One Snowy Night

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER TEN.

  BARRIERS IN THE WAY.

  "Christ is my readiness: who lives in Him Can scarcely be unready."

  S.W. Partridge.

  A little way out of Dorchester, surrounded by pollard willow trees, andon a narrow slip of ground which sloped down towards the river, stood atiny mud hut, the inhabitants of which lived in great misery even forthat time. One small chamber, with a smaller lean-to, constituted thewhole dwelling. As to furniture, a modern eye, glancing round, wouldhave said there was none. There was a bundle of rags, covering a heapof straw, in one corner; and in another was a broken bench, which with alittle contrivance might have seated three persons of accommodatingtempers. A hole in the roof let out the smoke--when it chose to go; andlet in the rain and snow, which generally chose to come. On a niche inthe wall stood a single pan, an axe, and a battered tin bowl, whichcomprised all the family riches. The axe was the tool which obtainedbread--and very little of it; the pan did all the cooking; the bowlserved for pail, jug, and drinking-vessel. An iron socket let into thewall held a piece of half-burnt pinewood, which was lamp and candle tothe whole house. A handful of chips of wood, branches, and driedleaves, in one corner, represented the fuel; and a heap of snowunderneath the hole showed that its influence was not potent.

  On the heap of rags, five persons were lying, huddled close together forwarmth's sake--father, mother, and three children. How had they comeinto such a condition as this? Ah, they had not always lived thus.Only a few years ago, this man had been a prosperous silversmith atReading; his wife had been well dressed, his children well fed, hisacquaintance large, and himself generally respected. How had it comeabout that they were now in this pitiable condition? Had the man beenidle and neglectful of his business? By no means; he had been diligentand hard-working. Was he a drunken profligate? Not at all; he was, forthe age, unusually sober. Had he committed some terrible crime whichhad brought him to ruin?

  The only true answer seems scarcely possible: and yet the only answerpossible is awfully true. The man was born a Jew, and had become aChristian. It was only natural that this should turn the Jewishcommunity against him; and all his acquaintances deserted him as amatter of course. But surely this very fact should have made theChristian community more friendly and helpful! Alas, the Christiancommunity, in bondage to the iron yoke of Rome, hated him more as a Jewthan they welcomed him as a Christian. Rome has always been the haterand opponent of Israel. The law of England at that time was actuallythis: that if a Jew became converted to Christianity, he forfeitedeverything he possessed to the Crown, and had to begin the world again.This had been the lot of poor David ben Mossi, and his wife Ruth, whoseconversion had taken place under Gerhardt's preaching. They were toohonest to hide the change in their convictions, though to reveal itmeant worldly ruin. They applied for baptism, and by so doing literallygave up all for Christ--home, goods, gain, and occupation, not to speakof friends. David obtained work as a woodcutter, which brought them injust enough to keep life in them and rags about them; and he built withhis own hands, aided by his faithful Ruth, the mud hovel, wherein theyfound the only shelter that this cold world had for them. They had leftReading, preferring solitude to averted looks and abusive tongues; andnot a creature in Dorchester came near them. Alike as Jews and as poorpeople, they were not worth cultivating.

  David had retained his name, being one used also by Christians; but Ruthhad been required to change hers. She had chosen the name of Christian,as the most truthful and expressive that she could take.

  "And I like to feel," she said to David, "that I have something of ourblessed Lord in my name."

  "Let us keep Him in our hearts, Wife," was the answer: "then it will notmuch matter whether or no we have Him any where else."

  It was bitterly cold in the hovel that snowy night. The children hadcried themselves to sleep, and the parents felt as if they could easilyhave done the same. The lights were out at Dorchester, and all naturehad settled down to rest, when Christian, who could not sleep for thecold, fancied she heard a voice outside the hut.

  "David!" it seemed to say.

  But the voice, if voice there were, was faint, and Christian did notlike to rouse the husband who had lost his suffering in sleep, for whatmight have been a mere fancy. The voice spoke again.

  "Ruth!" it said this time.

  Christian hesitated no longer.

  "David! There is one without, calling on us. And it must be one weknew of old, for it calls me by my old name. Pray thee, get up, and letthe poor soul in; 'tis not a night for a dog to tarry without, neverspeak of a human creature, who must be in some trouble."

  David sat up and listened.

  "I hear nothing, Wife. I think thou must have been dreaming."

