CHAPTER THREE.
MAKING PROGRESS.
"I care not how lone in this world I may be, So long as the Master remembereth me."
_Helen Monro_.
"So sure as our sweet Lady, Saint Mary, worketh miracles at Walsingham,never was poor woman so be-plagued as I, with an ill, ne'er-do-well,good-for-nought, thankless hussy, picked up out of the mire in thegutter! Where be thy wits, thou gadabout? Didst leave them at theCross yester-morrow? Go thither and seek for them! for ne'er a barleycrust shalt thou break this even in this house, or my name is not MarthaWinter!"
And, snatching up a broom, Mistress Winter hunted Agnes out of doors,and slammed the door behind her.
It was not altogether a new thing for Agnes to be turned out into thestreet for the night, and Mistress Winter reserved it as her mosttremendous penalty. Perhaps, had she known how Agnes regarded it, shemight have invented a new one. These occasions were her times ofrecreation, when she usually took refuge with good-natured MistressFlint, who was always ready to give Agnes a supper and a share of hergirls' bed. A few hours in the cheerful company of the Flints was areal refreshment to the hard-worked and ever-abused drudge. But thistime she did not at once seek Mistress Flint. She walked, as MistressWinter had amiably suggested, straight to the now deserted Cross, andsat down on one of its stone steps. It would not be dark yet foranother hour, and until the gathering dusk warned her to return, Agnesmeant to stay there. She was feeling very sad and perplexed. The gloryin which the world had been steeped only yesterday had grown pale andgrey. The cares of the world had come in. Poor Agnes had set out thatmorning with a firm determination to serve God throughout the day. Heridea of service consisted in the ceaseless mental repetition of forms ofprayer. Busy with her Aves and Paternosters, she had forgotten to shutthe oven door, and a baking of bread had been spoiled. She sat nowmournfully wondering how any one in her position could serve God. Ifsuch mischances as this were always to happen, she could never getthrough her work. And the work must be done. Mistress Winter was oneof the last people in the world to permit religion to take precedence ofhousewifery. How then was poor Agnes ever to "make her salvation" atall?
The mistake was natural enough. All her life she had walked in the mistof self-righteousness; her teachers had carefully led her into it.Starting from the idea that man had to merit God's favour, was it anywonder that, when told that God loved her already, she still fanciedthat, in order to retain that love, she must do something to deserve it?The new piece was sewn on the old garment, and the rent was made worse.
But now, must she give up the glad thought of being loved? If servingGod, as she understood that service, made her neglect her every-dayduties, what then? How was she ever to serve God? It was a misfortunefor Agnes that she had heard only half of the Friar's sermon. The otherhalf would have removed her difficulties.
She had reached this point in her perplexed thoughts, when she wasstartled by a voice inquiring--
"What aileth thee, my daughter?"
Agnes looked up, and beheld the same dark shining eyes which had flasheddown upon her from the Cross yesterday morning.
"I scantly can tell," she said, speaking out her thoughts. "It seemethnot worth the while."
"What seemeth thus?" asked the Friar.
"Living," said the girl quietly. There was no bitterness in her tone,hardly even weariness; it was simply hopeless.
The Friar remained silent for a moment, and Agnes spoke again.
"Father," she faltered, in a low, shy voice, "I heard you preach hereyester-morrow."
"I brought thee glad tidings," was the significant answer.
The tears sprang to her eyes. "O Father!" she said, "I thought them soglad--that God loved me, and would have me for to love Him; but now 'tisall to no good. I cannot serve God."
"What letteth?"
"That I am in the world, and must needs there abide."
"What for no? Serve God in the world."
"Good Father, if you did but know, you should not say the same!" saidAgnes in the same hopeless tone in which she had spoken before.
"If I knew but what?"
In answer, Agnes told him her simple story; unavoidably revealing in itthe hardships of her lot. "You must needs see, good Father," sheconcluded, "that I cannot serve God and do Mistress Winter's bidding."
"I see no such a thing, good daughter," replied the Friar. "Dost thinkthe serving of God to lie in the saying of Paternosters? It is thineheart that He would have. Put thine heart in thy labour, and give Himboth together."
