CHAPTER SEVEN.
A SPICE OF PHILOSOPHY.
While Dan was thus detailing his troubles in Avice's kitchen, hisdaughter Emma was finishing her day's work. She was apprenticed to anembroideress; for all kinds of embroidery were in much greater use thenthan now. There was no sort of trimming except embroidery and fur;there were no such things as printed cottons; and not only ladies'dresses, but gentlemen's, and all kinds of curtains and hangings, werevery largely ornamented with the needle. Mrs De la Laund kept eighteenapprentices, and they worked in a long, narrow room with windows at eachend--not glass windows, but just square openings, where light, wind, andrain or snow, came in together. It was about half an hour before itwould be time to stop work. There was no clock in the room, and therewere only three in all Lincoln. Clocks such as we have were thenunknown. They had but two measures of time--the clepsydra, orwater-clock, and the sun-dial. When a man had neither of these, heemployed all kinds of ingenious expedients for guessing what time itwas, if the day were cloudy and the sun not to be seen. King Alfred hadinvented the plan, long before, of having candles to burn a certaintime; the monks knew how long it took to repeat certain psalms. Mrs Dela Laund stopped work when the cathedral bell tolled for vespers--thatis, at four o'clock.
"You look tired, Antigone," said Emma to her nearest neighbour, a palegirl of eighteen.
"Tired? Of course I'm tired," was the unpromising answer. "Where's thegood? One must go on."
"She does not like the work," said the girl on the other side of her.
"Do you?" responded Antigone, turning to her.
The girl gave a little laugh. "I don't think whether I like it or not,"she said. "I like being taught what will get me a living some day."
"I hate it!" answered Antigone. "Why should I have to work for myliving, when Lady Margaret, up at the Castle, never needs to put aneedle in or out unless she pleases?"
"Nay, you're wrong there. My sister Justina is scullion-maid at theCastle, and I am sure, from what she tells me, you wouldn't like tochange with Lady Margaret."
"My word, but I would!"
"Why not, Sarah?" asked Emma.
"Well," replied Sarah with a smile, "Antigone likes what she calls a bitof fun when the day's work is over; and she would not get nearly so muchas she does, if she were in Lady Margaret's place. She dwells in threechambers in her mother's tower, and never comes down except to hall,"(namely, to meals,) "with now and then a decorous dance under the eyesof the Lady Countess. No running races on the green, nor chatteringaway to everybody, nor games--except upstairs in her own room with a fewother young damsels. Antigone would think she was in prison, to be usedlike that. And learning!--why, she has to learn Latin, and surgery, andheraldry, and all sorts of needlework--not embroidery only; and cooking,and music, and I do not know what else. How would you like it,Antigone?"
"Well, at any rate, she has a change!" said Antigone, with someacerbity.
"Not quite the same thing as no work at all, for which I thought youwere longing. And no liberty, remember."
"But her gowns, Sarah, her gowns!--and her hoods, and cloaks, andeverything else! Did you see her last Saint Michael? I'd have given abit of liberty for that orange samite and those lovely blue slippers!"
Sarah laughed and gave a little shake of her head.
"I know who is fond of Hunt the Slipper," said she. "A pretty figure anorange samite gown would cut after an evening of it! I think, too, Iwould rather be free to go about on my feet than even to wear lovelyblue slippers. Nay, Antigone, you may depend upon it, there are lesspleasant things in Lady Margaret's life than orange gowns and blueslippers. We can have a say about our weddings, remember: but she willbe handed over to somebody she never saw, as like as not. I'd rather beas I am. Mother says folks' lots are more even than they like to think.Poor folks fancy that rich ones have nothing to trouble them worthmention; and a sick man thinks, if he were only well, he would not mindbeing poor; and a man in prison says that if he could but be free, hecould bear both illness and poverty. The truth is, everybody thinks hisown trouble the worst; and yet, if we had our neighbours' instead, ninetimes out of ten we should be glad to get back to our own. We know theworst of them, and often we don't of the others. So that is why I say,I'd rather be as I am."
"But people look down on you!" said Antigone.