  "Nay, I have been wide awake this hour gone. I am sure some one spoke."

  "I think it's fancy, Christian. However--"

  "There's no harm in making sure."

  "There's the harm of letting in a lot of snow," said David, not suitingthe action to the word, for he had risen and was pulling on his hose.They required careful pulling, as they were so nearly in pieces thatvery little rough handling would have damaged them past repair. He wasfastening the last clasp when the voice spoke again. It was nearer now,close at the door, and it was low and trembling, as if the applicant hadhard work to speak at all.

  "For the love of the Crucified," it said, "take in a Christian child!"

  David's response was to open the door instantly.

  Something at once staggered in, and sank down on the bench:--somethingwhich looked at first sight more like a statue of white marble than ahuman being, so thick lay the snow over the wrappers which enfolded it.But when David had succeeded in unfolding the wrappers, and brushing offthe snow, they discovered that their visitor was a woman, and that inher arms a child lay clasped, either dead or sleeping.

  The moment that Christian perceived so much as this, she hastily rose,throwing her poor mantle over her, and drew near to the stranger.

  "Poor soul, you're heartily welcome," she said, "whoever you are. Wehave little beside a roof to offer you, for we have scarcely food orraiment ourselves, nor money to buy either; but such as we have we willgive you with all our hearts."

  "May the Blessed bless you!" was the faint answer. "Don't you know me,Ruth?"

  "Know you!" Christian studied the face of her unexpected guest. "Nay,I do almost believe--Countess! Is it you?"

  "Ay."

  "Whatever has brought you to this? The richest Jewess in Reading! Haveyou, too, become a Christian like us?"

  Countess did not give a direct answer to that direct question.

  "I am not poor now," she said. "I can find you money for food for usall, if you will suffer me to stay here till the storm has abated, andthe roads can be travelled again."

  "That won't be this s'ennight," interjected David.

  "But how--what?" queried Christian helplessly.

  "This brought me," said Countess, touching the child. "I was under vowto save him. And--well, I could not do it otherwise."

  "Is he alive?" asked Christian pityingly.

  "Yes, only very fast asleep. Lay him down with your little ones, andwrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in ourjourney."

  It was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. Christian's fingers touchedit as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity--as a handlingof something long unfelt, but well-known years ago.

  "I have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread," she saidhesitatingly. "I am sorry for it, but it is really all I have."

  "Then," said Countess with a smile, "play the widow of Zarephath. Giveme thy `little cake,' and when the light dawns, you shall have a newcruse and barrel in reward."

  "Nay, we look for no reward," answered Christian heartily. "I am onlygrieved that it should be so little. You are spent with your journey."

  "I am most spent with the weight. I had to carry the child, and
this,"she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchiefround her waist. "It is the child's property--all he has in the world.May the Blessed One be praised that I have saved them both!"

  "`To them that have no might, He increaseth strength,'" quoted Christiansoftly. "Then--is not this your child?"

  "Yes--now."

  "But not--?"

  "By gift, not by birth. And it is the Holy One who has given him. Now,good friends, let me not keep you from sleeping. Perhaps I shall sleepmyself. We will talk more in the morning."

  It was evident when the morning arrived, that the saved child hadsuffered less than she who had saved him. Both needed care,nourishment, and rest; but Countess wanted it far more than Rudolph. Afew days sufficed to restore him to his usual lively good health; but itwas weeks ere she recovered the physical strain and mental suffering ofthat terrible night. But Countess was one of those people who nevereither "give in" or "give up." Before any one but herself thought herhalf fit for it, she went out, not mentioning her destination, on anexpedition which occupied the greater part of a day, and returned atnight with a satisfied expression on her face.

  "I have settled every thing," she said. "And now I will tell yousomething. Perhaps you were puzzled to know why I sought shelter withyou, instead of going to some of my wealthy acquaintances in the town?"

  "I was, very much," answered Christian hesitatingly.

  "I supposed you had some reason for it," said David.

  "Right. I had a reason--a strong one. That I shall not tell you atpresent. But I will tell you what perhaps you have already guessed--that I have been divorced from Leo."

  "Well, I fancied you must have had a quarrel with him, or something ofthat kind," replied Christian.

  "Oh, we are on excellent terms," said Countess in a rather sarcastictone. "So excellent, that he even proposed himself to lend me an escortof armed retainers to convey me to London."

