“Then you’d best go home,” said Bartle. “Can’t do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston’s reconciled, and we’ve hopes for John, though he’s been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting ’em all wrong side up. Do you want to see ’em burned, my master?”
“I want to see them true,” was Mr Ewring’s answer, “The burning doesn’t much matter.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” sneered Bartle. “You’ll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you’re set alight.”
“Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?”
“Time enough to say when I’ve got it pricked, Master,” said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.
People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not “set”—that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called “pricking” it.
Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant’s Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle.
Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there.
“Good lack! you’re come again!”
“I’m come again,” said Mr Ewring, smiling. “Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?”