Chapter Seven.The Clouds begin to gather.“Methinks that becomes me better. What sayest thou, Bess?”Two girls were standing in an upper room of Nicholas Clere’s house, and the younger asked this question of the elder. The elder girl was tall, of stately carriage and graceful mien, with a very beautiful face: but her whole aspect showed that she thought nothing about herself, and never troubled her head to think whether she was pretty or ugly. The younger, who was about seventeen, was not nearly so handsome; but she would have been pleasant enough to look at if it had not been for a silly simper and a look of intensely satisfied vanity, which quite spoiled any prettiness that she might have had. She had just fastened a pair of ear-rings into her ears, and she was turning her head from one side to the other before the mirror, as she asked her companion’s opinion of the ornaments.There are some savages—in Polynesia, I think—who decorate themselves by thrusting a wooden stick through their lips. To our European taste they look hideous, honestly, I cannot see that they who make holes in their lips in order to ornament themselves are any worse at all than they who make holes in their ears for the same purpose. The one is just as thorough barbarism as the other.When Amy Clere thus appealed to her to express an opinion, Elizabeth Foulkes looked up from her sewing and gave it.“No, Mistress Amy; I do scarce think it.”“Why, wouldst thou better love these yellow ones?”“To speak truth, Mistress Amy, I think you look best without either.”“Dear heart, to hear the maid! Wouldst not thou fain have a pair, Bess?”“Nay, Mistress Amy, that would I not.”“Wherefore?”“Because, as methinks, such tawdry gewgaws be unworthy a Christian profession. If you desire my thought thereon, Mistress Amy, you have it now.”“Forsooth, and thou mightest have kept it, for all I want of it. ‘Tawdry gewgaws,’ indeed! I tell thee, Bess; these be three shillings the pair.”“They may be. I would not pay three half-pence for them.”“Bess, ’tis ten thousand pities thou art not a nun.”“I would rather be what I am, Mistress.”“I rather not be neither,” said Amy flippantly. In those days, they always put two nots together when they meant to speak strongly. They did not see, as we do now, that the one contradicts the other.“Well, Mistress Amy, you have no need,” said Elizabeth quietly.“And as to Christian profession—why, Bess, every lady in the land wears ear-rings, yea, up to the Queen’s Grace herself. Prithee who art thou, to set thee up for better than all the ladies in England, talking of Christian profession as though thou wert a priest?”“I am Mistress Clere’s servant-maid; but I set not myself up to be better than any, so far as I know.”“Thee hold thy peace! Whether goeth this lace or the wide one best with my blue kirtle?”“The narrower, I would say. Mistress Amy, shall you have need of me this next Wednesday afternoon?”“Why? What’s like to happen Wednesday afternoon?”“Saint Chrysostom’s like to happen, an’t please you; and Mistress granted me free leave to visit a friend, if so be you lacked me not.”“What fashion of a friend, trow? A jolly one?” Elizabeth looked a little amused.“Scarce after your fashion, Mistress Amy.”“What, as sad and sober as thyself?”“Well-nigh.”“Then I’ll not go with thee. I mean to spend Saint Chrysostom with Mary Boswell and Lucy Cheyne, and their friends: and I promise thee we shall not have no sadness nor sedateness in the company.”“That’s very like,” answered Elizabeth.“As merry as crickets,weshall be. Dost not long to come withal?”“I were liefer to visit Rose, if it liked you.”“What a shame to call a sad maid by so fair a name! Oh, thou canst go for all me. Thy company’s never so jolly I need shed tears to lose it.”And with this rather uncomplimentary remark, Amy left the room, with the blue ear-rings in her ears and the yellow ones in her hand. Elizabeth waited till her piece of work was finished. Then folding it up and putting it away in a drawer, she ran down to prepare supper,—a task wherein Amy did not offer to help her, though it was usual then for the mistress of the house and her daughters to assist in the cooking.About two o’clock on the afternoon of the following Wednesday, a tap on the door of the Blue Bell called Rose to open it, and she greeted her friend Elizabeth with much pleasure. Rose had finished her share of the household work (until supper), and she took her lace pillow and sat down in the window. Elizabeth drew from her pocket a couple of nightcaps, and both girls set to work. Mrs Mount was sewing also in the chimney-corner.“And how be matters in Colchester, Bess, at this present?”“The clouds be gathering for rain, or I mistake,” said Elizabeth gravely. “You know the thing I mean?”Alice Mount had put down her work, and she looked grave too.“Bess! you never mean we shall have last August’s doings o’er again?”“That do I, Alice, and more. I was last night at the King’s Head, where you know they of our doctrine be wont to meet, and Master Pulleyne was there, that good man that was sometime chaplain to my Lady’s Grace of Suffolk: he mostly puts up at the King’s Head when he cometh to town. And quoth he, ‘There shall shortly be another search made for Gospel books,—ay, and Gospellers belike: and they be not like to ’scape so well as they did last year.’ And John Love saith—he was there, John Love of the Heath; you know him?—well, he saith he heard Master Simnel the bailiff to swear that the great Doctors of Colchester should find it warm work ere long. There’s an ill time coming, friends. Take you heed.”“The good Lord be our aid, if so be!” said Alice.“But what shall Master Clere do, Bessy?” asked Rose. “He hath ever been a Gospeller.”“He hath borne the name of one, Rose. God knoweth if he be true. I’m ’feared—”Elizabeth stopped suddenly.“That he’ll not be staunch?” said Alice.“He is my master, and I will say no more, Alice. But this may I say—there’s many in Colchester shall bear faggots ere they burn. Ay, and all over England belike.”Those who recanted had to carry a faggot, as if owning themselves worthy to be burned.“Thou’rt right there, Bess. The Lord deliver us!”“Some thinketh we have been too bold of late. You see, John Love coming home again, and nothing done to him, made folks think the worst was over.”“Isn’t it then?” said Rose.“Master Benold says he misdoubts if ’tis well begun.”“Master Benold the chandler?”“Of East Hill—ay. He was at the King’s Head last night. So was old Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring the miller’s wife, and Johnson—they call him Alegar—down at Thorpe.”“Call him Alegar! what on earth for?” asked Rose indignantly.Elizabeth laughed. “Well, they say he’s so sour. He’ll not dance, nor sing idle songs, nor play quoits and bowls, but loveth better to sit at home and read; so they call him Alegar.”Alegar is malt vinegar; the word vinegar was then used only of white wine vinegar.“He’s not a bit sour!” cried Rose. “I’ve seen him with his little lad and lass; and right good to them he was. It’s a shame to call folks names that don’t fit them!”“Nay, I don’t call him no names, but other folks do. Did you know his wife, that died six months gone?”“No, but I’ve heard her well spoken of.”“Then you’ve heard truth. Those children lost a deal when they lost her, and so did poor Johnson. Well, he’ll never see her burn: that’s one good thing!”“Ay,” said Alice, “and that’s what he said himself when she died. Well, God help us to stand firm! Have you been asked any questions, Bess?”“Not yet,” said Elizabeth quietly, “but I look for it every day. Have you?”“Not I; but our Rose here foregathered with the priest one even of late, and he was set to know why we came not to church these eight weeks past. She parried his darts right well; but I look to hear more thereabout.”
“Methinks that becomes me better. What sayest thou, Bess?”
Two girls were standing in an upper room of Nicholas Clere’s house, and the younger asked this question of the elder. The elder girl was tall, of stately carriage and graceful mien, with a very beautiful face: but her whole aspect showed that she thought nothing about herself, and never troubled her head to think whether she was pretty or ugly. The younger, who was about seventeen, was not nearly so handsome; but she would have been pleasant enough to look at if it had not been for a silly simper and a look of intensely satisfied vanity, which quite spoiled any prettiness that she might have had. She had just fastened a pair of ear-rings into her ears, and she was turning her head from one side to the other before the mirror, as she asked her companion’s opinion of the ornaments.
There are some savages—in Polynesia, I think—who decorate themselves by thrusting a wooden stick through their lips. To our European taste they look hideous, honestly, I cannot see that they who make holes in their lips in order to ornament themselves are any worse at all than they who make holes in their ears for the same purpose. The one is just as thorough barbarism as the other.
When Amy Clere thus appealed to her to express an opinion, Elizabeth Foulkes looked up from her sewing and gave it.
“No, Mistress Amy; I do scarce think it.”
“Why, wouldst thou better love these yellow ones?”
“To speak truth, Mistress Amy, I think you look best without either.”
“Dear heart, to hear the maid! Wouldst not thou fain have a pair, Bess?”
“Nay, Mistress Amy, that would I not.”
“Wherefore?”
“Because, as methinks, such tawdry gewgaws be unworthy a Christian profession. If you desire my thought thereon, Mistress Amy, you have it now.”
“Forsooth, and thou mightest have kept it, for all I want of it. ‘Tawdry gewgaws,’ indeed! I tell thee, Bess; these be three shillings the pair.”
“They may be. I would not pay three half-pence for them.”
“Bess, ’tis ten thousand pities thou art not a nun.”
“I would rather be what I am, Mistress.”
“I rather not be neither,” said Amy flippantly. In those days, they always put two nots together when they meant to speak strongly. They did not see, as we do now, that the one contradicts the other.
“Well, Mistress Amy, you have no need,” said Elizabeth quietly.
“And as to Christian profession—why, Bess, every lady in the land wears ear-rings, yea, up to the Queen’s Grace herself. Prithee who art thou, to set thee up for better than all the ladies in England, talking of Christian profession as though thou wert a priest?”
“I am Mistress Clere’s servant-maid; but I set not myself up to be better than any, so far as I know.”
“Thee hold thy peace! Whether goeth this lace or the wide one best with my blue kirtle?”
“The narrower, I would say. Mistress Amy, shall you have need of me this next Wednesday afternoon?”
“Why? What’s like to happen Wednesday afternoon?”
“Saint Chrysostom’s like to happen, an’t please you; and Mistress granted me free leave to visit a friend, if so be you lacked me not.”
“What fashion of a friend, trow? A jolly one?” Elizabeth looked a little amused.
“Scarce after your fashion, Mistress Amy.”
“What, as sad and sober as thyself?”