  "To London!" exclaimed Christian, in some surprise. "I thought youwould be going back to your father's house at Oxford."

  "Oh, no!--that would not do at all. I did think of it for a moment; notnow. London will be much better."

  "May I take the liberty to ask how you mean to live?" said David. "Ofcourse it is no business of mine, but--"

  "Go on," said Countess, when he hesitated.

  "Well, I don't quite see what you can do, without either husband orfather. Perhaps your brother Rubi is coming with you? You can't livealone, surely."

  "I could, and get along very well, too; but I suppose one must not defythe world, foolish thing as it is. No, my brother Rubi is not coming,and I don't want him either. But I want you--David and Ruth."

  David and Ruth--as Countess persisted in calling her--looked at eachother in surprise and perplexity.

  "You can take a week to think about it," resumed Countess, in hercoolest manner, which was very cool indeed. "I shall not set forthuntil the Sabbath is over. But I do not suppose you are so deeply inlove with this hovel that you could not bring yourselves to leave itbehind."

  "What do you mean us to do or be?"

  "I intend to set up a silversmith's and jeweller's shop, and I meanDavid to be the silversmith, and to train Rudolph to the business."

  This sounded practical. David's heart leaped within him, at the thoughtof returning to his old status and occupation.

  "I could do that," he said, with a gleam in his eyes.

  "I know you could," replied Countess.

  "And _I_?" suggested Christian wistfully.

  "You may see to the house, and keep the children out of mischief. Weshall want some cooking and cleaning, I suppose; and I hate it."

  "Do you take no servants with you?" asked Christian, in an astonishedtone. For a rich lady like Countess to travel without a fullestablishment, both of servants and furniture, was amazing to her.

  "I take the child with me," said Countess.

  Christian wondered why the one should hinder the other; but she said nomore.

  "But--" David began, and stopped.

  "I would rather hear all the objections before I set forth," respondedCountess calmly.

  "Countess, you must clearly understand that we cannot deny our faith."

  "Who asked you to do so?"

  "Nor can we hide it."

  "That is your own affair. Do Christians clean silver worse than Jews?"

  "They should not, if they are real Christians and not mere pretenders."

  "Shams--I hate shams. Don't be a sham anything. Please yourselfwhether you are a Jew or a Christian, but for goodness' sake don't be asham."

  "I hope I am not that," said David. "If you are content with us,Countess, my wife and I will be only too happy to go with you. Thechildren--"

  "Oh, you don't fancy leaving them behind? Very well--they can play withRudolph, and pull the cat's tail."

  "I shall whip them if they do," said Christian, referring not toRudolph, but to the cat.

  "Countess, do you mean to cut yourself off from all your friends?" askedDavid, with a mixed feeling of perplexity and pity. "I cannotunderstand why you should do so."

  "`Friends!'" she replied, with an indescribable intonation. "I fancy Ishall take them all with me. Do as I bid thee, David, and trouble notthyself to understand me."

  David felt silenced, and asked no more questions.

  "Rudolph must have an English name," said Countess abruptly. "Let himbe called Ralph henceforth. That is the English version of his ownname, and he will soon grow accustomed to it."

  "What is he to call you?" asked Christian.

  "What he pleases," was the answer.

  What it pleased Rudolph to do was to copy the other children, and say"Mother;" but he applied the term impartially alike to Countess and toChristian, till the latter took him aside, and suggested that it wouldbe more convenient if he were to restrict the term to one of them.

  "You see," she said, "if you call us both by one name, we shall neverknow which of us you mean."

  "Oh, it does not matter," answered Master Rudolph with imperialunconcern. "Either of you could button me up and tie my shoes. But ifyou like, I'll call you Christie."

  "I think it would be better if you did," responded Christian withpraiseworthy gravity.

  From the time that this matter was settled until the journey was fairlybegun, Countess showed an amount of impatience and uneasiness which itsometimes took all Christian's meekness to bear. She spent the wholeday, while the light lasted, at the little lattice, silently studying alarge square volume, which she carefully wrapped every evening in silkbrocade, and then in a woollen handkerchief, placing it under the pillowon which she slept, and which had come from Leo's house for her use.Beyond that one day's expedition, she never quitted the hut till theyleft Dorchester. Of the hardships inseparable from her temporaryposition she did not once complain; all her impatience was connectedwith some inner uncertainty or apprehension which she did not choose toreveal. Rudolph looked far more disdainfully than she on the rye-crustsand ragged garments of his companions.