"Well, let them. _That_ won't hurt me," answered Sarah.
"Sarah, I do believe you've not a bit of spirit!"
"I'd rather keep my spirit for what it is good for--to help me over hardplaces and along weary bits of road. All women have those at times.Mother says--"
"Where's the good of quoting old women? They have outlived theiryouth."
"Well, at any rate they lived through it, and some of them picked up abit of wisdom by the way."
"You may keep your musty wisdom to yourself! I want none of it!" saidAntigone, scornfully.
"I want all I can get," quietly responded Sarah. "Mother says (if youdon't care for it, Emma may) that discontent is the worst companion agirl can have for making everything look miserable. You'll be a dealhappier, she says, with a dry crust and a good will to it, than with aroast ox and a complaining temper."
"Ay, that's true!" said Emma, with a sigh.
"Poor Emma!" laughed Antigone. "You get enough of it, don't you, at thesmithy?"
"I would rather not talk over my mother and sisters, if you please,"returned Emma.
"Oh, you don't need to take airs, my lady. I know!"
"Come, let Emma be," said Sarah. "Let's keep our tempers, if we haven'tmuch else. There's the vesper bell!"
Antigone's work was not likely to be improved by the hasty huddled-upstyle in which it was folded, while Sarah and Emma shook theirs straightand carefully avoided creases. They had then to give it in to themistress, who stood at one end of the room, putting all away in a largecoffer. When the last girl had given in her work, Mrs De la Laundcalled for silence.
"On Thursday next," said she, "I shall give you a holiday after dinner.The Queen comes to Lincoln on that day, and I wish to give as many asare good girls the chance of seeing her enter. But I shall expect tohave no creased work like Antigone's; nor split and frayed likeGeneveva's; nor dirtied like Femiana's. Now you may go."
They had odd names for girls in those days. Among the nobles andgentry, most were like ours; young ladies of rank were Alice, Cicely,Margaret, Joan, Isabel, Emma, or Agnes: a strange name being theexception. But among working women the odd names were then the rule:they were Yngeleis, Sabelina, Orenge, Pimma, Cinelote, Argentella, andvery many more of the same high-sounding kind.
When the apprentices left the work-room, they were free to do as theyliked till seven o'clock, when they must all re-assemble there, answerto their names called over, repeat some prayers after Mrs de la Laund,and go to bed in a large loft at the top of the house. Characters cameout on these occasions. The majority showed themselves thoughtless andgiddy: they went to run races on the green, and to play games--thebetter disposed only among themselves: but the wild, adventurous spiritssoon joined a lot of idle youths as unsteady as themselves, with whomthey spent the evening in rough play, loud laughter, and not altogetherdecorous joking. The little group of sensible girls kept away from suchscenes. Most of them went to see their friends, if within reasonabledistance; those who had none at hand sat or walked quietly together.Emma and Sarah were among these.
Any person entering Lincoln on the following Wednesday would plainlyhave seen that the town was preparing for some great event. Every housedraped itself in some kind of hanging--the rich in coarse silk, thepoorer in bunting or whatever they could get. The iron hoops here andthere built into the walls for that purpose, held long pine-sticks, tobe lighted as torches after dark; and they would need careful watching,for a great deal of the city was built of wood, and if a spark lightedon the walls, a serious fire might be the result. In the numerousbalconies which projected from the better class of houses sat ladies
dressed in their handsomest garments on the Thursday morning, and belowin the street stood men and women packed tightly into a crowd, waitingfor the Queen to arrive. There was not much room in a mediaeval street,and the sheriffs did not find it easy to keep a clear passage for theroyal train. As to keeping any passage for the traffic, that would havebeen considered quite unnecessary. There was not much to keep it for;and what there was could go round by back streets, just as well as not.Few people set any value on time in the Middle Ages.