“Well-nigh.”
“Then I’ll not go with thee. I mean to spend Saint Chrysostom with Mary Boswell and Lucy Cheyne, and their friends: and I promise thee we shall not have no sadness nor sedateness in the company.”
“That’s very like,” answered Elizabeth.
“As merry as crickets,weshall be. Dost not long to come withal?”
“I were liefer to visit Rose, if it liked you.”
“What a shame to call a sad maid by so fair a name! Oh, thou canst go for all me. Thy company’s never so jolly I need shed tears to lose it.”
And with this rather uncomplimentary remark, Amy left the room, with the blue ear-rings in her ears and the yellow ones in her hand. Elizabeth waited till her piece of work was finished. Then folding it up and putting it away in a drawer, she ran down to prepare supper,—a task wherein Amy did not offer to help her, though it was usual then for the mistress of the house and her daughters to assist in the cooking.
About two o’clock on the afternoon of the following Wednesday, a tap on the door of the Blue Bell called Rose to open it, and she greeted her friend Elizabeth with much pleasure. Rose had finished her share of the household work (until supper), and she took her lace pillow and sat down in the window. Elizabeth drew from her pocket a couple of nightcaps, and both girls set to work. Mrs Mount was sewing also in the chimney-corner.
“And how be matters in Colchester, Bess, at this present?”
“The clouds be gathering for rain, or I mistake,” said Elizabeth gravely. “You know the thing I mean?”
Alice Mount had put down her work, and she looked grave too.
“Bess! you never mean we shall have last August’s doings o’er again?”
“That do I, Alice, and more. I was last night at the King’s Head, where you know they of our doctrine be wont to meet, and Master Pulleyne was there, that good man that was sometime chaplain to my Lady’s Grace of Suffolk: he mostly puts up at the King’s Head when he cometh to town. And quoth he, ‘There shall shortly be another search made for Gospel books,—ay, and Gospellers belike: and they be not like to ’scape so well as they did last year.’ And John Love saith—he was there, John Love of the Heath; you know him?—well, he saith he heard Master Simnel the bailiff to swear that the great Doctors of Colchester should find it warm work ere long. There’s an ill time coming, friends. Take you heed.”
“The good Lord be our aid, if so be!” said Alice.
“But what shall Master Clere do, Bessy?” asked Rose. “He hath ever been a Gospeller.”
“He hath borne the name of one, Rose. God knoweth if he be true. I’m ’feared—”
Elizabeth stopped suddenly.
“That he’ll not be staunch?” said Alice.
“He is my master, and I will say no more, Alice. But this may I say—there’s many in Colchester shall bear faggots ere they burn. Ay, and all over England belike.”
Those who recanted had to carry a faggot, as if owning themselves worthy to be burned.
“Thou’rt right there, Bess. The Lord deliver us!”
“Some thinketh we have been too bold of late. You see, John Love coming home again, and nothing done to him, made folks think the worst was over.”
“Isn’t it then?” said Rose.
“Master Benold says he misdoubts if ’tis well begun.”
“Master Benold the chandler?”
“Of East Hill—ay. He was at the King’s Head last night. So was old Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring the miller’s wife, and Johnson—they call him Alegar—down at Thorpe.”
“Call him Alegar! what on earth for?” asked Rose indignantly.
Elizabeth laughed. “Well, they say he’s so sour. He’ll not dance, nor sing idle songs, nor play quoits and bowls, but loveth better to sit at home and read; so they call him Alegar.”
Alegar is malt vinegar; the word vinegar was then used only of white wine vinegar.
“He’s not a bit sour!” cried Rose. “I’ve seen him with his little lad and lass; and right good to them he was. It’s a shame to call folks names that don’t fit them!”
“Nay, I don’t call him no names, but other folks do. Did you know his wife, that died six months gone?”
“No, but I’ve heard her well spoken of.”
“Then you’ve heard truth. Those children lost a deal when they lost her, and so did poor Johnson. Well, he’ll never see her burn: that’s one good thing!”
“Ay,” said Alice, “and that’s what he said himself when she died. Well, God help us to stand firm! Have you been asked any questions, Bess?”
“Not yet,” said Elizabeth quietly, “but I look for it every day. Have you?”
“Not I; but our Rose here foregathered with the priest one even of late, and he was set to know why we came not to church these eight weeks past. She parried his darts right well; but I look to hear more thereabout.”
Chapter Eight.Not a bit afeard.Alice Mount had only just spoken when the latch was lifted by Margaret Thurston.“Pray you, let me come in and get my breath!” said she; “I’m that frighted I can scarce stand.”“Come in, neighbour, and welcome,” replied Alice; and Rose set a chair for Margaret. “What ails you? is there a mad bull about, or what?”“Mad bull, indeed! A mad bull’s no great shakes. Not to him, any way.”“Well, I’d as soon not meet one in our lane,” said Alice; “but who’shim?”“Him’sthe priest, be sure! Met me up at top o’ the lane, he did, and he must needs turn him round and walk by me. I well-nigh cracked my skull trying to think of some excuse to be rid of him; but no such luck for me! On he came till we reached hither, and then I could bear no more, and I said I had to see you. He said he went about to see you afore long, but he wouldn’t come in to-day; so on he marched, and right thankful was I, be sure. Eh, the things he asked me! I’ve not been so hauled o’er the coals this year out.”“But what about, marry?”“Gramercy! wherefore I came not to mass, and why Master didn’t: and what I believed and didn’t believe, and wherefore I did this and didn’t do that, till I warrant you, afore he left off, I was that moithered I couldn’t have told what I did believe. I got so muggy I only knew one thing under the sun, and that was that I’d have given my best gown for to be rid of him.”“Well, you got free without your best gown, Margaret,” said Rose.“May be I have, but I feel as if I’d left all my wits behind me in the lane, or mayhap in the priest’s pocket. Whatever would the man be at? We pay our dues to the Church, and we’re honest, peaceable folks: if it serve us better to read our Bible at home rather than go look at him hocus-pocussing in the church, can’t he let us be? Truly, if he’d give us something when we came, there’d be some reason for finding fault; nobody need beg me to go to church when there’s sermon: but what earthly good can it do any mortal man to stare at a yellow cross on Father Tye’s back? And what good do you ever get beyond it?”Sermons have always been a Protestant institution, in this sense, that the more pure and Scriptural the Church has been, the more sermons there have generally been, while whenever the clergy have taken up with foolish ceremonies and have departed from the Bible, they have tried to do away with preaching. And of course, when very few people could read their Bibles, there was more need of preaching than there is now, when nearly everybody can read. Very, very few poor people could read a word in 1556. It was put down as something remarkable, in the case of Cissy’s father, that he could “read a little.” Saint Paul says that it pleased God by preaching to save them that believe (1 Corinthians one 21), but he never says “by hearing music,” or “by looking at flowers, or candles, or embroidered crosses.” Those things can only amuse our eyes and ears; they will never do our souls any good. How can they? The only thing that will do good to our souls is to get to know God better: and flowers, candles, music, and embroidery, cannot teach us anything about God.“What laugh you at, Rose?” asked Elizabeth.“Only Margaret’s notion that it could do no man good to stare at the cross on Father Tye’s back,” said Rose, trying to recover her gravity.“Well, the only animal made with a cross on his back is an ass,” said Margaret; “and one would think a man should be better than an ass; but if his chief business be to make himself look like one, I don’t see that he is so much better.”This amused Rose exceedingly. Elizabeth Foulkes, though the same age as Rose, was naturally of a graver turn of mind, and she only smiled.“Well! if I haven’t forgot all I was charged with, I’d better give my message,” said Margaret; “but Father Tye’s well-nigh shook all my wits out of my head. Robin Purcas came by this morrow, and he lifted the latch, and gave me a word from Master Benold, that I was to carry on—for he’s got a job of work at Saint Osyth, and won’t be back while Friday—saith he, on Friday even, Master Pulleyne and the Scots priest, that were chaplains to my Lady of Suffolk, shall be at the King’s Head, and all of our doctrine that will come to hear shall be welcome. Will you go?”“Verily, that will I,” replied Alice heartily.“You see, if Father Tye should stir up the embers and get all alight again, maybe we shalln’t have so many more sermons afterward; so we’d best get our good things while we can.”“Ay, there may be a famine of hearing the words of the Lord,” said Alice gravely. “God avert the same, if His will is!”“Johnson, he says he’s right sure Master Simnel means to start of his inquirations. Alice, think you you could stand firm?”Alice Mount sighed and half shook her head. “I didn’t stand over firm last August, Margaret,” said she: “and only the Lord knows how I’ve since repented it. If He’ll keep me true—but I’m feared of myself.”“Well, do you know I’m not a bit feared? It’s true, I wasn’t tried in August, when you were: but if I had been, be sure I’d never have signed that submission that you did. I wouldn’t, so!”“Maybe not, neighbour,” answered Alice meekly. “I was weak.”“Now, Mother,” said Rose, who could bear no longer, “you know you stood forth best of anybody there! It was Father that won her to sign, Margaret; she never would have done it if she’d been left to herself. I know she wouldn’t.”“Then what didst thou sign for, Rose?” was the reply.Rose went the colour of her name. Her mother came at once to her help, as Rose had just done to hers.“Why, she signed because we did, like a dutiful maid as she is alway: and it was our faults, Margaret. May God forgive us!”“Well, but after all, it wasn’t so very ill, was it?” asked Margaret, rather inconsistently with what she had said before: but people are not always consistent by any means. “Did you promise anything monstrous wrong? I thought it was only to live as became good Christians and faithful subjects.”“Nay, Meg, it was more than that. We promised right solemnly to submit us to the Church in all matters, and specially in this, that we did believe the Sacrament to be Christ’s body, according to His words.”“Why, so do we all believe,” said Margaret, “according to His words. Have you forgot the tale Father Tye did once tell us at the King’s Head, of my Lady Elizabeth the Queen’s sister, that when she was asked what she did believe touching the Sacrament, she made this answer?“‘Christ was the Word that spake it,He took the bread, and brake it;And what that word did make it,That I believe, and take it.’”“That was a bit crafty, methinks,” said Rose. “I love not such shifts. I would rather speak out my mind plainly.”“Ay, but if you speak too plainly, you be like to find you in the wrong place,” answered Margaret.“That would not be the wrong place wherein truth set me,” was Rose’s earnest answer. “That were never the wrong place wherein God should be my company. And if the fire were too warm for my weakness to bear, the holy angels should maybe fan me with their wings till I came to the covert of His Tabernacle.”“Well, that’s all proper pretty,” said Margaret, “and like a book as ever the parson could talk: but I tell thee what, Rose Allen, thou’lt sing another tune if ever thou come to Smithfield. See if thou doesn’t.”And Rose answered, “‘The word that God putteth in my mouth, that will I speak.’”