"But how so, Father?" inquired Agnes in an astonished tone. "I pray youtell me how I shall give to God the baking of bread?"
"Who giveth thee thy daily bread?"
"That, no doubt, our Lord doth."
"Yet He giveth the same by means. He giveth it through the farmer, themiller, and the baker. It falleth not straight down from Heaven. Whenthou art the bakester, art not thou God's servant to give daily bread?Then thy work should be good and perfect, for He is perfect. By theservant do men judge of the master; and if thy work is to be offeredunto God, it must be the best thou canst do. Think of this the nexttime thou art at work, and I warrant thee not to _forget_ the oven door.But again: Who hath set thee thy work? When this hard mistress ofthine betook thee to her house, did not God see it? did not He order it?If so be, then every her order to thee (that is not sinful, understandthou) is God's order. Seek then, in the doing thereof, not to pleaseher, but Him."
"O Father, if I could do that thing!"
"Child, when the Master went home for a season, and left His lodginghere below, He appointed `to every man his work.' Some of us have hardwork: let us press on with it cheerfully. If we be His, it is _His_work. He knoweth every burden that we bear, and how hard it presseth,and how sore weary are His child's shoulders. Did He bear no burdensHimself in the carpenter's workshop at Nazareth; yea, and up the steepof Calvary? Let Him have thy best work. He hath given thee His best."
Never before, nor in so short a time, had so many new ideas beensuggested to the mind of Agnes Stone. The very notion of Christ'ssympathy with men was something strange to her. She had been taught toregard Mary as the tender human sympathiser, and to look upon Christ inone of two lights--either as the helpless Infant in the arms of themother, or as the stern Judge who required to be softened by Mary'smerciful intercession. But the one gush of confidence over, she wasdoubly shy. She shrank from clothing her vague thoughts with preciseand distinct language.
"I would I might alway confess unto you, Father," she said gratefully,rising from her hard seat "I would have thee confess unto a better thanI, my daughter," was the priest's answer. "There is no confessor liketo the great Confessor of God. Christ shall make never a blunder; andHe beareth no tales. Thine innermost heart's secrets be as safe withHim as with thyself."
"But must I not confess to a priest?" demanded Agnes in a surprisedtone.
"There is one Priest, my daughter," said the Friar. "And `because Hecontinueth ever, unchangeable hath He the priesthood.' There can benone other."
This was another new idea to Agnes--if possible, more strange than theformer. She ventured a faint protest which showed the nature of herthoughts.
"But He, that is the Judge at the doomsday! how could such as I e'erconfess to Him?"
A smile--which was sad, not mirthful--parted the grave lips of the BlackFriar.
"Child!" he answered, "there is no man so lowly, there is no man soloving, as the Man Christ Jesus."
Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear his retreating steps.She looked up with a further remark on her lips, and found that he wasgone.
It was nearly dark now, and there was only just time to reach the Citygate before the hour when it would be closed. Agnes hurried on quickly,passed out of Newgate, and, afraid of being benighted, almost ran upGiltspur Street to the south end of Cow Lane. A hasty rap on MistressFlint's door brought little Will to open it.
"What, Agnes!" cried Mistress Flint's cheery voice from within. "Comein, dear heart, and welcome. What news to-night, trow?"
"The old news, my mistress," said Agnes, smiling, "that here is asupperless maid bereft of lodgment, come to see if your heart be as fullof compassion as aforetime."
"Lack-a-daisy! hath Gossip Winter turned thee forth? Well, thank thesaints, there is room to spare for thee here. Supper will be ready eremany minutes, I guess. Prithee take hold o' th' other end of Helen'swork, and it shall be all the sooner."
Helen Flint, who was busy at the fire, welcomed the offered help with abright smile like her mother's, and set Agnes to work at once. Thelatter was beginning to find herself very hungry, and Mistress Flinttreated her guest to considerably better fare than Mistress Winter didher drudge. There were comparatively few of the household at home tosupper; for the party consisted only of Mr and Mrs Flint, twodaughters, Helen and Anne, and the little boys, Will and Dickon.
