Clara.
Do I stay too long when I go to the well at night, that you start suspecting me?
Mother.
I don’t say that. But it was only to keep him from hanging about after you at nights in all weathers, that I let him come into the house at all. My mother wouldn’t allow that sort of thing, either.
Clara.
I never see him at all.
Mother.
Have you been sulking with each other? I don’t dislike him. He’s so steady. If only he was somebody! In my time he wouldn’t have had to wait long. The gentlefolk used to be as crazy after a good clerk, as a lame man after a crutch, for a good clerk was rare then. He was useful to small people like us, too. One day he would compose a New Year’s greeting from son to father, and would get as much for the gold lettering alone as would buy a child a doll. The next day the father would send for him, and have him read it aloud to him, secretly, with the door locked, lest he should be caught unawares, and show his ignorance. That meant double pay. Clerks were top-dog then, and raised the price of beer. But it’s different now. We old people, who can neither read nor write, are the laughing-stocks of nine-year-old boys. The world’s getting cleverer every day. Perhaps the time will come when we shall be ashamed if we can’t walk the tightrope.
Clara.
There goes the church bell.