Alice Mount had only just spoken when the latch was lifted by Margaret Thurston.
“Pray you, let me come in and get my breath!” said she; “I’m that frighted I can scarce stand.”
“Come in, neighbour, and welcome,” replied Alice; and Rose set a chair for Margaret. “What ails you? is there a mad bull about, or what?”
“Mad bull, indeed! A mad bull’s no great shakes. Not to him, any way.”
“Well, I’d as soon not meet one in our lane,” said Alice; “but who’shim?”
“Him’sthe priest, be sure! Met me up at top o’ the lane, he did, and he must needs turn him round and walk by me. I well-nigh cracked my skull trying to think of some excuse to be rid of him; but no such luck for me! On he came till we reached hither, and then I could bear no more, and I said I had to see you. He said he went about to see you afore long, but he wouldn’t come in to-day; so on he marched, and right thankful was I, be sure. Eh, the things he asked me! I’ve not been so hauled o’er the coals this year out.”
“But what about, marry?”
“Gramercy! wherefore I came not to mass, and why Master didn’t: and what I believed and didn’t believe, and wherefore I did this and didn’t do that, till I warrant you, afore he left off, I was that moithered I couldn’t have told what I did believe. I got so muggy I only knew one thing under the sun, and that was that I’d have given my best gown for to be rid of him.”
“Well, you got free without your best gown, Margaret,” said Rose.
“May be I have, but I feel as if I’d left all my wits behind me in the lane, or mayhap in the priest’s pocket. Whatever would the man be at? We pay our dues to the Church, and we’re honest, peaceable folks: if it serve us better to read our Bible at home rather than go look at him hocus-pocussing in the church, can’t he let us be? Truly, if he’d give us something when we came, there’d be some reason for finding fault; nobody need beg me to go to church when there’s sermon: but what earthly good can it do any mortal man to stare at a yellow cross on Father Tye’s back? And what good do you ever get beyond it?”
Sermons have always been a Protestant institution, in this sense, that the more pure and Scriptural the Church has been, the more sermons there have generally been, while whenever the clergy have taken up with foolish ceremonies and have departed from the Bible, they have tried to do away with preaching. And of course, when very few people could read their Bibles, there was more need of preaching than there is now, when nearly everybody can read. Very, very few poor people could read a word in 1556. It was put down as something remarkable, in the case of Cissy’s father, that he could “read a little.” Saint Paul says that it pleased God by preaching to save them that believe (1 Corinthians one 21), but he never says “by hearing music,” or “by looking at flowers, or candles, or embroidered crosses.” Those things can only amuse our eyes and ears; they will never do our souls any good. How can they? The only thing that will do good to our souls is to get to know God better: and flowers, candles, music, and embroidery, cannot teach us anything about God.
“What laugh you at, Rose?” asked Elizabeth.
“Only Margaret’s notion that it could do no man good to stare at the cross on Father Tye’s back,” said Rose, trying to recover her gravity.
“Well, the only animal made with a cross on his back is an ass,” said Margaret; “and one would think a man should be better than an ass; but if his chief business be to make himself look like one, I don’t see that he is so much better.”
This amused Rose exceedingly. Elizabeth Foulkes, though the same age as Rose, was naturally of a graver turn of mind, and she only smiled.
“Well! if I haven’t forgot all I was charged with, I’d better give my message,” said Margaret; “but Father Tye’s well-nigh shook all my wits out of my head. Robin Purcas came by this morrow, and he lifted the latch, and gave me a word from Master Benold, that I was to carry on—for he’s got a job of work at Saint Osyth, and won’t be back while Friday—saith he, on Friday even, Master Pulleyne and the Scots priest, that were chaplains to my Lady of Suffolk, shall be at the King’s Head, and all of our doctrine that will come to hear shall be welcome. Will you go?”
“Verily, that will I,” replied Alice heartily.
“You see, if Father Tye should stir up the embers and get all alight again, maybe we shalln’t have so many more sermons afterward; so we’d best get our good things while we can.”
“Ay, there may be a famine of hearing the words of the Lord,” said Alice gravely. “God avert the same, if His will is!”
“Johnson, he says he’s right sure Master Simnel means to start of his inquirations. Alice, think you you could stand firm?”
Alice Mount sighed and half shook her head. “I didn’t stand over firm last August, Margaret,” said she: “and only the Lord knows how I’ve since repented it. If He’ll keep me true—but I’m feared of myself.”
“Well, do you know I’m not a bit feared? It’s true, I wasn’t tried in August, when you were: but if I had been, be sure I’d never have signed that submission that you did. I wouldn’t, so!”
“Maybe not, neighbour,” answered Alice meekly. “I was weak.”
“Now, Mother,” said Rose, who could bear no longer, “you know you stood forth best of anybody there! It was Father that won her to sign, Margaret; she never would have done it if she’d been left to herself. I know she wouldn’t.”
“Then what didst thou sign for, Rose?” was the reply.
Rose went the colour of her name. Her mother came at once to her help, as Rose had just done to hers.
“Why, she signed because we did, like a dutiful maid as she is alway: and it was our faults, Margaret. May God forgive us!”
“Well, but after all, it wasn’t so very ill, was it?” asked Margaret, rather inconsistently with what she had said before: but people are not always consistent by any means. “Did you promise anything monstrous wrong? I thought it was only to live as became good Christians and faithful subjects.”
“Nay, Meg, it was more than that. We promised right solemnly to submit us to the Church in all matters, and specially in this, that we did believe the Sacrament to be Christ’s body, according to His words.”
“Why, so do we all believe,” said Margaret, “according to His words. Have you forgot the tale Father Tye did once tell us at the King’s Head, of my Lady Elizabeth the Queen’s sister, that when she was asked what she did believe touching the Sacrament, she made this answer?
“‘Christ was the Word that spake it,He took the bread, and brake it;And what that word did make it,That I believe, and take it.’”
“‘Christ was the Word that spake it,He took the bread, and brake it;And what that word did make it,That I believe, and take it.’”
“That was a bit crafty, methinks,” said Rose. “I love not such shifts. I would rather speak out my mind plainly.”
“Ay, but if you speak too plainly, you be like to find you in the wrong place,” answered Margaret.
“That would not be the wrong place wherein truth set me,” was Rose’s earnest answer. “That were never the wrong place wherein God should be my company. And if the fire were too warm for my weakness to bear, the holy angels should maybe fan me with their wings till I came to the covert of His Tabernacle.”
“Well, that’s all proper pretty,” said Margaret, “and like a book as ever the parson could talk: but I tell thee what, Rose Allen, thou’lt sing another tune if ever thou come to Smithfield. See if thou doesn’t.”
And Rose answered, “‘The word that God putteth in my mouth, that will I speak.’”