  At last, on the Sunday morning--for nobody dreamed in those days of nottravelling on Sunday after mass--a small party of armed servants arrivedat the hut, leading three palfreys and four baggage-mules, beside theirown horses. Three of the mules were already loaded. Countess issuedher orders, having evidently considered and settled every thingbeforehand. Christian was to ride one palfrey, Countess the other, andDavid the third, with Rudolph in front of him. His children were to bedisposed of, in panniers, on the back of the unloaded mule, with a ladof about fifteen years, who was one of the escort, behind them.

  "Hast thou found us any convoy, Josce?" asked Countess of the man whotook direction of the escort.

  Josce doffed his cap to answer his mistress, to whom he showedconsiderable deference.

  "Deuslesalt journeys to-day as far as Wallingford," he said, "and Simeonthe usurer, who has a strong guard, will go thence to-morrow toWindsor."

  "Go
od. Set forth!" said Countess.

  So they set out from the mud hovel. The snow was still deep in manyparts, but it had been trodden down in the well-worn tracks, such as wasthe high road from Oxford to London. Countess rode first of the party,ordering David to ride beside her; Christian came next, by the mulewhich bore her children; the armed escort was behind. A mile away fromthe hut they joined the imposing retinue of Deuslesalt, who was awealthy silk-merchant, and in their company the journey to Wallingfordwas accomplished. There Countess and Rudolph found shelter withDeuslesalt in the house of a rich Jew, while David, Christian, and thechildren were received as travellers in a neighbouring hospital; for anhospital, in those days, was not necessarily a place where the sick weretreated, but was more of the nature of a large almshouse, where all theinmates lived and fared in common.

  On the second day they joined the usurer's party, which was larger andstronger than that of the silk-merchant. At Windsor they found an innwhere they were all lodged; and the following day they entered London.It now appeared that Countess had in some mysterious manner madepreparation for her coming; for they rode straight to a small house atthe corner of Mark Lane, which they found plainly but comfortablyfurnished to receive them. Countess paid liberally and dismissed herescort, bade David unpack the goods she had brought, and dispose of thejewels in the strong safes built into the walls, desired Christian tolet her know if anything necessary for the house were not provided, andestablished herself comfortably at the window with her big book, andRudolph on a hassock at her feet.

  "David!" she said, looking up, when the unpacking was about half done.

  David touched his forelock in answer.

  "I wish thou wouldst buy a dog and cat."

  "Both?" demanded David, rather surprised. "They will fight."

  "Oh, the cat is for the children," said Countess coolly; "I don't wantone. But let the dog be the biggest thou canst get."

  "I think I'd have the dog by himself," said David. "The children willbe quite as well pleased. And if you want a big one, he is pretty sureto be good-tempered."

  So David and Rudolph went to buy a dog, and returned with an amiableshaggy monster quite as tall as the latter--white and tan, with a smileupon his lips, and a fine feathery tail, which little Helwis fell atonce to stroking. This eligible member of the family received the nameof Olaf, and was clearly made to understand that he must tolerateanything from the children, and nothing from a burglar.

  Things were settling down, and custom already beginning to come into thelittle shop, when one evening, as they sat round the fire, Countesssurprised David with a question--

  "David, what did the priest to thee when thou wert baptised?"

  David looked up in some astonishment.

  "Why, he baptised me," said he simply.

  "I want to know all he did," said Countess.

  "Don't think I could tell you if I tried. He put some oil on me, andsome spittle,--and water, of course,--and said ever so many prayers."

  "What did he say in his prayers?"

  "Eh, how can I tell you? They were all in Latin."

  "The Lord does not speak French or English, then?" demanded Countesssatirically.

  "Well!" said David, scratching his head, "when you put it that way--"

  "I don't see what other way to put it. But I thought they baptised withwater?"

  "Oh, yes, the real baptism is with water."

  "Then what is the good of the unreal baptism, with oil and otherrubbish?"

  "I cry you mercy, but you must needs ask the priest. I'm only anignorant man."

  "Dost thou think he knows?"

  "The priest? Oh, of course."

  "I should like to be as sure as thou art. Can any body baptise?--ormust it be done by a priest only?"

