"I'll bear it in mind, if I hear of any for her."

"Thank you," said Stephen; and dropping the halfpenny into his purse, he secured the loaves in his girdle, and went back to the small screened-off corner of the garret which at present he called home.

It was not long before the worthy baker found Stephen so useful that he raised his wages even to the extravagant sum of threepence a day. His wife, too, had occasional work for Ermine; and the thread she spun was so fine and even, and the web she wove so regular and free from blemishes, that one employer spoke of her to another, until she had as much work as she could do. Not many months elapsed before they were able to leave the garret where they had first found refuge, and take a little house in Ivy Lane; and only a few years were over when Stephen was himself a master baker and pastiller (or confectioner), Ermine presiding over the lighter dainties, which she was able to vary by sundry German dishes not usually obtainable in London, while he was renowned through the City for the superior quality of his bread.

Odinel, the fat baker, who always remained his friend, loved to point a moral by Stephen's case in lecturing his journeymen.

"Why, do but look at him," he was wont to say; "when he came here, eight years ago, he scarcely knew wa.s.sel bread from c.o.c.ket, and had never seen a fish pie save to eat. Now he has one of the best shops in Bread Street, and four journeymen under him. And how was it done, think you?

There was neither bribery nor favour in it. Just by being honest, cleanly, and punctual, thorough in all he undertook, and putting heart and hands into the work. Every one of you can do as well as he did, if you only bestir yourselves and bring your will to it. Depend upon it, lads, 'I will' can do a deal of work. 'I can' is _very_ well, but if 'I will' does not help him, 'I can' will not put many pennies in his pocket. 'I can'--'I ought'--'I will'--those are the three good fairies that do a man's work for him: and the man that starts work without them is like to turn out but a sorry fellow."

It was for Ermine's sake, that he might retain a hiding place for her if necessary, that Stephen continued to keep up the house in Ivy Lane. The ordinary custom was for a tradesman to live over or behind his shop.

The excuse given out to the world was that Stephen and his wife, being country people, did not fancy being close mewed up in city streets; and between Ivy Lane and the fresh country green and air, there were only a few lanes and the city walls.

Those eight years pa.s.sed quietly and peacefully to Stephen and Ermine.

A small family--five in number--grew up around them, and Gib purred tranquilly on the hearth. They found new friends in London, and thanked G.o.d that He had chosen their inheritance for them, and had set their feet in a large room.

At that time, and for long afterwards, each trade kept by itself to its own street or district. The mercers and haberdashers lived in West Chepe or Cheapside, which Stephen had to go down every day. One morning, at the end of those eight years, he noticed that a shop long empty had been reopened, and over it hung a newly-painted signboard, with a nun's head. As Stephen pa.s.sed, a woman came to the door to hang up some goods, and they exchanged a good look at each other.

"I wonder who it is you are like!" said Stephen to himself.

Then he pa.s.sed on, and thought no more about her.

On two occasions this happened. When the third came, the woman suddenly exclaimed--

"I know who you are now!"

"Do you?" asked Stephen, coming to a halt. "I wish I knew who you are.

I have puzzled over your likeness to somebody, and I cannot tell who it is."

The woman laughed, thereby increasing the mysterious resemblance which was perplexing Stephen.

"Why," said she, "you are Stephen Esueillechien, unless I greatly mistake."

"So I am," answered Stephen, "or rather, so I was; for men call me now Stephen le Bulenger. But who are you?"

"Don't you think I'm rather like Leuesa?"

"That's it! But how come you hither, old friend? Have you left my cousin? Or is she--"

"The Lady Derette is still in the anchorhold. I left her when I wedded.

Do you remember Roscius le Mercer, who dwelt at the corner of North Gate Street? He is my husband--but they call him here Roscius de Oxineford--and we have lately come to London. So you live in Bread Street, I suppose, if you are a baker?"

Stephen acknowledged his official residence, mentally reserving the private one, and purposing to give Ermine a hint to confine herself for the present to Ivy Lane.

"Do come in," said Leuesa hospitably, "and let us have a chat about old friends."

And lifting up her voice she called--"Roscius!"

The mercer, whom Stephen remembered as a slim youth, presented himself in the changed character of a stout man of five-and-thirty, and warmly seconded his wife's invitation, as soon as he recognised an old acquaintance.

"I'm glad enough to hear of old friends," said Stephen, "for I haven't heard a single word since I left Oxford about any one of them. Tell me first of my brother. Is he living and in the old place?"

"Ay, and Anania too, and all the children. I don't think there have been any changes in the Castle."

"Uncle Manning and Aunt Isel?"

"Manning died three years ago, and Isel dwells now with Raven and Flemild, who have only one daughter, so they have plenty of room for her."

"Then what has become of Haimet?"

"Oh, he married a.s.selot, the rich daughter of old Tankard of Bicester.

He lives at Bicester now. Romund and Mabel are well; they have no children, but Haimet has several."

"Both my cousins married heiresses? They have not done badly, it seems."

"N-o, they have _not_, in one way," said Leuesa. "But I do not think Haimet is bettered by his marriage. He seems to me to be getting very fond of money, and always to measure everything by the silver pennies it cost. That's not the true ell-wand; or I'm mistaken."

"You are not, Leuesa. I'd as soon be choked with a down pillow as have my soul all smothered up with gold. Well, and how do other folks get on?--Franna, and Turguia, and Chembel and Veka, and all the rest?"

"Turguia's gone, these five years; the rest are well--at least I don't recall any that are not."

"Is old Benefei still at the corner?"

"Ay, he is, and Rubi and Jurnet. Regina is married to Jurnet's wife's nephew, Samuel, and has a lot of children--one pretty little girl, with eyes as like Countess as they can be."

"Oh, have you any notion what is become of Countess?"

"They removed from Reading to Dorchester, I believe, and then I heard old Leo had divorced Countess, and married Deuslesalt's daughter and heir, Drua. What became of her I don't know."

"By the way, did either of you know aught of the Wise Woman of Bensington? Mother Haldane, they used to call her. She'll perhaps not be alive now, for she was an old woman eight years gone. She did me a good turn once."

"I don't know anything about her," said Leuesa.

"Ah, well, I do," answered Roscius. "I went to her when our cow was fairy-led, twelve years gone; and after that for my sister, when she had been eating chervil, and couldn't see straight before her. Ay, she was a wise woman, and helped a many folks. No, she's not alive now."

"You mean more than you say, Roscius," said Stephen, with a sudden sinking of heart. What had happened to Haldane?

"Well, you see, they ducked her for a witch."

"And killed her?" Stephen's voice was hard.

"Ay--she did not live many minutes after. She sank, though--she was no witch: though it's true, her cat was never seen afterwards, and some folks would have it he'd gone back to Sathanas."

"Then it must have been that night!" said Stephen to himself. "Did she know, that she sent us off in haste? Was _that_ the secret she would not tell?" Aloud, he said,--"And who were 'they' that wrought that ill deed?"

"Oh, there was a great crowd at the doing of it--all the idle loons in Bensington and Dorchester: but there were two that hounded them on to the work--the Bishop's sumner Malger, and a woman: I reckon they had a grudge against her of some sort. Wigan the charcoal-burner told me of it--he brought her out, and loosed the cord that bound her."

"G.o.d pardon them as He may!" exclaimed Stephen. "She was no more a witch than you are. A gentle, harmless old woman, that healed folks with herbs and such--shame on the men that dared to harm her!"

"Ay, I don't believe there was aught bad in her. But, saints bless you!--lads are up to anything," said Roscius. "They'd drown you, or burn me, any day, just for the sake of a grand show and a flare-up."