer of the Eagle been with me full of proposals that I would give my poor wench to that scapegrace lad of hers, who hath been twice called to account before the guild, but who now, forsooth, is to turn over a new leaf.”
“So I wis would the Dragon under him,” quoth Tibble.
“I told her ’twas not to be thought of, and then what does the dame but sniff the air and protest that I had better take heed, for there may not be so many who would choose a spoilt, misruled maid like mine. There’s the work of yonder Sarum woman. I tell thee, Tib, never was bull in the ring more baited than am I.”
“Yea, sir,” returned Tib, “there’ll be no help for it till our young mistress be wed.”
“Ay! that’s the rub! But I’ve not seen one whom I could mate with her—let alone one who would keep up the old house. Giles would have done that passably, though he were scarce worthy of the wench, even without—” An expressive shake of the head denoted the rest. “And now if he ever come home at all, ’twill be as a foul-mouthed, plundering scarecrow, like the kites of men-at-arms, who, if they lose not their lives, lose all that makes an honest life in the Italian wars. I would have writ to Edmund Burgess, but I hear his elder brother is dead, and he is driving a good traffic at York. Belike too he is wedded.”
“Nay,” said Tibble, “I could tell of one who would be true and faithful to your worship, and a loving husband to Mistress Dennet, ay, and would be a master that all of us would gladly cleave to. For he is godly after his lights, and sound-hearted, and wots what good work be, and can do it.”
“That were a son-in-law, Tib! Of who speakest thou? Is he of good birth?”
“Yea, of gentle birth and breeding.”
“And willing? But that they all are. Wherefore then hath he never made suit?”
“He hath not yet his freedom.”