“I’m going now, child, and do you look after your mistress.”
By a coincidence or association—something suggested by Harry Fairfield’s looks, was it?—old Mildred Tarnley’s head was full of the Dutchwoman when Dulcibella came into the kitchen.
“You took out the ink, Tom, when you was weighin’ them oats to-day,” said she, and out went Tom in search of that always errant and mitching article.
“I was sayin’ to Tom as ye came in, Mrs. Crane, how I hoped to see that one in her place. I think I’d walk to Hatherton and back to see her hanged, the false jade, wi’ her knife, and her puce pelisse, and her divilry. Old witch!”
“Lawk, Mrs. Tarnley, how can ye?”
“Well, now Master Charles is under the mould, I wouldn’t spare her. What for shouldn’t Mrs. Fairfield make her pay for the pipe she danced to. It’s her turn now—
‘When you are anvil, hold you still,
When you are hammer, strike your fill.’
And if I was Mrs. Fairfield, maybe I wouldn’t make her smoke for all.”
“I think my lady will do just what poor Master Charles wished, and I know nothing about the woman,” said Dulcibella, “only they all say she’s not right in her head, Mrs. Tarnley, and I don’t think she’ll slight his last word, and punish the woman; ’twould be the same as sacrilege a’most; and what of her? Much matter about a wooden platter! and its ill burning the house to frighten the mice.”