Chapter Nine.Come to the Preaching.“Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?”“Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!”“That’s true enough of me, but it’s right false of thee. Thou’s nought but peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare be bounden, if the Queen’s Grace and all her noble company were to sup in this kitchen at five o’ the clock, I should come in and find never a kettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn’t a sloth, and thine aunt a snail, I’m not hostess of the King’s Head at Colchester, thou’rt no more worth thy salt—nay, salt, forsooth! thou’rt not worth the water. Salt’s one and fourpence the raser, and that’s a deal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teem out that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the hens have laid: don’t be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!—Eh deary me! I might as well have said, Crawl. There she goes with the lead on her heels! If these maids ben’t enough to drive an honest woman crazy, my name’s not Philippa Wade.”And Mistress Wade began to put things tidy in the kitchen with a promptitude and celerity which Dorothy Denny certainly did not seem likely to imitate. She swept up the hearth, set a chair before the table, fresh sanded the floor and arranged the forms in rows, before Dorothy reappeared, carefully carrying something in her apron.“Why, thou doesn’t mean to say thou’st done already?” inquired her mistress sarcastically. “Thou’st been all across the yard while I’ve done no more than sand the floor and side things for the gathering. What’s that in thine apron? one of the Queen’s Majesty’s jewels?”“It’s anegg, Mistress.”“An egg! anegg?” demanded Mrs Wade, with a burst of hearty laughter; for she laughed, as she did everything else, with all her might. “Is that all thou’st got by thy journey? Marry, but I would have tarried another day, and fetched two! Poor Father Pulleyne! so he’s but to have oneeggto his supper? If them hens have laid no more, I’m a Dutchwoman! See thou, take this duster, and dust the table and forms, and I’ll go and search for eggs. If ever a mortal woman—”Mistress Wade was in the yard before she got further, and Dorothy was left to imagine the end of the sentence. Before that leisurely young woman had finished dusting the first form, the landlady reappeared with an apronful of eggs.“I marvel whither thou wentest for thyegg, Doll. Here be eighteen thou leftest for me to gather. It’s no good to bid thee be ’shamed, for thou dost not know how, I should in thy place, I’ll warrant thee. Verily, I do marvel whatever the world’s a-coming to!”Before Mrs Wade had done more than empty her apron carefully of the eggs, a soft rap came on the door; and she called out,—“Come within!”“Please, I can’t reach,” said a little voice.“Open the door, Doll,” said Mrs Wade; and in came three children—a girl of nine, a boy of six, and a baby in the arms of the former.“Well, what are you after? Come for skim milk! I’ve none this even.”“No, please. Please, we’re come to the preaching.”“You’recome to the preaching? Why, you’re only as big as mice, the lot of you. Whence come you?”“Please, we’ve come from Thorpe.”“You’ve come from Thorpe! you poor little bits of things! All that way!” cried Mrs Wade, whose heart was as large as her tongue was ready. “Why, I do believe you’re Cicely Johnson. You are so grown I didn’t know you at first—and yet you’re no bigger than a mouse, as I told you. Have you had any supper?”“No, Mistress. Please, we don’t have supper, only now and then. We shall do very well, indeed, if we may stay for the preaching.”“You’ll sit down there, and eat some bread and milk, before you’re an hour older. Poor little white-faced mortals as ever I did see! But you’ve never carried that child all the way from Thorpe?—Doll didst ever see such children?”“They’re proper peaked, Mistress,” said Dorothy. (See note 1.)“Oh no!” answered the truth-loving Cissy. “I only carried her from the Gate. Neighbour Ursula, she bare her all the way.”“Thou’rt an honest lass,” said Mrs Wade, patting Cissy on the head. “There, eat that.”And she put a large slice of bread into the hand of both Will and Cissy, setting a goodly bowl of milk on the table between them.“That’s good!” commented Will, attacking the milk-bowl immediately.Cissy held him back, and looked up into Mrs Wade’s kindly and capacious face.“But please we haven’t got any money,” she said anxiously.“Marry come up! to think I’d take money from such bits of things as you! I want no money, child. The good Lord, He pays such bills as yours. And what set you coming to the preaching? Did your father bid you?” (See Note 2.)“Father likes us to come,” said Cissy, when her thanks had been properly expressed; “but he didn’t bid us—not to-night. Mother, she said we must always come if we could. I’m feared Baby won’t understand much: but Will and me, we’ll try.”“I should think not!” replied Mrs Wade, laughing. “Why, if you and Will can understand aught that’ll be as much as need be looked for. How much know you about it?”“Please, we know about the Lord Jesus,” said Cissy, putting her hands together, as if she were going to say her prayers. “We know that He died on the cross for us, so that we should not be punished for our sins, and He sends the Holy Ghost to make us good, and the Bible, which is God’s Word, and we mustn’t let anybody take it away from us.”“Well, if you know that much in your little hearts, you’ll do,” said the landlady. “There’s many a poor heathen doesn’t know half as much as that. Ay, child, you shall ’bide for the preaching if you want, but you’re too soon yet. You’ve come afore the parson. Eat your bread and milk up, and ’bide where you are; that’s a snug little corner for you, where you’ll be warm and safe. Is Father coming too, and Neighbour Ursula?”“Yes, they’re both coming presently,” said Cissy.The next arrival was that of two gentlemen, the preacher and a friend. After this people began to drop in, at first by twos and threes, and as the time drew near, with more rapidity. The Mounts and Rose Allen came early; Elizabeth Foulkes was late, for she had hard work to get away at all. Last of anybody was Margaret Thurston and with her a tall, strong-looking man, who was John Thurston, her husband. John Johnson found out the corner where his children were, and made his way to them; but Rose Allen had been before him, and was seated next to Cissy, holding the little hand in hers. On the other side of little Will sat an old lady with grey hair, and a very sweet, kind face. She was Mrs Silverside, the widow of a priest. By her was Mrs Ewring the miller’s wife, who was a little deaf, and wanted to get near the preacher.When the room was full, Mr Pulleyne, who was to preach that evening, rose and came forward to the table, and gave out the Forty-Second Psalm.They had no hymn-books, as we have. There were just a few hymns, generally bound up at the end of the Prayer-Book, which had been written during the reign of good King Edward the Sixth; but hardly any English hymns existed at all then. They had one collection of metrical Psalms—that of Sternhold and Hopkins, of which we never sing any now except the Hundredth—that version known to every one, beginning—“All people that on earth do dwell.”The Psalms they sang then sound strange to us now but we must remember they did not sound at all strange to those who sang them. Here are two verses of the Forty-Second.“Like as the hart doth pant and bray,The well-springs to obtain,So doth my soul desire alwayWith Thee, Lord, to remain.My soul doth thirst, and would draw nearThe living God of might;Oh, when shall I come and appearIn presence of His sight!“The tears all times are my repast,Which from mine eyes do slide;Whilst wicked men cry out so fast,‘Where now is God thy Guide?’Alas! what grief is it to thinkThe freedom once I had!Therefore my soul, as at pit’s brink,Most heavy is and sad.”Note 1. Peaked: Very thin and pinched-looking.Note 2. Come up. An exclamation of surprise, then often used.
“Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?”
“Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!”
“That’s true enough of me, but it’s right false of thee. Thou’s nought but peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare be bounden, if the Queen’s Grace and all her noble company were to sup in this kitchen at five o’ the clock, I should come in and find never a kettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn’t a sloth, and thine aunt a snail, I’m not hostess of the King’s Head at Colchester, thou’rt no more worth thy salt—nay, salt, forsooth! thou’rt not worth the water. Salt’s one and fourpence the raser, and that’s a deal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teem out that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the hens have laid: don’t be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!—Eh deary me! I might as well have said, Crawl. There she goes with the lead on her heels! If these maids ben’t enough to drive an honest woman crazy, my name’s not Philippa Wade.”
And Mistress Wade began to put things tidy in the kitchen with a promptitude and celerity which Dorothy Denny certainly did not seem likely to imitate. She swept up the hearth, set a chair before the table, fresh sanded the floor and arranged the forms in rows, before Dorothy reappeared, carefully carrying something in her apron.
“Why, thou doesn’t mean to say thou’st done already?” inquired her mistress sarcastically. “Thou’st been all across the yard while I’ve done no more than sand the floor and side things for the gathering. What’s that in thine apron? one of the Queen’s Majesty’s jewels?”
“It’s anegg, Mistress.”
“An egg! anegg?” demanded Mrs Wade, with a burst of hearty laughter; for she laughed, as she did everything else, with all her might. “Is that all thou’st got by thy journey? Marry, but I would have tarried another day, and fetched two! Poor Father Pulleyne! so he’s but to have oneeggto his supper? If them hens have laid no more, I’m a Dutchwoman! See thou, take this duster, and dust the table and forms, and I’ll go and search for eggs. If ever a mortal woman—”
Mistress Wade was in the yard before she got further, and Dorothy was left to imagine the end of the sentence. Before that leisurely young woman had finished dusting the first form, the landlady reappeared with an apronful of eggs.
“I marvel whither thou wentest for thyegg, Doll. Here be eighteen thou leftest for me to gather. It’s no good to bid thee be ’shamed, for thou dost not know how, I should in thy place, I’ll warrant thee. Verily, I do marvel whatever the world’s a-coming to!”
Before Mrs Wade had done more than empty her apron carefully of the eggs, a soft rap came on the door; and she called out,—
“Come within!”
“Please, I can’t reach,” said a little voice.
“Open the door, Doll,” said Mrs Wade; and in came three children—a girl of nine, a boy of six, and a baby in the arms of the former.
“Well, what are you after? Come for skim milk! I’ve none this even.”
“No, please. Please, we’re come to the preaching.”
“You’recome to the preaching? Why, you’re only as big as mice, the lot of you. Whence come you?”
“Please, we’ve come from Thorpe.”
“You’ve come from Thorpe! you poor little bits of things! All that way!” cried Mrs Wade, whose heart was as large as her tongue was ready. “Why, I do believe you’re Cicely Johnson. You are so grown I didn’t know you at first—and yet you’re no bigger than a mouse, as I told you. Have you had any supper?”
“No, Mistress. Please, we don’t have supper, only now and then. We shall do very well, indeed, if we may stay for the preaching.”
“You’ll sit down there, and eat some bread and milk, before you’re an hour older. Poor little white-faced mortals as ever I did see! But you’ve never carried that child all the way from Thorpe?—Doll didst ever see such children?”
“They’re proper peaked, Mistress,” said Dorothy. (See note 1.)
“Oh no!” answered the truth-loving Cissy. “I only carried her from the Gate. Neighbour Ursula, she bare her all the way.”
“Thou’rt an honest lass,” said Mrs Wade, patting Cissy on the head. “There, eat that.”
And she put a large slice of bread into the hand of both Will and Cissy, setting a goodly bowl of milk on the table between them.
“That’s good!” commented Will, attacking the milk-bowl immediately.
Cissy held him back, and looked up into Mrs Wade’s kindly and capacious face.
“But please we haven’t got any money,” she said anxiously.
“Marry come up! to think I’d take money from such bits of things as you! I want no money, child. The good Lord, He pays such bills as yours. And what set you coming to the preaching? Did your father bid you?” (See Note 2.)
“Father likes us to come,” said Cissy, when her thanks had been properly expressed; “but he didn’t bid us—not to-night. Mother, she said we must always come if we could. I’m feared Baby won’t understand much: but Will and me, we’ll try.”
“I should think not!” replied Mrs Wade, laughing. “Why, if you and Will can understand aught that’ll be as much as need be looked for. How much know you about it?”
“Please, we know about the Lord Jesus,” said Cissy, putting her hands together, as if she were going to say her prayers. “We know that He died on the cross for us, so that we should not be punished for our sins, and He sends the Holy Ghost to make us good, and the Bible, which is God’s Word, and we mustn’t let anybody take it away from us.”
“Well, if you know that much in your little hearts, you’ll do,” said the landlady. “There’s many a poor heathen doesn’t know half as much as that. Ay, child, you shall ’bide for the preaching if you want, but you’re too soon yet. You’ve come afore the parson. Eat your bread and milk up, and ’bide where you are; that’s a snug little corner for you, where you’ll be warm and safe. Is Father coming too, and Neighbour Ursula?”
“Yes, they’re both coming presently,” said Cissy.
The next arrival was that of two gentlemen, the preacher and a friend. After this people began to drop in, at first by twos and threes, and as the time drew near, with more rapidity. The Mounts and Rose Allen came early; Elizabeth Foulkes was late, for she had hard work to get away at all. Last of anybody was Margaret Thurston and with her a tall, strong-looking man, who was John Thurston, her husband. John Johnson found out the corner where his children were, and made his way to them; but Rose Allen had been before him, and was seated next to Cissy, holding the little hand in hers. On the other side of little Will sat an old lady with grey hair, and a very sweet, kind face. She was Mrs Silverside, the widow of a priest. By her was Mrs Ewring the miller’s wife, who was a little deaf, and wanted to get near the preacher.