Queen Alianora was expected to arrive about twelve o'clock. She was notthe Queen Eleanor of whom we read at the beginning of the story (forAlianora is only one of the old ways of spelling Eleanor), but herdaughter-in-law, the Lady Alianora who had been a friend to the dumbPrincess. She was a Spanish lady, and was one of the best and loveliestQueens who ever reigned in England. Goodness and beauty are not alwaysfound in company--perhaps I might say, not often; but they went togetherwith her. She was a Spanish blonde--which means that her hair was abright shade of golden--neither flaxen nor red; and that her eyes were adeep, deep blue--the blue of a southern sky, such as we rarely if eversee in an English one. Her complexion was fair and rosy, her featuresregular and beautiful, her figure extremely elegant andwell-proportioned. The crowd, though good-humoured, was beginning toget tired, when she came at last.
The Queen, who was not quite thirty years of age, rode on a white horse,whose scarlet saddle-cloth was embroidered with golden lions and roses,and which was led by Garcia, her Spanish Master of the Horse. She wasdressed in green samite, trimmed with ermine. On her left hand rode theEarl of Lincoln, on her right, her eldest surviving son, the littlePrince Alphonso, who was only seven years old. He died at the age ofeleven. After the Queen rode her two damsels, Aubrey de Caumpeden andErmetrude; and after them and the officers of the household came anumber of lesser people, the mob of sight-seers closing in and followingthem up the street. [See Note 1.] Her Majesty rode up Steephill to theCastle, where the Countess of Lincoln and her daughter Lady Margaret--agirl of about fifteen--received her just inside the gate. Then the mobcheered, the Queen looked back with a smile and a bow, the Almoner flunga handful of silver pennies among them, the portcullis was hauled down,and the sight was over.
As Emma turned back from the Castle gate, she met her father and hersister Eleanor, who, like her, had been sight-seeing.
"Well!" said Dan, "did thou see her?"
"Oh yes, beautifully!" answered Emma. "Isn't she handsome, Father?"
"`Handsome is as handsome does,'" philosophically returned Dan. "Somefolks looks mighty handsome as doesn't do even to it. _She_ was justlike a pictur' when I wed her. Ay, she was, so!--Where art thou going,Emma?"
"I thought of looking in on Aunt Avice, Father. Are you and Eleanorcoming, too?"
"I'm not," said Eleanor. "I'm going to see Laurentia atte Gate. SoI'll wish you good even."
She kept straight on, while Dan and Emma turned off for Avice's house.It was not surprising that they found nobody at home but the turnspitdog, who was sufficiently familiar with both to wag a welcome; butsomebody sat in the chimney-corner who was not at home, but was avisitor like themselves. When the door was unlatched, Father Thomasclosed the book he had been reading and looked up.
"Good even, Father," said Dan to the priest. "I reckon you've come o'th' same errand as us."
"What is that, my son?"
Dan sat down on the form, and put a big hand on each knee.
"Well, it's some'at like t' shepherd comin' to count t' sheep, to see'at none of 'em's missin'," said he. "It's so easy to get lost of a bigmoor full o' pits and quagmires. And this world's some'at like it.--Ah,Avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of amixtur' when they gets home."
"A very pleasant mixture, Uncle," said Avice. "Pray you of yourblessing, holy Father."
Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on hisbroad wrinkled forehead.
"Did thou get a penny?" asked Dan.
"I got two!" cried Bertha, triumphantly. "And Aunt Avice got one. Didyou, Father?"
"Nay, lass--none o' my luck! Silver pennies and such knows better norto come my way. Nor they'd better not, without they'll come rightnumber. I should get tore to bits if I went home wi' one, as like asnot. She 'd want it, and so 'd Ankaret, and so 'd Susanna, and so 'dMildred; and atwixt 'em all it 'd get broke i' pieces, and _so_ shouldI. And see thou, it's made i' quarters, and I amn't, so it wouldn'tcome so convenient to me."
Pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that theywere easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for therewere no separate ones coined.
"Father, have one of mine!" cried Bertha at the beginning of Dan'sanswer.
"Nay, nay, lass! Keep thy bit o' silver--or if thou wants to give it,let Emma have it. She'll outlive it; I shouldn't."