"What news abroad, Goodman?" demanded Mistress Flint, when her curiositygot the better of her hunger.
"Why, that 'tis like to rain," returned her husband, a quiet,unobtrusive man, with a good deal of dry humour.
"That I wist aforetime," retorted she; "for no sooner set I my foot outof the door this morrow than I well-nigh stepped of a black snail."
"I reckon," observed Mr Flint, calmly cutting into a pasty, "that blacksnails be some whither when there is no wet at hand."
"Gramercy, nay!" cried unphilosophical Mistress Flint.
"Oh, so?" said he. "Fall they from the sky, trow, or grow up out o' th'ground?"
"Dear heart [darling, beloved one], Jack Flint! how can I tell?"answered his wife.
"Then, dear heart, Mall Flint!" responded he, imitating her, "I'd leavebe till I so could."
Mistress Flint laughed; for nothing ever disturbed her temper, and thebanter was as good-humoured as possible.
"Well, for sure!" said she. "Is there ne'er a man put in the pillory,nor a woman whipped at the cart-tail, nor so much as a strange fish goneby London Bridge? Ha, Nan! yonder's a stranger in the bars. Hastethee, see what manner of man."
Anne left the form on which she was sitting, and peered intently intothe grate.
"'Tis a dark man, Mother," said she, after careful investigation.
"Is he nigh at hand?" inquired Mistress Flint anxiously.
"I trow so," replied Anne, still occupied with the bars, "and reasonablerich to boot."
"Marry, yonder's a jolly hearing!" said her mother.
"How so," asked Mr Flint, pursing up his lips, "without he make us agift of his riches?"
"Dear heart alive!" suddenly ejaculated Mistress Flint, turning round onHelen. "How many a score o' times must I tell thee, Nell, that to laythy knife and spoon the one across the other is the unluckiest thing inall this world, saving only the breaking of a steel glass[looking-glass], and a winding-sheet in the candle? Lay them straightalong this minute, child! Dear, dear; but to think of it!"
Helen, in some perturbation, altered her knife and spoon to the requiredpositions.
"Now, Agnes, dear heart, prithee get some flesh o' thy bones!" saidMistress Flint, returning to her usual cheery manner. "Good lack! Ilove not to see a maid so like to a scarecrow as thou. Come now,another shive of mutton? well, then, a piece o' th' pasty--do! Eh, ingood sooth, thou mayest well look white. Now, Will and Dickon, lads,'tis time ye were abed."
Will and Dickon, thus addressed, promptly knelt down, one on each sideof his mother, and Will proceeded to gabble over his prayers, followedby Dickon with articulate sounds which had no other merit than that ofbearing some resemblance to the words in question.
The boys commenced by crossing themselves, then they raced through thePaternoster, the Angelical Salutation, and the Creed, all in Latin; ofcourse without the faintest idea of any meaning. They then repeated ashort prayer in English, entreating the Virgin, their guardian angels,and their patron saints, to protect them during the night. This done,Will rattled off half a dozen lines (carefully emphasising theinsignificant words), which alone of all the proceeding had eitherinterest or meaning in his eyes.
"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 two to guard my bed at night."
"Good lads!" said Mistress Flint, as she rose and restored the crucifixwhich she had been holding before the boys to its usual place.
"Mother!" said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, "who beMatthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?"
Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh.
"Nay, dear heart!" answered his mother. "Those be the holy Apostles,that writ the Evangels."
"What be the Evangels, Mother?"
"Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?" demanded Mistress Flint."Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in theMinster."
"What be they about, Mother?"
"Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abedthis even," responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a querywhich she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show ofperemptoriness, she drove Will and Dickon upstairs to the bedchamber, inwhich slept the five boys of the family.
There was a minute's silence, only broken by the movements of Helen andAnne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which hadbeen used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said--to nobody inparticular--
"What _be_ they about?"
His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shakeof the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen.
"Methinks, Master," said Agnes rather diffidently, "'tis about God, andHis love to men."
"What thereabout?" replied he, continuing to look into the fire.
"Why, Master," said Agnes, "surely you do wit better than I."
"Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want," said Anne a littlepettishly. "'Twill be time enough when I have the years o' my grandame,I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome."