  "Oh, only--well--" David corrected himself. "Of course the properperson is a priest. But in case of necessity, it can be done by alayman. A woman, even, may do it, if a child be in danger of death.But then, there is no exorcism nor anointing; only just the baptisingwith water."

  "I should have thought that was all there need be, at any time."

  With that remark Countess dropped the subject. But a few days later sheresumed the catechising, though this time she chose Christian as herinformant.

  "What do Christians mean by baptism?"

  Christian paused a moment. She had not hitherto reflected on theesoteric meaning of the ceremony to which she had been ordered to submitas the introductory rite of her new religion.

  "I suppose," she said slowly, "it must mean--confession."

  "Confession of what?" inquired Countess.

  "Of our faith in the Lord Jesus," replied Christian boldly.

  To Christian's surprise, Countess made no scornful answer. She sat insilence, looking from the window with eyes that saw neither the knightwho was riding past, nor the fish-woman selling salt cod to the oppositeneighbour.

  "Can faith not exist without confession?" she said in a low tone.

  "Would it not be poor faith?"

  "Why?" demanded Countess, drawing her brows together, and in a tone thatwas almost fierce.

  "I should think there would be no love in it. And faith which had nolove in it would be a very mean, shabby, worthless sort of faith."

  "I don't see that," said Countess stubbornly. "I believe that this bookis lying on the window-seat. Can't I do that without loving either thewindow-seat or the book?"

  "Ah, yes, when you only believe things. But the faith which is shown inbaptism is not believing a fact; it is trusting yourself, body and soul,with a Person."

  "That makes a difference, I dare say," replied Countess, and relapsedinto silence.

  A week later she came into the shop, where David was busy polishing upthe ornaments in stock.

  "David," she said abruptly, "what does a Christian do when he iscompletely perplexed, and cannot tell how to act?"

  "Well, I don't exactly know," said David, looking perplexed himself."Never was like that, so far as I know. Leastwise--No, I couldn't justsay I ever have been."

  "O happy man! Some Christians are, sometimes, I suppose?"

  "I should think so. I don't know."

  "What wouldst thou do, then, if thou wert in a slough from which thousawest not the way out?"

  "Why, I think--I should pray the Lord to show me the way out. I don'tsee what else I could do."

  "And if no answer came?"

  "Then I should be a bit afraid it meant that I'd walked in myself, andhadn't heeded His warnings. Sometimes, I think, when folks do that, Heleaves them to flounder awhile before He helps them out."

  "That won't do this time."

  "Well, if that's not it, then maybe it would be because I wanted to getout on my own side, and wouldn't see His hand held out on the other.The Lord helps you out in His way, not yours: and that often means, upthe steeper-looking bank of the two."

  Countess was silent. David applied himself to bending the pin of abrooch, which he thought rather too straight.

  "Is it ever right to do wrong?" she said suddenly.

  "Why, no!--how could it be?" answered David, looking up.

  "You put me deeper in the slough, every word you say. I will go nofurther to-day."

  And she turned and walked away.

  "Christie," said David to his wife that evening, "thou and I must prayfor our mistress."

  "Why, what's the matter with her?"

  "I don't know. She's in some trouble; and I think it is not a littletrouble. Unless I mistake, it is trouble of a weary, wearing sort, thatshe goes round and round in, and can't see the way out."

  "But what are we to ask for, if we know nothing?"

  "Dear heart! ask the Lord to put it right. He knows the way out; Hedoes not want us to tell Him."

  A fortnight elapsed before any further conversation took place. At theend of that time Ash Wednesday came, and David and Christian went tochurch as usual. The service was half over, when, to their unspeakableastonishment, they
perceived Countess standing at the western door,watching every item of the ceremonies, with an expression on her facewhich was half eager, half displeased, but wholly disturbed and wearied.She seemed desirous to avoid being seen, and slipped out the instantthe mass was over.

  "Whatever brought her there?" asked Christian.

  David shook his head.

  "I expect it was either the Lord or the Devil," he said. "Let us askHim more earnestly to bring her out of the slough on the right side."

  "Did you see me in All Hallows this morning?" asked Countess abruptly,as they sat beside the fire that night. The children were in bed, andOlaf lying on the hearth.

  "Ay, I did," replied Christian; and her tone added--"to my surprise."

  "What are those things for there?"

  "What things?"