When the room was full, Mr Pulleyne, who was to preach that evening, rose and came forward to the table, and gave out the Forty-Second Psalm.
They had no hymn-books, as we have. There were just a few hymns, generally bound up at the end of the Prayer-Book, which had been written during the reign of good King Edward the Sixth; but hardly any English hymns existed at all then. They had one collection of metrical Psalms—that of Sternhold and Hopkins, of which we never sing any now except the Hundredth—that version known to every one, beginning—
“All people that on earth do dwell.”
The Psalms they sang then sound strange to us now but we must remember they did not sound at all strange to those who sang them. Here are two verses of the Forty-Second.
“Like as the hart doth pant and bray,The well-springs to obtain,So doth my soul desire alwayWith Thee, Lord, to remain.My soul doth thirst, and would draw nearThe living God of might;Oh, when shall I come and appearIn presence of His sight!“The tears all times are my repast,Which from mine eyes do slide;Whilst wicked men cry out so fast,‘Where now is God thy Guide?’Alas! what grief is it to thinkThe freedom once I had!Therefore my soul, as at pit’s brink,Most heavy is and sad.”
“Like as the hart doth pant and bray,The well-springs to obtain,So doth my soul desire alwayWith Thee, Lord, to remain.My soul doth thirst, and would draw nearThe living God of might;Oh, when shall I come and appearIn presence of His sight!“The tears all times are my repast,Which from mine eyes do slide;Whilst wicked men cry out so fast,‘Where now is God thy Guide?’Alas! what grief is it to thinkThe freedom once I had!Therefore my soul, as at pit’s brink,Most heavy is and sad.”
Note 1. Peaked: Very thin and pinched-looking.
Note 2. Come up. An exclamation of surprise, then often used.
Chapter Ten.Brought out, to be brought in.Loud and full rang the volume of voices in the kitchen of the King’s Head at Colchester, that winter evening. They did not stand up in silence and let a choir do it for them, while they listened to it as they might to a German band, and with as little personal concern. When men’s hearts are warm with patriotism, or overflowing with loyalty, they don’t want somebody else to singRule, Britannia, orGod Save the Queen; the very enjoyment lies in doing it themselves. Nobody would dream of paying another person to go to a party or to see a royal procession for him. Well, then, when we prefer to keep silent, and hear somebody sing God’s praises instead of doing it ourselves, what can it mean except that our Hearts are not warm with love and overflowing with thankfulness, as they ought to be? And cold hearts are not the stuff that makes martyrs.There was plenty of martyr material in the King’s Head kitchen that night—from old Agnes Silverside to little Cissy Johnson; from the learned priest, Mr Pulleyne, to many poor men and women who did not know their letters. They were not afraid of what people would say, nor even of what people might do. And yet they knew well that it was possible, and even likely, that very terrible things might be done to them. Their feeling was,—Well, let them be done, if that be the best way I can glorify God. Let them be done, if it be the way in which I can show that I love Jesus Christ. Let them be done, if by suffering with Him I can win a place nearer to Him, and send a thrill of happiness to the Divine and human heart of the Saviour who paid His heart’s blood to ransom me.So the hymn was not at all too long for them, though it had fifteen verses; and the sermon was not too long, though it lasted an hour and a half. When people have to risk their lives to hear a sermon is not the time when they cry out to have sermons cut shorter. They very well knew that before another meeting took place at the King’s Head, some, and perhaps all of them, might be summoned to give up liberty and life for the love of the Lord Jesus.Mr Pulleyne took for his text a few words in the 23rd verse of the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy. “He brought us out from thence, that He might bring us in.” He said to the people:—“‘He brought us out’—who brought us? God, our Maker; God, that loved the world. ‘He brought us out’—who be we? Poor, vile, wicked sinners, worms of the earth, things that He could have crushed easier than I can crush a moth. From whence? From Egypt, the house of bondage; from sin, self, Satan—the only three evil things there be: whereby I mean, necessarily inwardly, utterly evil. Thence He brought us out. Friends, we must come out of Egypt; out from bondage; out of these three ill things, sin, and self, and Satan: God will have us out. He will not suffer us to tarry in that land. And if we slack (Hesitate, feel reluctant) to come out, He will drive us sharp thence. Let us come out quick, and willingly. There is nothing we need sorrow to leave behind; only the task-master, Satan; and the great monster, sin; and the slime of the river wherein he lieth hid, self. He will have at us with his ugly jaws, and bite our souls in twain, if we have not a care. Let us run fast from this land where we leave behind such evil things.“But see, there is more than this. God had an intent in thus driving us forth. He did not bring us out, and leave us there. Nay, ‘He brought us out that He might bring us in.’ In where? Into the Holy Land, that floweth with milk and honey; the fair land where nothing shall enter that defileth; the safe land where in all the holy mountain nothing shall hurt nor destroy; His own land, where He hath His Throne and His Temple, and is King and Father of them that dwell therein. Look you, is not this a good land? Are you not ready to go and dwell therein? Do not the clusters of its grapes—the hearing of its glories—make your mouths water? See what you shall exchange: for a cruel task-master, a loving Father; for a dread monster, an holy City; for the base and ugly slime of the river, the fair paving of the golden streets, and the soft waving of the leaves of the tree of life, and the sweet melody of angel harps. Truly, I think this good barter. If a man were to exchange a dead rat for a new-struck royal, (see Note 1) men would say he had well traded, he had bettered himself, he was a successful merchant. Lo, here is worse than a dead rat, and better than all the royals in the King’s mint. Will ye not come and trade?“Now, friends, ye must not misconceive me, as though I did mean that men could buy Heaven by their own works. Nay, Heaven and salvation be free gifts—the glorious gifts of a glorious God, and worthy of the Giver. But when such gifts are set before you but for the asking, is it too much that ye should rise out of the mire and come?“‘He brought them out, that He might bring them in.’ He left them not in the desert, to find their own way to the Holy Land. Marry, should they ever have come there? I trow not. Nay, no more than a babe of a month old, if ye set him down at Bothal’s Gate, could find his way to the Moot Hall. But He dealt not with them thus. He left them not to find their own way. He brought them, He led them, He showed them where to plant their feet, first one step, then another, as mothers do to a child when he learneth first to walk. ‘As a nurse cherisheth her children,’ the Apostle saith he dealt with his converts: and the Lord useth yet tenderer image, for ‘as a mother comforteth her babe,’ saith He, ‘will I comfort you.’ Yea, He bids the Prophet Esaias to learn them, ‘line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little’—look you, how careful is God of His nurse-children. ‘Feed My Lambs,’ saith He: and lambs may not nibble so hard as sheep. They take not so full a mouthful; they love the short grass, that is sweet and easily cropped. We be all lambs afore we be sheep. Sheep lack much shepherding, but lambs yet more. Both be silly things, apt to stray away, and the wolf catcheth them with little trouble. Now, if a dog be lost, he shall soon find his way back; but a lamb and a babe, if they be lost, they are utterly lost; they can never find the way. Look you, the Lord likeneth His people to lambs and babes, these silly things that be continually lost, and have no wit to find the way. So, brethren,Hefinds the way. He goeth after that which is lost, until He find it. First He finds the poor silly lamb, and then He leadeth it in the way wherein it shall go. He ‘brings us in’ to the fair green pastures and by the still waters—brings us in to the safe haven where the little boats lie at rest—brings us in to the King’s banquet-hall where the feast is spread, and the King Himself holdeth forth hands of welcome.—He stretched not forth the cold sceptre; He giveth His own hand—that hand that was pierced for our sins. What say I? Nay, ‘He shall gird Himself, and shall come forth and serve them’—so great honour shall they attain which serve God, as to have Him serve them.“Now, brethren, is this not a fair lot that God appointeth for His people? A King to their guide, and a throne to their bed, and angels to their serving-men—verily these be folks of much distinction that be so served! But, look you, there is one little point we may not miss—‘If we suffer, we shall reign.’ There is the desert to be passed. There is the Jordan to be forded. There is the cross to bear for the Master that bare the cross for us. Yea, we shall best bear our cross by looking well and oft on His cross. Ah! brethren, He standeth close beside; He hath borne it all; He knoweth where the nails run, and in what manner they hurt. Yet a little patience, poor suffering soul! yet a little courage; yet a little stumbling over the rough stones of the wilderness: and then the Golden City, and the royal banquet-hall, and the King that brought us out despite all the Egyptians, that brought us in despite all the dangers of the desert,—the King, our Shield, and Guide, and Father, shall come forth and serve us.”Old Agnes Silverside, the priest’s widow, sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the preacher. As he ended, she laid her hand upon Rose Allen’s.“My maid,” she said, “never mind the wilderness. The stones be sharp, and the sun scorching, and the thirst sore: but one sight of the King in the Golden City shall make up for all!”Note 1. Ten shillings; this was then the largest coin made.
Loud and full rang the volume of voices in the kitchen of the King’s Head at Colchester, that winter evening. They did not stand up in silence and let a choir do it for them, while they listened to it as they might to a German band, and with as little personal concern. When men’s hearts are warm with patriotism, or overflowing with loyalty, they don’t want somebody else to singRule, Britannia, orGod Save the Queen; the very enjoyment lies in doing it themselves. Nobody would dream of paying another person to go to a party or to see a royal procession for him. Well, then, when we prefer to keep silent, and hear somebody sing God’s praises instead of doing it ourselves, what can it mean except that our Hearts are not warm with love and overflowing with thankfulness, as they ought to be? And cold hearts are not the stuff that makes martyrs.
There was plenty of martyr material in the King’s Head kitchen that night—from old Agnes Silverside to little Cissy Johnson; from the learned priest, Mr Pulleyne, to many poor men and women who did not know their letters. They were not afraid of what people would say, nor even of what people might do. And yet they knew well that it was possible, and even likely, that very terrible things might be done to them. Their feeling was,—Well, let them be done, if that be the best way I can glorify God. Let them be done, if it be the way in which I can show that I love Jesus Christ. Let them be done, if by suffering with Him I can win a place nearer to Him, and send a thrill of happiness to the Divine and human heart of the Saviour who paid His heart’s blood to ransom me.
