Mistress Spitfire: A Plain Account of Certain Episodes in the History of Richard Coope, Gent., and of His Cousin, Mistress Alison French, at the Time of the Revolution, 1642-1644
History
Mistress Spitfire: A Plain Account of Certain Episodes in the History of Richard Coope, Gent., and of His Cousin, Mistress Alison French, at the Time of the Revolution, 1642-1644
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
“I trust on the right side,” says he.
“I am for the Parliament,” says I, stoutly.
“Aye, and Sir Nicholas is a staunch King and Church man,” he says.
“Well, well--so you differed on that point, eh?”
“Something like it,” says I. “He would have had me go into garrison
at Pomfret Castle under Sir Jarvis Cutler.”
“A man must never give up his principles,” says he. “You stood by
yours, of course, Dick?”
“As you see,” says I, feeling somewhat important, and being
foolishly willing to parade it.
“I fear the old knight will disinherit thee, Dick,” says he,
regarding me closely. “Even as he did me some seven years ago
because I dared to contradict him on some trifling matter. ’Tis a
touchy old cock, and can ill bide opposition from any man.”
“Faith,” says I, “Can he bide it from a woman? He is like to have
it in plenty if I know aught,” I says, the memory of my little
scene with Mistress Alison still fresh in my mind.
“Oh!” says he. “Is he so? And how may that be, Dick?”
“He has sent for Alison French,” says I, draining my cup.
“Our cousin Alison, eh?” says he, still curious. “Aye, he had
always a tender spot in his heart for the lass.”
“Will he preserve it?” says I. “She has the sharpest tongue that
e’er I heard.”
He looked at me with interest. “I ha’nt seen her this two year,”
says he. “She bade fair to be a fine woman.”
“Fine enough,” says I. “But preserve me from her tongue--’tis keen
as a newly-whetted sword.”
“You seem to bear some lively recollection on’t,” says he, looking
at me with amusement. “Well, well--I seem to have come home to
some strange news. But thou art not off, man--sit out another jug
of ale with me.”
“I must be gone,” says I. “I am riding south.”
“And I am for my old ruin of a house,” he answers. “I have not set
eyes on’t this two year, Dick. I must see to it, I doubt--and then
for the wars.”
“Belike we shall meet there,” says I, and shakes him by the hand
and goes out to my horse. As I rode away from the inn I saw him
come to the door and gaze after me. He threw me a wave of his hand
as I turned the corner.
II.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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