Nicholas Pardue made no answer in words, but silently withdrew the protecting towel, and disclosed the sufficiently accurate portrait of Mistress Tabitha on the table-cloth.
“Thou weary gear of a pert, mischievous losel!” (wretch, rascal) cried Collet. “Thou shalt dine with Duke Humphrey (a proverbial expression for fasting) this morrow, and sup on birch broth, as I’m a living woman! My clean-washed linen that I’ve been a-toiling o’er ever since three o’ the clock! Was there nought else to spoil but that, thou rascal?”
“Oh ay, Mother,” said Silas placidly. “There’s your new partlet, and Pen’s Sunday gown.”
Mrs Pardue’s hand came down not lightly upon Silas.
“I’ll partlet thee, thou rogue! I’ll learn thee to dirt clean gear, and make work for thy mother! If ever in all my born days I saw a worser lad—”
The door was darkened. Collet looked up, and beheld the parish priest. Her hold of Silas at once relaxed—a fact of which that lively gentleman was not slow to take advantage—and she dropped a courtesy, not very heartfelt, as the Reverend Philip Bastian made his way into the cottage. Nicholas gave a pull to his forelock, while Collet, bringing forward a chair, which she dusted with her apron, dismissed Penuel with a look.
The priest’s face meant business. He sat down, leaned both hands on his gold-headed cane, and took a deliberate look at both Nicholas and Collet before he said a word beyond the bare “Good even.” After waiting long enough to excite considerable uneasiness in their minds, he inquired in dulcet tones—
“What have you to say to me, my children?”
It was the woman who answered. “Please you. Father, we’ve nought to say, not in especial, without to hope you fare well this fine even.”
“Indeed!—and how be you faring?”