The silver penny changed hands at once. Avice had meanwhile beenhanging up her hood and cloak, and she now proceeded to prepare a dishof eggs, foreseeing company to supper. Supper was exceedingly earlyto-day, as it was scarcely three o'clock; but dinner had been equallyso, for nobody wanted to be busy when the Queen came. A large dish of"eggs and butter" was speedily on the table--the "buttered eggs" of thenorth of England, which are, I believe, identical with the "scrambledeggs" of the United States. The party sat down to supper, Father Thomasbeing served with a trencher to himself.
"And how dost thou get along wi' thy Missis, my lass?" said Dan to hisdaughter.
"Oh, things is very pleasant as yet, Father," answered Emma with asmile. "There's a mixture, as you said just now. Some's decent lassesenough; and some's foolish; and some's middlin'. There's most of themiddlin' ones."
"I'm fain to hear it," said Dan. "Lasses is so foolish, I should ha'thought there 'd be most o' that lot. So 's lads too. Eh, it's a queerworld, this un: mortal queer! But I asked thee how thou got on with thyMissis, and thou tells me o' th' lasses. Never _did_ know a womananswer straight off. Ask most on 'em how far it is to Newark, andthey'll answer you that t' wind was west as they come fro' Barling."
"Thou hast not a good opinion of women, my son," said Father Thomas, wholooked much amused.
"I've seen too much on 'em!" responded Dan, conclusively. "I've got awife and six lasses."
"Bertha, we'd better mind our ways!" said Emma, laughing.
"Nay, it's none you," was Dan's comment. "You're middlin' decent, youtwo. So's Avice; and so's old Christopher's Regina. I know of ne'eranother, without it 's t' cat--and she scratches like t' rest when she'sput out. There _is_ other decent 'uns, happen. They haven't come myway yet."
"Why, Father!" cried Emma. "Think who you're lumping together--the LadyQueen, and my Lady at the Castle, and Lady Margaret, and the Dean'ssister, and--"
"Thou'll be out o' breath, if thou reckons all thou'st heard tell of,"said Dan. "There's cats o' different sorts, child: some's snowy white(when so be they've none been i' th' ash-hole), and some's tabby, andsome's black as iron; but they all scrats. Women's like 'em.--You'rewise men, you parsons and such, as have nought to do wi' 'em. OldChristopher, my neighbour up at smithy, he says weddin's like a bag fullo' snakes wi' one eel amongst 'em: you ha' to put your hand in, and youmay get th' eel. But if you dunna--why you've got to do t' best you canwi' one o' t' other lot. If you'll keep your hand out of the bag you'llstand best chance of not getting bit."
"It is a pity thou wert not a monk, my son," said the priest, whosegravity seemed hard to keep.
"Ay, it is!" was Dan's hearty response. "I'm alway fain to pass anunnery. Says I to myself, There's a bonnie lot o' snakes safe tied upout o' folkses' way. They'll never fly at nobody no more. I'm fain forthe men as hasn't got 'em. Ay, I am!"
Avice and her young cousins laughed.
"Do you think they never fly at one another, Uncle Dan?" asked theformer.
"Let 'em!" returned that gentleman with much cordiality. "A man gets abit o' peace then. It's t' only t
ime he does. If they'd just go andmake a reg'lar end o' one another! but they never does,"--and the smithpushed away his trencher with a sigh. "Well! I reckon I mun be going.She gave me while four:--and I'm feared o' vesper bell ringing afore Ican get home. There'll be more bells nor one, if so. God be wi' ye,lasses! Good even, Father."
And the door was shut on the unhappy husband of the delightful Filomena.Emma took leave soon after, and Bertha went with her, to see anotherfriend before she returned to her employer's house. Avice and thepriest were left alone. For a few minutes both were silent; but perhapstheir thoughts were not very unlike.
"I wish, under your leave, Father," said Avice at length, "that somebodywould say a word to Aunt Filomena. I am afraid both she and Uncle Danare very ignorant. Truly, so am I: and it should be some one who knowsbetter. I doubt if he quite means all he says; but he thinks too ill ofwomen,--and indeed, with five such as he has at home, who can wonder atit? He has no peace from morning to night; and he is naturally a manwho loves peace and quiet--as you are yourself, holy Father, unless Imistake."
