“Well, there must needs be some blunder,” saith Mother, when we had sat silent a while: “for I never knew no man of that name, nor no gentleman of Cornwall, to boot.”
“May-be he minds you, Mother, though you knew not him,” quoth Edith.
“Soothly,” saith she, “there were knights in the Court, whose names I knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all—and never spake word unto me.”
“See you now, Cousin Lettice,” saith Bess, “if this man wanted somewhat of you, he’d be fain enough to make out that he had known you any way he might.”
“Ay, very like,” saith Mother.
“And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire speech of Sir Aubrey, well, he may be a decent man, for all his slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him down no better than he should be, though what he is after it passeth my wit to see.”
“I do believe,” quoth Edith, a-laughing, “that Cousin Bess hates every thing that flies. What with Dr Meade’s surplice, and Sir Edwin’s long feather—verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying next.”
“Nay, my lass, I love the song-birds as well as any,” saith Cousin Bess: “’tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not meant to fly. If God Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He’d have put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves out o’ birds’ feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, ’tis a rag o’ Popery—that’s what it is: and I’d as lief tell Dr Meade so as an other man. I did tell Mistress Meade so, t’ other day: but, poor soul! she could not see it a whit. ’Twas but a decent garment that the priest must needs bear, and such like. And ‘Mistress Meade,’ says I, ‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ says I: ‘you are none grounded well in Hebrews,’ says I. ‘Either Dr Meade’s no priest, or else the Lord isn’t,’ says I: ‘so you may pick and choose,’ says I. Eh dear! but she looked on me as if I’d spake some ill words o’ the Queen’s Majesty—not a bit less. And ‘Mistress Wolvercot,’ says she, ‘what ever do you mean?’ says she. ‘Well, Mistress Meade,’ says I, ‘that’s what I mean—that there can be no Christian priests so long as Christ our Lord is alive: so if Dr Meade’s a priest, He must be dead. And if so,’ says I, ‘why then, I don’t see how there can be no Christians of no sort, priests or no,’ says I. ‘Why, Mistress Wolvercot!’ says she, ‘you must have lost your wits.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘some folks has: but I don’t rightly think I’m one,’—and so home I came.”
Edith was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to see the talk win round to Mistress Meade, that I was fain to join.
“Thou art right, Bess,” saith Mother.