  "A number of dolls, all painted and gilt."

  "Do you mean the holy images?"

  "I mean the images. I don't believe in the holiness."

  "They are images of the blessed saints."

  "What are they for?" demanded Countess, knitting her brows.

  "The priest says they are to remind us, and are helps to prayer."

  "To whose prayers?" said Countess disdainfully. "No woman in Englandprays more regularly than I; but I never wanted such rubbish as that tohelp me."

  "Oh, they don't help me," said David. "I never pay any attention tothem; I just pray straight up."

  "I don't understand praying to God in the House of Baal. `Thou shaltnot make unto thee any graven image.'"

  "But they say the Church has loosed that command now. And of course wecan't set ourselves up above the Church."

  "What on earth do you mean? Art thou God, to kill and to make alive,that thou shouldst style the keeping of His command `setting one's selfabove the Church?' The Church shall never guide me, if she speakcontrary to God."

  "But how can she, when God inspires her?"

  "There is another question I want settled first. How can I believe thatGod inspires her, when I see that she contradicts His distinctcommands?"

  "I suppose the priest would say that was very wicked."

  "What do I care for that popinjay? How did _you_ get over it? Had youno sensation of horror, when you were required to bow down to thosestocks and stones?"

  "Well, no," said Christian, speaking very slowly. "I believed whatGerard had taught us, and--"

  "When did Gerhardt ever teach you that rubbish?"

  "He never did," answered David. "The priests taught us that. And I didfind it main hard to swallow at first."

  "Ah! I'm afraid I shall find it too hard to swallow at last. But thereis nothing of all that in this book."

  "I know nought about books. But of course the Church must know thetruth," responded David uneasily.

  "This is the truth," answered Countess, laying her hand upon the book."But if this be, that is not. David--Ruth--I believe as you do in JesusChrist of Nazareth: but I believe in no gilded images nor priestly lies.I shall take my religion from His words, not from them. I should liketo be baptised, if it mean to confess Him before men; but if it onlymean to swallow the priests' fables, and to kneel before gods thatcannot hear nor save, I will have none of it. As the Lord liveth,before whom I stand, I will never bow down to the work of men's hands!"

  She had risen and stood before them, a grand figure, with hands clenchedand eyes on fire. Christian shrank as if alarmed. David spoke in aregretful tone.

  "Well! I thought that way myself for a while. But they said. Icouldn't be a Christian if I did not go to church, and attend the holymass. The Church had the truth, and God had given it to her: so Ithought I might be mistaken, and I gave in. I've wondered sometimeswhether I did right."

  "If that be what baptism means--to put my soul into the hands of thatthing they call the Church, and let it mould me like wax--to defilemyself with all the idols and all the follies that I see there--I willnot be baptised. I will believe without it. And if He ask me at theDay of Doom why I did not obey His command given in Galilee, I shallsay, `Lord, I could not do it without disobeying Thy first command,given amid the thunders of Sinai.' If men drive me to do thus, it willnot be my sin, but theirs."

  "Well, I don't know!" answered David, in evident perplexity. "I supposeyou _could_ be baptised, with nothing more--but I don't know any priestthat would do it."

  "Would you do it?"

  "Oh, I daren't!"

  "David, your religion is very queer."

  "What's the matter?" asked David in astonishment.

  "The other day, when I told you I was in a great slough, you did notadvise me to go and ask those gaudy images to help me out of it; youspoke of nobody but the Lord. Now that we come to talk about images,you flounder about as if you did not know what to say."

  "Well, don't you see, I know one o' them two, but I've only been toldthe other."

  "Oh yes, I see. You are not the first who has had one religion forsunshiny weather, and another for rainy days; only that with you--different from most people--you wear your best robe in the storm."

  David rubbed his face upon the sleeve of his jacket, as if he wished torub some more discrimination into his brains.

  "Nay, I don't know--I hope you've no call to say that."

  "I usually say what I think. But there's no need to fret; you've timeto mend."

  Both the women noticed that for a few days after that, David was verysilent and thoughtful. When the Sunday came he excused himself fromgoing to church, much to the surprise and perplexity of his wife. Theday after he asks for a holiday, and did not return till late at night.

  As they sat round the fire on the following evening, David saidsuddenly,--"I think I've found it out."

  "What?" asked his mistress.

  "Your puzzle--and my own too."

