“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 Temperance; “wouldn’t you let us have a bit of parsley, or a barberry or twain?”