Chapter Two.
Who took care of Cissy?
The clothier’s shop which we entered in the last chapter was in Balcon or Balkerne Lane, not far from its northern end. The house was built, as most houses then were, with the upper storey projecting beyond the lower, and with a good deal of window in proportion to the wall. The panes of glass were very small, set in lead, and of a greenish hue; and the top of the house presented two rather steeply sloped gables. Houses in that day were more picturesque than they have been for the last two hundred years, though they have shown a tendency in recent times to turn again in that direction. Over Master Clere’s door—and over every door in the street—hung a signboard, on which some sign was painted, each different from the rest, for signs then served the purpose of numbers, so that two alike in the same street would have caused confusion. As far as eye could see ran the gaily-painted boards—Blue Lion, varied by red, black, white, and golden lions; White Hart, King’s Head, Golden Hand, Vine, Wheelbarrow, Star, Cardinal’s Hat, Crosskeys, Rose, Magpie, Saracen’s Head, and Katherine Wheel. Master Nicholas Clere hung out a magpie: why, he best knew, and never told. His neighbours sarcastically said that it was because a magpie lived there, meaning Mistress Clere, who was considered a chatterbox by everybody except herself.
Our two friends, Margaret Thurston and Alice Mount, left the shop together, with their baskets on their arms, and turning down a narrow lane to the left, came out into High Street, down which they went, then along Wye Street, and out at Bothal’s Gate. They did not live in Colchester, but at Much Bentley, about eight miles from the town, in a south-easterly direction.
“I marvel,” said Margaret, as the two pursued their way across the heath, “how Bessy Foulkes shall make way with them twain.”
“Do you so?” answered Alice. “Truly, I marvel more how she shall make way with the third.”
“What, Mistress Amy?”
Alice nodded.
“But why? There’s no harm in her, trow?”
“She means no harm,” said Alice. “But there’s many an one, Meg, as doesn’t mean a bit of harm, and does a deal for all that. I’m feared for Bessy.”
“But I can’t see what you’re feared for.”
“These be times for fear,” said Alice Mount. “Neighbour, have you forgot last August?”
“Eh! no, trust me!” cried Margaret. “Didn’t I quake for fear, when my master came in, and told me you were taken afore the justices! Truly, I reckoned he and I should come the next. I thank the good Lord that stayed their hands!”
“’Tis well we be on the Heath,” said Alice, glancing round, as if to see whether they could be overheard. “If we spake thus in the streets of Colchester, neighbour, it should cost us dear.”
“Well, I do hate to be so careful!”
“Folks cannot have alway what they would,” said Alice, “But you know, neighbour, Bessy Foulkes is one of us.”
“Well, what then? So’s Master Clere.”
Alice made no answer.
“What mean you, Alice Mount? Master Clere’s a Gospeller, and has been this eight years or more.”
“I did not gainsay it, Meg.”
“Nay, you might not gainsay it, but you looked as if you would if you opened your mouth.”
“Well, neighbour, my brother at Stoke Nayland sells a horse by nows and thens: and the last time I was yonder, a gentleman came to buy one. There was a right pretty black one, and a bay not quite so well-looking. Says the gentleman to Gregory, ‘I’d fainer have the black, so far as looks go; but which is the better horse?’ Quoth Gregory, ‘Well, Master, that hangs on what you mean to do with him. If you look for him to make a pretty picture in your park, and now and then to carry you four or five mile, why, he’ll do it as well as e’er a one; but if you want him for good, stiff work, you’d best have the bay. The black’s got no stay in him,’ saith he. So, Meg, that’s what I think of Master Clere—he’s got no stay in him. I doubt he’s but one of your fair-weathered folks, that’ll side with Truth when she steps bravely forth in her satin gown and her velvet slippers; but when she comes in a threadbare gown and old clouted shoes, then she’s not for their company. There’s a many of that sort.”
“And you think Master Clere’s one?” said Margaret, in a tone which sounded as if she did not think so.
“I’m feared he is. I’d not say it if there wasn’t need. But if you see Bess afore I do—and you are more like, for you go into town oftener—do drop a word to her to be prudent.”
“Tell Elizabeth Foulkes to be prudent!” exclaimed Margaret, laughing. “Nay, that were carrying coals to Newcastle!”
“Well, and the day may come for that, if the pits there be used up. Meg, have you ne’er noted that folks oftener come to trouble for want of their chief virtue than from overdoing it?”
“Nay, Alice, nor I don’t think it, neither.”
“Well, let be!” said Alice, shifting the basket to her other arm. “Them that lives ’ll see it.”
“But what mean you touching Mistress Amy! You said you were feared she’d make trouble for Bess.”
“Ay, I am: but that’s another matter. We’ve fault-found enough for one even. Who be them two afore us?”
“What, those bits of children? Why, they’re two of Jack Johnson’s, of Thorpe.”
“They look as if they’d got too much to carry,” said Alice, as they came up to the children. They were now about half way to Bentley.
The younger, a boy of about six, held one ear of a large jar full of meal, and the other was carried by his sister, whose apparent age was eight. They were plodding slowly along, as if afraid of spilling their meal, for the jar was pretty full.
“Well, Cis, thou hast there a load!” was Margaret’s greeting.
The little girl turned her head to see who spoke, but she only said gravely, “Ay.” A very grave, demure little maiden she seemed to be.
“Whither go you?” asked Alice Mount.
“We’re going home,” said the small boy.
“What, a matter of five miles, with that jar? Why, you’ll drop in the road! Couldn’t nobody have fetched it but you?”
“There wasn’t nobody,” said the little boy; and his sister looked up to say, in her grave way,—
“You know Mother’s gone to Heaven.”
“And who looks after you?”
“Will looks after Baby,” answered Cissy demurely, “and I look after Will.”
“And who looks after thee?” asked Alice much amused.
“I’m older than I look,” replied Cissy, drawing herself up; but she was not big enough to go far.
“I’m nine—going in ten. I can make porridge, and clean the room and wash Baby. And Will’s learning to wash himself, and then he’ll be off my hands.”
It was irresistibly funny to hear this small mite talk like a woman, for she was very small of her age; and Alice and Margaret could not help laughing.
“Well, but thou knowest thou canst not do a many things that must be done. Who takes care of you all? I dare be bound thou does thy best: but somebody there must be older than thee. Who is it now?”
“Have you e’er an aunt or a grandmother?” added Margaret.
Cissy looked up quietly into Alice’s face.
“God takes care of us,” she said. “Father helps when his work’s done; but when he’s at work, God has to do it all. There’s nobody but God.”
Alice and Margaret looked at each other in astonishment.
“Poor little souls!” cried Margaret.
“Oh, but we aren’t!” said Cissy, rather more eagerly. “God looks after us, you know. He’s sure to do it right, Father says so.”
Alice Mount laid her hand softly on Cissy’s head.
“Ay, little maid, God will do it right,” she said. “But maybe He’d let me help too, by nows and thens. Thou knowest the Black Bear at Much Bentley—corner of lane going down to Thorpe?”
Yes, Cissy knew the Black Bear, as her face showed.
“Well, when thou gets to the Black Bear, count three doors down the lane, and thou’lt see a sign with a bell. That’s where I live. Thee rap at the door, and my daughter shall go along with you to Thorpe, and help to carry the meal too. Maybe we can find you a sup of broth or milk while you rest you a bit.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Cissy in her grown-up way. “That will be good. We’ll come.”