“O Jack, Jack! Don’t go and be a monk!”
“Go and be a monk!” saith Jack, with an hearty laugh. “Why, Wife, what bees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband.”
“So thou art, the saints be thanked,” said I. “But thou art so good, I am sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk.”
“I’ll not be a monk, I promise thee,” quoth he. “I am not half good enough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall not die an hour afore God’s will is: and the Lord hath much need of good folks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as we can with reasonable safety. I’ll try, if thou wilt.”
So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack.
Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen’s lodging; and at foot of degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to the pallet—a business I never loved. I was thinking on Jack’s last words, as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore, when all at once a voice saith in mine ear—
“Well, Dame Cicely! Went you forth in such haste lest you should be clapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart’s in my mouth yet! Were you wood (mad), or what ailed you?”
“Dame Elizabeth,” said I, as all came back on me, “I have been to visit Hilda’s mother.”
“Dear heart! And what found you? Was she a-supping on goose and leeks? That make o’ folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when their coffers be so full the lid cannot be shut. You be young, Dame Cicely, and know not the world.”
“Maybe,” said I. “But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what I found.”