  "Let me have the key, by all means, if you possess it."

  "Well, I have been to see the hermit of Holywell. They say he is theholiest man within reach of London, go what way you will. And he hasread me a bit out of a book that seems to settle the matter. At least Ithought so. Maybe you mightn't see it so easy."

  "It takes more than fair words to convince me. However, let me hearwhat it is. What was the book? I should like to know that first."

  "He said it was an epistle written by Paul the Apostle to somebody--Ican't just remember whom."

  "Who was he?"

  "Why, he was one of the saints, wasn't he?"

  "I don't know. There's no mention of him in my book."

  David looked like a man stopped unexpectedly in rapid career. "Youalways want to know so much about every thing!" he said, rubbing hisface on his sleeve, as he had a habit of doing when puzzled. "Now Inever thought to ask that."

  "But before I can act on a message from my superior, I must surelysatisfy myself as to the credentials of the messenger. However, let ushear the message. Perhaps that may tell us something. Some things bearon their faces the evidence of what they are--still more of what theyare not."

  "Well, what he read was this: `If thou shalt confess with thy mouth theLord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Himfrom the dead, thou shalt be saved.' And `Look you,' saith he, `thereisn't a word here of any body else.' `If thou shalt confess' Him--notthe saints, nor the images, nor the Church, nor the priest. `Baptism,'saith he, `is confessing Him.' Then he turned over some leaves, andread a bit from another place, how our Lord said, `Come unto Me, allye--'"

  Countess's eyes lighted up suddenly. "That's in my book. `All ye thattravail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.'"

  "That's it. And says he, `He does not say, "Come to the Church or thepriest," but "Come to Me."' `Well,' says I, `but how can you do onewithout the other?' `You may come to the priest easy enough, and nevercome to Christ,' saith he, `so it's like to be as easy to come to Christwithout the priest.' `Well, but,' says I, `priests doesn't say so.'`No,' says he; `they don't'--quite short like. `But for all I can seein this book,' say
s he, `He does.'"

  "Go on!" said Countess eagerly, when David paused.

  "Well, then--I hope you'll excuse me if I said more than I should--saysI to him, `Now look here, Father: suppose you had somebody coming to youfor advice, that had been a Jew like me, and was ready to believe in ourLord, but could not put up with images and such, would you turn him awaybecause he could not believe enough, or would you baptise him?' `Iwould baptise him,' saith he. Then he turns over the book again, andreads: `"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."That is what the Apostles said to one man,' says he: `and if it wasenough then, it is enough now.' `But, Father,' says I, `that soundsrather as if you thought the Church might go wrong, or had gone wrong,in putting all these things beside our Lord.' `My son,' saith he, `whatmeanest thou by the Church? The Holy Ghost cannot teach error. Men inthe Church may go wrong, and are continually wandering into error. Whatsaid our Lord to the rulers of the Jews, who were the priests of Hisday? "Ye do err, not knowing the Scriptures." This book is truth: whenmen leave this book,' saith he, `they go astray.' `But not holyChurch?' said I. `Ah,' saith he, `the elect may stray from the fold;how much more they that are strangers there? The only safe place forany one of us,' he says, `is to keep close to the side of the GoodShepherd.'"

  "David, where dwells that hermit?"

  "By the holy well, away on the Stronde, west of Lud Gate. Any body youmeet on that road will tell you where to find him. His hut stands a bitback from the high way, on the north."

  "Very good. I'll find him."

  The next day, until nearly the hour of curfew, nothing was seen ofCountess. She took Olaf with her as guard, and they returned at thelast moment, just in time to enter the City before the gates wereclosed. David and Christian had finished their work, shut up the shop,and put the children to bed, when Olaf made his stately entrance, withhis mistress behind him.

  "Thy old hermit," she said, addressing David, "is the first decentChristian I have found--the first that goes by his Master's words, anddoes not worry me with nonsense."

  She drew off her hood, and sat down in the chimney-corner.

  "You found him then?" answered David. "Had you much trouble?"

  "I found him. Never mind the trouble."

  "Has he settled the puzzle for you, then?"

  "I think I settled it for him."

  "I ask your pardon, but I don't understand you."

  "I don't suppose you do."

  "Countess," said Christian, coming down the ladder, "I bought theherrings as you bade me; but there is no salt salmon in the marketto-day."

