Alls Well | Page 2

more they be beaten, the
better they be.'"
"Nay, I'll not say that: but this will I say, some folks be like
camomile--`the more you tread it, the more you spread it.' When you
squeeze 'em, like clover, you press the honey forth: and I count
Mistress Benden's o' that sort."
"Well, then, let's hope poor Sens Bradbridge is likewise, for she's like

to get well squeezed and trodden. Have you heard she's lost her
master?"
"I have so. Mistress Final told me this morrow early. Nay, I doubt she's
more of the reed family, and 'll bow down her head like a bulrush. Sens
Bradbridge'll bend afore she breaks, and Mistress Benden 'll break
afore she bends."
"'Tis pity Mistress Benden hath ne'er a child; it might soften her master,
and anyhow should comfort her."
"I wouldn't be the child," said Emmet drily.
Collet laughed. "Well, nor I neither," said she. "I reckon they'll not
often go short of vinegar in that house; Master Benden's face 'd turn all
the wine, let alone the cream. I'm fain my master's not o' that fashion:
he's a bit too easy, my Nick is. I can't prevail on him to thwack the lads
when they're over-thwart; I have to do it myself."
"I'll go bail you'd not hurt 'em much," said Emmet, with an amused
glance at the round, rosy, good-humoured face of the mother of the six
"over-thwart" lads.
"Oh, will you! But I am a short mistress with 'em, I can tell you. Our
Aphabell shall hear of it, I promise you, when I get home. I bade him
yester-even fetch me two pound o' prunes from the spicer's, and gave
him threepence in his hand to pay for 'em; and if the rascal went not
and lost the money at cross and pile with Gregory White, and never a
prune have I in the store-cupboard. He's at all evers playing me tricks o'
that fashion. 'Tisn't a week since I sent him for a dozen o' Paris candles,
and he left 'em in the water as he came o'er the bridge. Eh, Mistress
Wilson, but lads be that pestiferous! You've but one, and that one o' the
quiet peaceable sort--you've somewhat to be thankful for, I can tell you,
that hasn't six like me, and they a set o' contrarious, outrageous,
boisterous caitiffs as ever was seen i' this world."
"Which of 'em would you wish to part with, Collet?"

"Well, be sure!" was Collet's half-laughing answer, as she mentally
reviewed the young gentlemen in question--her giddy, thoughtless
Aphabell, her mischievous Tobias, her Esdras always out at elbows, her
noisy, troublesome Noah, her rough Silvanus, whom no amount of
"thwacking" seemed to polish, and her lazy, ease-loving Valentine.
"Nay, come, I reckon I'll not make merchandise of any of 'em this bout.
They are a lot o' runagates, I own, but I'm their mother, look you."
Emmet Wilson smiled significantly. "Ay, Collet, and 'tis well for you
and me that cord bears pulling at."
"You and me?" responded Collet, lifting her bundle higher, into an
easier position. "'Tis well enough for the lads, I dare say; but what ado
hath it with you and me?"
"I love to think, neighbour, that somewhat akin to it is said by nows and
thens of us, too, in the Court of the Great King, when the enemy
accuseth us--`Ay, she did this ill thing, and she's but a poor black sinner
at best; but thou shalt not have her, Satan; I'm her Father.'"
"You're right there, Emmet Wilson," said Collet, in a tone which
showed that the last sentence had touched her heart. "The work and
care that my lads give me is nought to the sins wherewith we be daily
angering the Lord. He's always forgiving us, be sure."
"A sight easier than men do, Collet Pardue, take my word for it."
"What mean you, neighbour?" asked Collet, turning round to look her
companion in the face, for Emmet's tone had indicated that she meant
more than she said.
"I mean one man in especial, and his name's Bastian."
"What, the priest? Dear heart! I've not angered him, trow?"
"You soon will, if you cut your cloth as you've measured it. How many
times were you at mass this three months past?"

"How many were you?" was the half-amused answer.
"There's a many in Staplehurst as hasn't been no oftener," said Emmet,
"that I know: but it'll not save you, Collet. The priest has his eye on you,
be sure."
"Then I'll keep mine on him," said Collet sturdily, as she paused at her
own door, which was that of the one little shoemaker's shop in the
village of Staplehurst. "Good-morrow, neighbour. I'll but lay down my
fardel, and then step o'er to poor