Agnes looked at her in amazement.
"Nan," said her father, "I heard thee this morrow a-singing of alove-song."
"Well, so may you yet again," said she, laughing.
"That made thee not gloomsome, trow?" he asked.
"Never a whit! how should it?" replied Anne, still laughing.
"Let be! but 'tis queer," said he, rising. "Man's love is merry gear;but God's love is crabbed stuff. 'Tis a strange world, my maids."
Both Helen and Anne broke into a peal of laughter; but Mr Flint wasgrave enough. He walked through the kitchen, and out at the front door,without saying more.
"What hath come o'er Father of late?" said Helen. "He is fallen to askas queer questions as Will."
"What know I?" replied Anne, "or care, for the matter of that. Come,Nell, let us sing a bit, to cheer us!"
It struck Agnes that there was not much want of cheer in that house; butHelen readily responded to her sister's wish, and they struck up apopular song.
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up, The hunt is up and away, And Harry our King is gone hunting, To bring his deer to bay.
"The east is bright with morning light, And darkness it is fled, And the merry horn wakes up the morn To leave his idle bed.
"Behold the skies with golden dyes Are glowing all around, The grass is green, and so are the treen, All laughing at the sound."
The sisters sang well, and Agnes enjoyed the music. This song wasfollowed by others, and Mistress Flint, coming down, joined in; and theeldest son, Ned, made his appearance and did the same, till there wasalmost a concert. At last Mistress Flint stopped the harmony, bydeclaring that she could not keep awake five minutes longer; and allparties made the best of their way to bed.
Mistress Winter was found, on the following morning, to have re
coveredas much of her temper as she was usually in the habit of recovering.That Joan had lost hers was nothing new; it was rarely the case thatboth mother and daughter were in an amiable mood together. The formerreceived Agnes with her customary amenities, merely suggesting, withpleasantry of her own kind, that of course 'twould be too heavy a toilfor her gracious madamship to carry the water-pails to Horsepool--thespring in West Smithfield which supplied Cow Lane--and that so soon asshe could hear tell of a gentlewoman lacking of a service, she wouldengage her at ten pound by the month to wait of her worshipfulness.Agnes made no answer in words; she only took up the pails quietly andwent out. As she came up to Horsepool, she spied her friend MistressFlint, bent on a similar errand, coming up Cock Lane.
"Dear heart, Agnes!" cried the latter. "Is there none save thee to bearthose heavy pails of water? Methinks yon lazy Joan might lift one, andbe none the worsen. She hath the strength of a horse, and thou barelyso much as a robin."
Agnes smiled her thanks for her friend's sympathy, as she let down thewater-pails.
"I am used to the same, Mistress Flint, I thank you."
"Go to,--wert thou at the Cross t' other morrow? Methought I saw thyface in the throng."
A light broke over the face, but Agnes only said, "Ay."
"How liked thee yon Friar's discourse?"
"It liked me well."
"Marry, thus said Cicely Marvell, that dwelleth by me. But for me, Isaw none so much therein to make ado o'er. `God loveth men'--ay, to besure He doth so: and `we should love God'--why, of course we so should,and do. Forsooth, what then, I pray you?"
"Why, then, much comfort, as meseemeth," answered Agnes.
"Comfort!" repeated Mrs Flint, looking at her. "Ay, poor soul, I daresay thou hast need. But I lack no comfort at this present, the blessedSacrament be thanked! I have enough and to spare."
And, half laughing, with a farewell nod, Mrs Flint took up her fullpail, and trudged away. With some surprise Agnes realised that to thischeerful, healthy, prosperous woman, the ray of light which was makingher whole soul glad, was not worth opening the windows to behold; thewine of Paradise which brimmed her cup with joy, was only common water.Perhaps, before that light could make a happy heart glad, other lightsmust be put out; before the water could be changed to wine, otherconduits must run dry. It was well for Agnes Stone that she had nothingwherewith to quench her thirst but the cup of salvation, and no light toshine upon her pathway but the light of life.
For the Master's Sake: A Story of the Days of Queen Mary Page 3
