"I'll give you an excellent character," said Ermine, smiling, "and so
will Gib, I am sure."
The baker was well satisfied when his new hand reached the Harp exactly
as the vesper bell sounded its first stroke at Saint Mary-le-Bow.
"That's right!" said he. "I like to see a man punctual. Take this damp
cloth and rub the shelves."
"Clean!" said he to himself a minute after. "Have you ever rubbed
shelves before?"
"Not much," said Stephen.
"How much do you rub 'em?"
"Till they are clean."
"You'll do. Can you carry a tray on your head?"
"Don't know till I try."
"Best practise a bit, before you put any thing on it, or else we shall
have mud pies," laughed the baker.
When work was over, the baker called Stephen to him.
"Now," said he, "let us settle about wages. I could not tell how much
to offer you, till I saw how you worked. You've done very well for a
new hand. I'll give you three-halfpence a-day till you've fairly learnt
the trade, and twopence afterwards: maybe, in time, if I find you
useful, I may raise you a halfpenny more: a penny of it in bread, the
rest in money. Will that content you?"
"With a very good will," replied Stephen.
His wages as watchman at the Castle had been twopence per day, so that
he was well satisfied with the baker's proposal.
"What work does your wife do?"
"She has none to do yet. She can cook, sew, weave, and spin."
"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 wassel bread from cocket, 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 passed 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
God 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 passed, 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 passed 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."