I felt nearhand as though I could have twisted Dame Elizabeth’s neck for meat for those children.
“And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?” said I. “No meat, and only one esquelle in all the house?”
“Dame,” said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, “our father was long ill, and now is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay the apothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; and my little sisters are not old enough to do much. But truly it is only these last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have no food, and I have been able to earn but a few deniers now and then—enough to keep us alive, but no more.”
“How much oweth you Dame Elizabeth?” said I.
“Dame, it is seven crowns for the hood I wrought, and three more for a girdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it is fourteen crowns in all. I should not need to ask charity if I could but be paid my earnings. The apothecary said our mother was sick rather from sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if the good Dame would pay me, I might not only buy fresh matter for my work, but perchance get food that would make my mother well—at least well enough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead of one. I do not beg, Dame!”
She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by the hand. “Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting.”
“But hast thou got no money?” pleaded the barne. “Thou saidst to Madeleine that we should bring some supper back. Thou didst, Hilda!”
“I did, darling,” allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed. “I could not peace the babe else, and—I hoped we should.”
I could bear no more. The truth of those maids’ story was in the little one’s bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda’s hungry eyes. Eyes speak sooth, though lips be false.
“Come,” said I. “I pray you, tarry but one moment more. You shall not lose by it.”