So the hymn was not at all too long for them, though it had fifteen verses; and the sermon was not too long, though it lasted an hour and a half. When people have to risk their lives to hear a sermon is not the time when they cry out to have sermons cut shorter. They very well knew that before another meeting took place at the King’s Head, some, and perhaps all of them, might be summoned to give up liberty and life for the love of the Lord Jesus.
Mr Pulleyne took for his text a few words in the 23rd verse of the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy. “He brought us out from thence, that He might bring us in.” He said to the people:—
“‘He brought us out’—who brought us? God, our Maker; God, that loved the world. ‘He brought us out’—who be we? Poor, vile, wicked sinners, worms of the earth, things that He could have crushed easier than I can crush a moth. From whence? From Egypt, the house of bondage; from sin, self, Satan—the only three evil things there be: whereby I mean, necessarily inwardly, utterly evil. Thence He brought us out. Friends, we must come out of Egypt; out from bondage; out of these three ill things, sin, and self, and Satan: God will have us out. He will not suffer us to tarry in that land. And if we slack (Hesitate, feel reluctant) to come out, He will drive us sharp thence. Let us come out quick, and willingly. There is nothing we need sorrow to leave behind; only the task-master, Satan; and the great monster, sin; and the slime of the river wherein he lieth hid, self. He will have at us with his ugly jaws, and bite our souls in twain, if we have not a care. Let us run fast from this land where we leave behind such evil things.
“But see, there is more than this. God had an intent in thus driving us forth. He did not bring us out, and leave us there. Nay, ‘He brought us out that He might bring us in.’ In where? Into the Holy Land, that floweth with milk and honey; the fair land where nothing shall enter that defileth; the safe land where in all the holy mountain nothing shall hurt nor destroy; His own land, where He hath His Throne and His Temple, and is King and Father of them that dwell therein. Look you, is not this a good land? Are you not ready to go and dwell therein? Do not the clusters of its grapes—the hearing of its glories—make your mouths water? See what you shall exchange: for a cruel task-master, a loving Father; for a dread monster, an holy City; for the base and ugly slime of the river, the fair paving of the golden streets, and the soft waving of the leaves of the tree of life, and the sweet melody of angel harps. Truly, I think this good barter. If a man were to exchange a dead rat for a new-struck royal, (see Note 1) men would say he had well traded, he had bettered himself, he was a successful merchant. Lo, here is worse than a dead rat, and better than all the royals in the King’s mint. Will ye not come and trade?
“Now, friends, ye must not misconceive me, as though I did mean that men could buy Heaven by their own works. Nay, Heaven and salvation be free gifts—the glorious gifts of a glorious God, and worthy of the Giver. But when such gifts are set before you but for the asking, is it too much that ye should rise out of the mire and come?
“‘He brought them out, that He might bring them in.’ He left them not in the desert, to find their own way to the Holy Land. Marry, should they ever have come there? I trow not. Nay, no more than a babe of a month old, if ye set him down at Bothal’s Gate, could find his way to the Moot Hall. But He dealt not with them thus. He left them not to find their own way. He brought them, He led them, He showed them where to plant their feet, first one step, then another, as mothers do to a child when he learneth first to walk. ‘As a nurse cherisheth her children,’ the Apostle saith he dealt with his converts: and the Lord useth yet tenderer image, for ‘as a mother comforteth her babe,’ saith He, ‘will I comfort you.’ Yea, He bids the Prophet Esaias to learn them, ‘line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little’—look you, how careful is God of His nurse-children. ‘Feed My Lambs,’ saith He: and lambs may not nibble so hard as sheep. They take not so full a mouthful; they love the short grass, that is sweet and easily cropped. We be all lambs afore we be sheep. Sheep lack much shepherding, but lambs yet more. Both be silly things, apt to stray away, and the wolf catcheth them with little trouble. Now, if a dog be lost, he shall soon find his way back; but a lamb and a babe, if they be lost, they are utterly lost; they can never find the way. Look you, the Lord likeneth His people to lambs and babes, these silly things that be continually lost, and have no wit to find the way. So, brethren,Hefinds the way. He goeth after that which is lost, until He find it. First He finds the poor silly lamb, and then He leadeth it in the way wherein it shall go. He ‘brings us in’ to the fair green pastures and by the still waters—brings us in to the safe haven where the little boats lie at rest—brings us in to the King’s banquet-hall where the feast is spread, and the King Himself holdeth forth hands of welcome.—He stretched not forth the cold sceptre; He giveth His own hand—that hand that was pierced for our sins. What say I? Nay, ‘He shall gird Himself, and shall come forth and serve them’—so great honour shall they attain which serve God, as to have Him serve them.
“Now, brethren, is this not a fair lot that God appointeth for His people? A King to their guide, and a throne to their bed, and angels to their serving-men—verily these be folks of much distinction that be so served! But, look you, there is one little point we may not miss—‘If we suffer, we shall reign.’ There is the desert to be passed. There is the Jordan to be forded. There is the cross to bear for the Master that bare the cross for us. Yea, we shall best bear our cross by looking well and oft on His cross. Ah! brethren, He standeth close beside; He hath borne it all; He knoweth where the nails run, and in what manner they hurt. Yet a little patience, poor suffering soul! yet a little courage; yet a little stumbling over the rough stones of the wilderness: and then the Golden City, and the royal banquet-hall, and the King that brought us out despite all the Egyptians, that brought us in despite all the dangers of the desert,—the King, our Shield, and Guide, and Father, shall come forth and serve us.”
Old Agnes Silverside, the priest’s widow, sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the preacher. As he ended, she laid her hand upon Rose Allen’s.
“My maid,” she said, “never mind the wilderness. The stones be sharp, and the sun scorching, and the thirst sore: but one sight of the King in the Golden City shall make up for all!”
Note 1. Ten shillings; this was then the largest coin made.
Chapter Eleven.Unexpected Lodgings.“Now then, who goes home?” cried the cheerful voice of Mrs Wade, when the sermon was over. “You, Mistress Benold?—you, Alice Mount?—you, Meg Thurston? You’d best hap your mantle well about your head. Mistress Silverside, this sharp even: yon hood of yours is not so thick, and you are not so young as you were once. Now, Adrian Purcas, thee be off with Johnson and Mount; thou’rt not for my money. Agnes Love, woman, I wonder at you! coming out of a November night with no thicker a mantle than that old purple thing, that I’m fair tired of seeing on you. What’s that? ‘Can’t afford a new one?’ Go to Southampton! There’s one in my coffer that I never use now. Here, Doll! wherever is that lazy bones? Gather up thy heels, wilt thou, and run to my great oak coffer, and bring yon brown hood I set aside. Now don’t go and fetch the red one! that’s my best Sunday gear, and thou’rt as like to bring red when I tell thee brown as thou art to eat thy supper.—Well, Alice?”“I cry you mercy, Hostess, for troubling of you; but Master and me, we’re bidden to lie at the mill. Mistress Ewring’s been that good; but there’s no room for Rose, and—”“Then Rose can turn in with Dorothy, and I’m fain on’t if she’ll give her a bit of her earnestness for pay. There’s not as much lead to her heels in a twelvemonth as would last Doll a week.—So this is what thou calls a brown hood, is it? I call it a blue apron. Gramercy, the stupidness o’ some folks!”“Please you, Mistress, there was nought but that in the coffer.”“What coffer?”“The walnut, in the porch-chamber.”“Well, if ever I did! I never spake a word of the walnut coffer, nor the porch-chamber neither, I told thee the great oak coffer, and that’s in my chamber, as thou knows, as well as thou knows thy name’s Dorothy. Put that apron back where thou found it, and bring me the brown hood from the oak coffer. Dear heart, but she’ll go and cast her eyes about for an oak hood in a brown coffer, as like as not! She’s that heedless. It’s not for lack of wit; she could if she would.—Why, what’s to be done with yon little scraps! You can never get home to Thorpe such a night as this. Johnson! you leave these bits o’ children with me, and I’ll send them back to you to-morrow when the cart goes your way for a load of malt. There’s room enough for you; you’d all pack in a thimble, well-nigh.—Nay, now! hast thou really found it? Now then, Agnes Love, cast that over you, and hap it close to keep you warm. Pay! bless the woman, I want no pay! only some day I’d like to hear ‘Inasmuch’ said to me. Good even!”“You’ll hear that, Mistress Wade!” said Agnes Love, a pale quiet-looking woman, with a warm grasp of Mistress Wade’s hand. “You’ll hear that, and something else, belike—as we’ve heard to-night, the King will come forth and serve you. Eh, but it warms one’s heart to hear tell of it!”“Ay, it doth, dear heart, it doth! Good-night, and God bless thee! Now, Master Pulleyne, I’ll show you your chamber, an’ it like you. Rose Allen, you know the way to Dorothy’s loft? Well, go you up, and take the little ones with you. It’s time for babes like them to be abed. Doll will show you how to make up a bed for them. Art waiting for some one, Bessy?”“No, Mistress Wade,” said Elizabeth Foulkes, who had stood quietly in a corner as though she were; “but if you’d kindly allow it, I’d fain go up too and have a chat with Rose. My mistress gave me leave for another hour yet.”“Hie thee up, good maid, and so do,” replied Mrs Wade cheerily, taking up a candlestick to light Mr Pulleyne to the room prepared for him, where, as she knew from past experience, he was very likely to sit at study till far into the night.Dorothy lighted another candle, and offered it to Rose.“See, you’ll lack a light,” said she.“Nay, not to find our tongues,” answered Rose, smiling.“Ah, but to put yon children abed. Look you in the closet, Rose, as you go into the loft, and you’ll see a mattress and a roll of blankets, with a canvas coverlet that shall serve them. You’ll turn in with me.”“All right, Doll; I thank you.”“You look weary, Doll,” said Elizabeth.