So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girls together.
Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share of curiosity. The people who do the world’s work, or who go about doing good, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much Miss Smith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday to dinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, to give themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel the slightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people—poor pitiable things!—who do not know what to do with themselves, are often very ready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itself in their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and a delight to them.
No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifying occupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on the side of the bed.
“Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thou mayest tell me; I’ll not make no mischief, and I’d love dearly to hear all about it.”
If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that she might as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to Amy Clere.
“I have offenced Mistress,” said she, “and I am sorry thereat: yet I did but what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, Mistress Amy.”
“But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, I pray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied.”
“Come, Bessy, don’t be grumpy! let’s know what it was. Life’s monstrous tiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all about it.”
“Maybe there’ll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy,” answered Elizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of what might be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy’s father at any rate would be safe: thank God for that!