Chapter Nine.
Come to the Preaching.
“Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?”
“Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!”
“That’s true enough of me, but it’s right false of thee. Thou’s nought but peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare be bounden, if the Queen’s Grace and all her noble company were to sup in this kitchen at five o’ the clock, I should come in and find never a kettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn’t a sloth, and thine aunt a snail, I’m not hostess of the King’s Head at Colchester, thou’rt no more worth thy salt—nay, salt, forsooth! thou’rt not worth the water. Salt’s one and fourpence the raser, and that’s a deal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teem out that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the hens have laid: don’t be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!—Eh deary me! I might as well have said, Crawl. There she goes with the lead on her heels! If these maids ben’t enough to drive an honest woman crazy, my name’s not Philippa Wade.”
And Mistress Wade began to put things tidy in the kitchen with a promptitude and celerity which Dorothy Denny certainly did not seem likely to imitate. She swept up the hearth, set a chair before the table, fresh sanded the floor and arranged the forms in rows, before Dorothy reappeared, carefully carrying something in her apron.
“Why, thou doesn’t mean to say thou’st done already?” inquired her mistress sarcastically. “Thou’st been all across the yard while I’ve done no more than sand the floor and side things for the gathering. What’s that in thine apron? one of the Queen’s Majesty’s jewels?”
“It’s an egg, Mistress.”