“She’s dead, is she?” asked the stranger.
“No, she’s away,” replied Banks shortly.
“Back soon?” suggested the stranger.
John Banks had moved away. There was a peculiar gleam in his questioner’s eye which he did not admire. But Collet, always unsuspicious, and not always discreet, replied without any idea of reserve.
“You’d best ask Dick o’ Dover that, for none else can tell you.”
“Ah, forsooth!” replied the stranger, apparently more interested than ever. “I heard as we came there were divers new doctrine folks at Staplehurst. She is one of them, belike?—and the master holds with the old? ’Tis sore pity folks should not agree to differ, and hold their several opinions in peace.”
“Ah, it is so,” said unsuspicious Collet.
“Pray you, who be the chief here of them of the new learning? We be strangers in these parts, and should be well a-paid to know whither we may seek our friends. Our hostess here, I am aware, is of them; but for others I scarce know. The name of White was dropped in mine hearing, and likewise Fishcock; who be they, trow? And dwells there not a certain Mistress Brandridge, or some such?—and a Master Hall or Ball—some whither in this neighbourhood, that be friends unto such as love not the papistical ways?”
“Look you now, I’ll do you to wit all thereanent,” said Collet confidentially. “For Fishcock, that was he that first spake unto you; he is a butcher, and dwelleth nigh the church. Nicholas White, yon big man yonder, that toppeth most of his neighbours, hath an ironmongery shop a-down in the further end of the village. Brandridge have we not: but Mistress Bradbridge—”
“Mistress, here’s your master a-wanting you!” came suddenly in John Banks’ clear tones; and Collette, hastily lifting her basket, and apologising for the sudden termination of her usefulness, departed quickly.