“Weary? Eh, but if you dwelt with our mistress, you’d look weary, be sure. She’s as good a woman as ever trod shoe-leather, only she’s so monstrous sharp. She thinks you can be there and back before you’ve fair got it inside your head that you’re to go. I marvel many a time whether the angels ’ll fly fast enough to serve her when she gets to Heaven. Marry come up but they’ll have to step out if they do.”Rose laughed, and led the way upstairs, where she had been several times before.Inns at that time were built like Continental country inns are now, round a square space, with a garden inside, and a high archway for the entrance, so high that a load of hay could pass underneath. There were no inside stairs, but a flight led up to the second storey from the courtyard, and a balcony running all round the house gave access to the bedrooms. Rose, however, went into none of the rooms, but made her way to one corner, where a second steep flight of stairs ran straight up between the walls. These the girls mounted, and at the top entered a low door, which led into a large, low room, lighted by a skylight, and occupied by little furniture. At the further end was a good-sized bed covered with a patchwork quilt, but without any hangings—the absence of these indicating either great poverty or extremely low rank. There was neither drawers, dressing-table, nor washstand. A large chest beside the bed held all Dorothy’s possessions, and a leaf-table which would let down was fixed to the wall under a mirror. A form in one corner, and two stools, made up the rest of the furniture. In a corner close to the entrance stood another door, which Rose opened after she had set up the leaf-table and put the candle upon it. Then, with Elizabeth’s help, she dragged out a large, thick straw mattress, and the blankets and coverlet of which Dorothy had spoken, and made up the bed in one of the unoccupied corners. A further search revealed a bolster, but no pillows were forthcoming. That did not matter, for they expected none.“Now then, children, we’ll get you into bed,” said Rose.“Will must say his prayers first,” said Cissy anxiously.“Of course. Now, Will, come and say thy prayers, like a good lad.”Will knelt down beside the bed, and did as he was told in a shrill, sing-song voice. Odd prayers they were; but in those days nobody knew any better, and most children were taught to say still queerer things. First came the Lord’s Prayer: so far all was right. Then Will repeated the Ten Commandments and the Creed, which are not prayers at all, and finished with this formula:—“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed that I lie on:Four corners to my bed,Four angels at their head;One to read, and one to write,And one to guard my bed at night.“And now I lay me down to sleep,I pray that Christ my soul may keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul may take;Wake I at morn, or wake I never,I give my soul to Christ for ever.”After this strange jumble of good things and nonsense, Will jumped into bed, where the baby was already laid. It was Cissy’s turn next. Ever since it had been so summarily arranged by Mrs Wade that the children were to stay the night at the King’s Head, Cissy had been looking preternaturally solemn. Now, when she was desired to say her prayers, as a prelude to going to bed, Cissy’s lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.“Why, little maid, what ails thee?” asked Rose.“It’s Father,” said Cissy, in an unsteady voice. “I don’t know however Father will manage without me. He’ll have to dress his own supper. I only hope he’ll leave the dish for me to wash when I get home. No body never put Father and me asunder afore!”“Little maid,” answered Elizabeth, “Mistress Wade meant to save thee the long walk home.”“Oh, I know she meant it kind,” replied Cissy, “and I’m right thankful: but, please, I’d rather be tired than Father be without me. We’ve never been asunder afore—never!”
“Now then, who goes home?” cried the cheerful voice of Mrs Wade, when the sermon was over. “You, Mistress Benold?—you, Alice Mount?—you, Meg Thurston? You’d best hap your mantle well about your head. Mistress Silverside, this sharp even: yon hood of yours is not so thick, and you are not so young as you were once. Now, Adrian Purcas, thee be off with Johnson and Mount; thou’rt not for my money. Agnes Love, woman, I wonder at you! coming out of a November night with no thicker a mantle than that old purple thing, that I’m fair tired of seeing on you. What’s that? ‘Can’t afford a new one?’ Go to Southampton! There’s one in my coffer that I never use now. Here, Doll! wherever is that lazy bones? Gather up thy heels, wilt thou, and run to my great oak coffer, and bring yon brown hood I set aside. Now don’t go and fetch the red one! that’s my best Sunday gear, and thou’rt as like to bring red when I tell thee brown as thou art to eat thy supper.—Well, Alice?”
“I cry you mercy, Hostess, for troubling of you; but Master and me, we’re bidden to lie at the mill. Mistress Ewring’s been that good; but there’s no room for Rose, and—”
“Then Rose can turn in with Dorothy, and I’m fain on’t if she’ll give her a bit of her earnestness for pay. There’s not as much lead to her heels in a twelvemonth as would last Doll a week.—So this is what thou calls a brown hood, is it? I call it a blue apron. Gramercy, the stupidness o’ some folks!”
“Please you, Mistress, there was nought but that in the coffer.”
“What coffer?”
“The walnut, in the porch-chamber.”
“Well, if ever I did! I never spake a word of the walnut coffer, nor the porch-chamber neither, I told thee the great oak coffer, and that’s in my chamber, as thou knows, as well as thou knows thy name’s Dorothy. Put that apron back where thou found it, and bring me the brown hood from the oak coffer. Dear heart, but she’ll go and cast her eyes about for an oak hood in a brown coffer, as like as not! She’s that heedless. It’s not for lack of wit; she could if she would.—Why, what’s to be done with yon little scraps! You can never get home to Thorpe such a night as this. Johnson! you leave these bits o’ children with me, and I’ll send them back to you to-morrow when the cart goes your way for a load of malt. There’s room enough for you; you’d all pack in a thimble, well-nigh.—Nay, now! hast thou really found it? Now then, Agnes Love, cast that over you, and hap it close to keep you warm. Pay! bless the woman, I want no pay! only some day I’d like to hear ‘Inasmuch’ said to me. Good even!”
“You’ll hear that, Mistress Wade!” said Agnes Love, a pale quiet-looking woman, with a warm grasp of Mistress Wade’s hand. “You’ll hear that, and something else, belike—as we’ve heard to-night, the King will come forth and serve you. Eh, but it warms one’s heart to hear tell of it!”
“Ay, it doth, dear heart, it doth! Good-night, and God bless thee! Now, Master Pulleyne, I’ll show you your chamber, an’ it like you. Rose Allen, you know the way to Dorothy’s loft? Well, go you up, and take the little ones with you. It’s time for babes like them to be abed. Doll will show you how to make up a bed for them. Art waiting for some one, Bessy?”
“No, Mistress Wade,” said Elizabeth Foulkes, who had stood quietly in a corner as though she were; “but if you’d kindly allow it, I’d fain go up too and have a chat with Rose. My mistress gave me leave for another hour yet.”
“Hie thee up, good maid, and so do,” replied Mrs Wade cheerily, taking up a candlestick to light Mr Pulleyne to the room prepared for him, where, as she knew from past experience, he was very likely to sit at study till far into the night.
Dorothy lighted another candle, and offered it to Rose.
“See, you’ll lack a light,” said she.
“Nay, not to find our tongues,” answered Rose, smiling.
“Ah, but to put yon children abed. Look you in the closet, Rose, as you go into the loft, and you’ll see a mattress and a roll of blankets, with a canvas coverlet that shall serve them. You’ll turn in with me.”
“All right, Doll; I thank you.”
“You look weary, Doll,” said Elizabeth.
“Weary? Eh, but if you dwelt with our mistress, you’d look weary, be sure. She’s as good a woman as ever trod shoe-leather, only she’s so monstrous sharp. She thinks you can be there and back before you’ve fair got it inside your head that you’re to go. I marvel many a time whether the angels ’ll fly fast enough to serve her when she gets to Heaven. Marry come up but they’ll have to step out if they do.”
Rose laughed, and led the way upstairs, where she had been several times before.
Inns at that time were built like Continental country inns are now, round a square space, with a garden inside, and a high archway for the entrance, so high that a load of hay could pass underneath. There were no inside stairs, but a flight led up to the second storey from the courtyard, and a balcony running all round the house gave access to the bedrooms. Rose, however, went into none of the rooms, but made her way to one corner, where a second steep flight of stairs ran straight up between the walls. These the girls mounted, and at the top entered a low door, which led into a large, low room, lighted by a skylight, and occupied by little furniture. At the further end was a good-sized bed covered with a patchwork quilt, but without any hangings—the absence of these indicating either great poverty or extremely low rank. There was neither drawers, dressing-table, nor washstand. A large chest beside the bed held all Dorothy’s possessions, and a leaf-table which would let down was fixed to the wall under a mirror. A form in one corner, and two stools, made up the rest of the furniture. In a corner close to the entrance stood another door, which Rose opened after she had set up the leaf-table and put the candle upon it. Then, with Elizabeth’s help, she dragged out a large, thick straw mattress, and the blankets and coverlet of which Dorothy had spoken, and made up the bed in one of the unoccupied corners. A further search revealed a bolster, but no pillows were forthcoming. That did not matter, for they expected none.
“Now then, children, we’ll get you into bed,” said Rose.
“Will must say his prayers first,” said Cissy anxiously.
“Of course. Now, Will, come and say thy prayers, like a good lad.”
Will knelt down beside the bed, and did as he was told in a shrill, sing-song voice. Odd prayers they were; but in those days nobody knew any better, and most children were taught to say still queerer things. First came the Lord’s Prayer: so far all was right. Then Will repeated the Ten Commandments and the Creed, which are not prayers at all, and finished with this formula:—
“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed that I lie on:Four corners to my bed,Four angels at their head;One to read, and one to write,And one to guard my bed at night.“And now I lay me down to sleep,I pray that Christ my soul may keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul may take;Wake I at morn, or wake I never,I give my soul to Christ for ever.”
“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed that I lie on:Four corners to my bed,Four angels at their head;One to read, and one to write,And one to guard my bed at night.“And now I lay me down to sleep,I pray that Christ my soul may keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray that Christ my soul may take;Wake I at morn, or wake I never,I give my soul to Christ for ever.”
After this strange jumble of good things and nonsense, Will jumped into bed, where the baby was already laid. It was Cissy’s turn next. Ever since it had been so summarily arranged by Mrs Wade that the children were to stay the night at the King’s Head, Cissy had been looking preternaturally solemn. Now, when she was desired to say her prayers, as a prelude to going to bed, Cissy’s lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Why, little maid, what ails thee?” asked Rose.