  "To whom are you speaking?" inquired Countess, with an expression of funabout the corners of her lips.

  "You," replied Christian in surprise.

  "Then, perhaps you will have the goodness to call me by my Christianname, which is Sarah."

  "O Countess! have you been baptised?"

  "I have."

  "By the hermit?"

  "By the hermit."

  "But how?"

  "How? With water. What did you expect?"

  "But--all at once, without any preparation?"

  "What preparation was needed? I made my confession of Christ, and hebaptised me in His name. The preparation was only to draw the water."

  "What on earth did you do for sponsors?"

  "Had none."

  "Did he let you?"

  A little smothered laugh came from Countess. "He had not much choice,"she said. "He did try it on. But I told him plainly, I was not goingto give in to that nonsense: that if he chose to baptise me at once, Iwas there ready, and would answer any questions and make any confessionthat he chose. But if not--not. I was not coming again."

  "And he accepted it!" said David, with a dozen notes of exclamation inhis voice.

  "Did I not tell you he was the most sensible Christian I ever found? Hesaid, `Well!--after all, truly, any thing save the simple baptism withwater was a man-made ordinance. The Ethiopian eunuch had no sponsors'--I don't know who he was, but I suppose the hermit did--`and he probablymade as true a Christian for all that' `In truth,' said I, `theinstitution of sponsors seems good for little children--friends whopromise to see that they shall be brought up good Christians if theirparents die early; but for a woman of my age, it is simply absurd, and Iwon't have it. Let me confess Christ as my Messiah and Lord, andbaptise me with water in His name, and I am sure he will be satisfiedwith it. And if any of the saints and angels are not satisfied, theycan come down and say so, if they think it worth while.' So--as he saw,I suppose, that _I_ was not going to do it--he gave in."

  "I hope it's all right," said David, rather uneasily.

  "David, I wish I could put a little sense into you. You are a good man,but you are a very foolish one. `All right!' Of course it is allright. It is man, and not God, who starts at trifles like a frightenedhorse, and makes men offenders for a word. The Lord looketh on theheart."

  "Ay, but Moses (on whom be peace!) was particular enough about somedetails which look very trifling to us."

  "He was particular enough where they concerned the honour of God, orwhere they formed a part of some symbolism which the alteration wouldcause to be wrongly interpreted so as to teach untruth. But for allelse, he let them go, and so did our Lord. When Aaron explained why hehad not eaten the goat of the sin-offering, Moses was content. Nor didChrist condemn David the King, but excused him, for eating theshewbread. I am sure Moses would have baptised me this morning, withoutwaiting for sponsors or Lucca oil. This is a very silly world; I shouldhave thought the Church might have been a trifle wiser, and really itseems to have less common sense of the two. How could I have foundsponsors, I should like to know? I know nobody but you and Christian."

  "They told us, when we were baptised, that the Church did not allow ahusband and wife to be sponsors to the same person. So we could notboth have stood for you. It would have had to be Christian and Rudolph,and some other woman."

  "Rudolph! That baby! [Note 1.] Would they have let him stand?"

  "Yes--if you could not find any one else."

  "And promise to bring me up in the Catholic faith? Well, if that is notrich!--when I have got to bring him up! I will tell you what, David--ifsome benevolent saint would put a little common sense into the Church,it would be a blessing to somebody. `The Church!' I am weary of thatceaseless parrot scream. The Church stands in the way to Jesus ofNazareth, not as a door to go in, but as a wall to bar out. I wish wehad lived in earlier days, before all that rubbish had had time to grow.Now, mind you," concluded Countess, as she rose to go to bed, "Davidand Christian, I don't mean to be bothered about this. Don't talk tome, nor to Rudolph, nor to any body else. I shall read the Book, andteach him to do it; but I shall not pray to those gilded things; and heshall not. What Gerhardt taught is enough for him and me. Andremember, if too much be said, the King's officers may come and takeevery thing away. I do not see that it is my duty to go and tell them.If they come, let them come, and God be my aid and provider! Otherwise,we had better keep quiet."

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  Note 1. That little children were at times allowed to be sponsors inthe Middle Ages, is proved by the instance of John Earl of Kent in 1330,whose brother and sister, the former probably under ten years of age,and the latter aged only eighteen months, stood sponsors for him.(_Prob. aet. Johannis Com. Kant._, 23 Edward Third, 76.)