“It’s Father,” said Cissy, in an unsteady voice. “I don’t know however Father will manage without me. He’ll have to dress his own supper. I only hope he’ll leave the dish for me to wash when I get home. No body never put Father and me asunder afore!”
“Little maid,” answered Elizabeth, “Mistress Wade meant to save thee the long walk home.”
“Oh, I know she meant it kind,” replied Cissy, “and I’m right thankful: but, please, I’d rather be tired than Father be without me. We’ve never been asunder afore—never!”
Chapter Twelve.Trying on the Armour.“Oh, thy father ’ll do right well!” said Rose encouragingly. “I dare be bound he thought it should be a pleasant change for thee.”“Ay, I dare say Father thought of us and what we should like,” said Cissy. “He nodded to Mistress Wade, and smiled on me, as he went forth; so of course I had to ’bide. But then, you see, I’m always thinking of Father.”“I see,” said Rose, laughing; “it’s not, How shall I do without Father? but, How can Father do without me?”“That’s it,” replied Cissy, nodding her capable little head. “He’ll do without Will and Baby—not but he’ll miss them, you know; but they don’t do nothing for him likeme.”This was said in Cissy’s most demure manner, and Rose was exceedingly amused.“And, prithee, what dost thou for him?” said she.“I do everything,” said Cissy, with an astonished look. “I light the fire, and dress the meat, (Note 1) and sweep the floor. Only I can’t do all the washing yet; Neighbour Ursula has to help me with that. But about Father—please, when I’ve said the Paternoster (the Lord’s Prayer), and the Belief, and the Commandments, might I ask, think you, for somebody to go in and do things for Father? I know he’ll miss me very ill.”“Thou dear little-soul!” cried Rose.But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to be the graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in that quiet, sweet way which she usually did.“Little Cissy,” she said, “is not God thy Father, and his likewise? And thinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, or no?”“Father likes us to be happy,” said Cissy simply.“And ‘your Father knoweth,’” softly replied Elizabeth, “‘that ye have need of all these things.’”“Oh, then, He’ll send in Ursula, or somebody,” responded Cissy, in a contented tone. “It’ll be all right if I ask Him to see to it.”And Cissy “asked Him to see to it,” and then lay down peacefully, her tranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the children were asleep in a few minutes.“Now, Bessy, we can have our talk.”So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of the wind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasant for November, and the girls sat down together for a chat.“How go matters with you at Master Clere’s, Bessy?”“Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would Mistress Amy were a bit steadier than she is.”“She’s a gadabout, isn’t she?”“Nay, I’ve said all I need, and maybe more than I should.”“Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?”“Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net’s drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even you and I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at the end of one way.”“Ay, I’m afeard so,” said Rose gravely. “Bessy, think you that you can stand firm?”“Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if He hold me not.”“Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy.”“Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need it rather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, what matter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The waters beat upon the rock, not on thee.”“But one sees them coming, Bess.”“Well, what if thou dost? They’ll not touch thee.”“Eh, Bess, the fire ’ll touch us, be sure!”“It’ll touch our flesh—the outward case of us—that which can drop off and turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and Elizabeth Foulkes.”“Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage.”“Why, Rose, art feared of death?”“Not of what comes after, thank God! But I’m feared of pain, Bessy, and of dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it.”“Best not look forward. Maybe ’tis more shocking to think of than to feel. That’s the way with many things.”“O Bessy! I can’t look on it calm, like that. It isn’t nature.”“Nay, dear heart, ’tis grace, not nature.”“And thou seest, in one way, ’tis worser for me than for thee. Thou art thyself alone; but there’s Father and Mother with me. How could I bear to see them suffer?”“The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not give thee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I’ve no father—he’s in Heaven, long years ago. But I’ve a good mother at Stoke Nayland, and I’d sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We do but know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay the charges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times in God’s Word is it said, ‘Fear not?’ Would the Lord have so oft repeated it, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?”“Ah!” said Rose, sighing, “and the ‘fearful’ be among such as are left without the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I draw back! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible to bear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the fire were felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I’m feared.”“It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thine hold on God. ‘HoldThoume up, and I shall be safe.’ But that should not be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it.”“I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a few years, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, and we are young. ‘All that a man hath will he give for his life.’”“Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Him for whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss? Couldst thou bear to loseHim?—Him, who endured the bitter rood (Cross) rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart.”“I do trust not, verily; yet—”“What, not abed yet?” cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. “I came up but to see if you had all you lacked. Doll’s on her way up. I reckon she shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That’s well. But, deary me, what long faces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or what discourse have you, that you both look like judges?”“Something like it, Hostess,” said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. “Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if we should hold fast.”The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls to the other.“Why, what’s a-coming?” said she.“Nay, we know not what, but—”“Dear heart, then I’d wait till I did! I’ll tell you what it is—I hate to have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast it aside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my good maids, don’t waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them till they’re wanted, and then they’ll be bright and ready for use. You’re not going to be burned to-night; you’re going to bed. And screwing up your courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I can tell you. You don’t know, and I don’t, that any one of us will be called to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon it He’ll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go to sleep.”“I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home.”“Good-night, then, Bessy, and don’t sing funeral dirges over your own coffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really got here? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids.”And Mrs Wade bustled away.Note 1. At this time they used the wordmeatin the sense of food of any kind—not butchers meat only.
“Oh, thy father ’ll do right well!” said Rose encouragingly. “I dare be bound he thought it should be a pleasant change for thee.”
“Ay, I dare say Father thought of us and what we should like,” said Cissy. “He nodded to Mistress Wade, and smiled on me, as he went forth; so of course I had to ’bide. But then, you see, I’m always thinking of Father.”
“I see,” said Rose, laughing; “it’s not, How shall I do without Father? but, How can Father do without me?”
“That’s it,” replied Cissy, nodding her capable little head. “He’ll do without Will and Baby—not but he’ll miss them, you know; but they don’t do nothing for him likeme.”
This was said in Cissy’s most demure manner, and Rose was exceedingly amused.
“And, prithee, what dost thou for him?” said she.
“I do everything,” said Cissy, with an astonished look. “I light the fire, and dress the meat, (Note 1) and sweep the floor. Only I can’t do all the washing yet; Neighbour Ursula has to help me with that. But about Father—please, when I’ve said the Paternoster (the Lord’s Prayer), and the Belief, and the Commandments, might I ask, think you, for somebody to go in and do things for Father? I know he’ll miss me very ill.”
“Thou dear little-soul!” cried Rose.
But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to be the graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in that quiet, sweet way which she usually did.
“Little Cissy,” she said, “is not God thy Father, and his likewise? And thinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, or no?”
“Father likes us to be happy,” said Cissy simply.
“And ‘your Father knoweth,’” softly replied Elizabeth, “‘that ye have need of all these things.’”
“Oh, then, He’ll send in Ursula, or somebody,” responded Cissy, in a contented tone. “It’ll be all right if I ask Him to see to it.”
And Cissy “asked Him to see to it,” and then lay down peacefully, her tranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the children were asleep in a few minutes.
“Now, Bessy, we can have our talk.”
So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of the wind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasant for November, and the girls sat down together for a chat.
“How go matters with you at Master Clere’s, Bessy?”
“Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would Mistress Amy were a bit steadier than she is.”
“She’s a gadabout, isn’t she?”
“Nay, I’ve said all I need, and maybe more than I should.”
“Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?”
“Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net’s drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even you and I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at the end of one way.”
“Ay, I’m afeard so,” said Rose gravely. “Bessy, think you that you can stand firm?”
“Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if He hold me not.”
“Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy.”
“Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need it rather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, what matter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The waters beat upon the rock, not on thee.”
“But one sees them coming, Bess.”
“Well, what if thou dost? They’ll not touch thee.”
“Eh, Bess, the fire ’ll touch us, be sure!”
“It’ll touch our flesh—the outward case of us—that which can drop off and turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and Elizabeth Foulkes.”
“Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage.”
“Why, Rose, art feared of death?”
“Not of what comes after, thank God! But I’m feared of pain, Bessy, and of dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it.”
“Best not look forward. Maybe ’tis more shocking to think of than to feel. That’s the way with many things.”
“O Bessy! I can’t look on it calm, like that. It isn’t nature.”
“Nay, dear heart, ’tis grace, not nature.”
“And thou seest, in one way, ’tis worser for me than for thee. Thou art thyself alone; but there’s Father and Mother with me. How could I bear to see them suffer?”
“The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not give thee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I’ve no father—he’s in Heaven, long years ago. But I’ve a good mother at Stoke Nayland, and I’d sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We do but know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay the charges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times in God’s Word is it said, ‘Fear not?’ Would the Lord have so oft repeated it, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?”
“Ah!” said Rose, sighing, “and the ‘fearful’ be among such as are left without the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I draw back! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible to bear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the fire were felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I’m feared.”
“It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thine hold on God. ‘HoldThoume up, and I shall be safe.’ But that should not be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it.”
“I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a few years, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, and we are young. ‘All that a man hath will he give for his life.’”
“Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Him for whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss? Couldst thou bear to loseHim?—Him, who endured the bitter rood (Cross) rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart.”
“I do trust not, verily; yet—”
“What, not abed yet?” cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. “I came up but to see if you had all you lacked. Doll’s on her way up. I reckon she shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That’s well. But, deary me, what long faces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or what discourse have you, that you both look like judges?”
“Something like it, Hostess,” said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. “Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if we should hold fast.”
The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls to the other.
“Why, what’s a-coming?” said she.
“Nay, we know not what, but—”
“Dear heart, then I’d wait till I did! I’ll tell you what it is—I hate to have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast it aside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my good maids, don’t waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them till they’re wanted, and then they’ll be bright and ready for use. You’re not going to be burned to-night; you’re going to bed. And screwing up your courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I can tell you. You don’t know, and I don’t, that any one of us will be called to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon it He’ll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go to sleep.”
“I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home.”
“Good-night, then, Bessy, and don’t sing funeral dirges over your own coffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really got here? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids.”
And Mrs Wade bustled away.
Note 1. At this time they used the wordmeatin the sense of food of any kind—not butchers meat only.