"Thou art not mistaken, my daughter," said Father Thomas. Somethinginside him was giving him a sharp prick or two. Did he love quiet toomuch, so as to interfere with his duties to his fellow-men? And thensomething else inside the priest's heart rose up, as it were, to pressdown the question, and bid the questioner be silent.
"I wonder," said Avice, innocently, quite unaware of the course of hercompanion's thoughts, "whether, if Aunt Filomena knew her duty better,she might not give poor Uncle Dan a little more rest. He is good, inhis way, and as far as he knows. I wish I knew more! But then," Aviceconcluded, with a little laugh, "I am only a woman."
"Yet thou art evidently one of the few whom he likes and respects,"answered the priest. "Be it thine, my daughter, to show him that womenare not all of an evil sort. Do thy best, up to the light thou hast;and cry to God for more light, so that thou mayest know how to dobetter. `Pour forth thy prayers to Him,' as saith the Collect for theFirst Sunday after the Epiphany, `that thou mayest know what thy dutyrequires of thee, and be able to comply with what thou knowest.' It isa good prayer, and specially for them that are perplexed concerningtheir duty." [See Note 2.]
"But when one does know one's duty," asked Avice with simplicity, "itseems so hard to make one's self do it."
"Didst thou ever yet do that? Daughter, dost thou believe in the HolyGhost?"
Avice's immediate answer was what would be the instinctive unthinkingresponse of most professing Christians.
"Why, Father, of course I do!"
"Good. What dost thou believe?"
Avice was silent. "Ah!" said the priest. "It is easy to think webelieve: but hard to put our faith into plain words. If the faith wereclearer, maybe the words would follow."
"It is so difficult to get things clear and plain!" sighed poor Avice.
"Have one thing clear, daughter--the way between God and thine own soul.Let nothing come in to block up that--however fair, howsoever dear itbe. And thou shalt have thy reward."
"Father, is it like keeping other things clear? The way to have thefloor clear and clean is to sweep it every morning."
"Ay, my daughter, sweep it every morning with the besom of prayer, andevery night bear over it the torch of self-examination. So shall theevil insects not make their nests there."
"I don't quite know how to examine myself," said Avice.
"And thou wilt err," answered Father Thomas, "if thou set about thatwork alone, with a torch lighted at the flame of thine ownrighteousness. Light thy torch at the fire of God's altar; examinethyself by the light of His holy law; and do it at His feet, so thatwhatever evil thing thou mayest find thou canst take at once to Him tobe cleansed away. Content not thyself with brushing away thoughts, butgo to the root of that same sin in thine own heart. Say not, `I shouldnot have spoken proudly to my neighbour'--but, `I should not be proud inmy heart.' Deal rather with the root that is in thee than with thebranches of acts and words. There are sins which only to think of is todo. Take to our Lord, then, thy sins to be cleansed away; but let thineown thoughts dwell not so much on thy sins, thy deeds done and wordssaid, but rather on thy sinfulness, the inward fount of sin in thynature."
"That were ugly work!" said Avice.
"Ay. I reckon thou countest not the scouring of thy floor among thineenjoyments. But it is needful, my daughter: and is it no enjoyment tosee it clean?"
"Ay, that it is," admitted Avice.
"I remember, my child, many years ago--thou wert but a little maid--thatholy Bishop Robert came to sup with thy grandmother Muriel. Tell me,wouldst thou have been satisfied--I say not as a little child, sincechildren note not such things--but as a woman, wouldst thou have beensatisfied to receive the holy Bishop with a dirty floor, and offer tohim an uncleansed spoon to put to his lips?"
"Oh no, Father, surely not!"
"Then see, daughter, that when the Bishop of thy soul lifteth the latchto come in and sup with thee, He find not the soiled floor and theunclean vessel, and turn sorrowfully away, saying, `I thought to supwith My child this night, but this is no place for Me.' Trust me, thouwilt lose more than He, if He close the door and depart."
Avice's eyes filled with tears.
"O Father, pray for me! I cannot bear to think of that."
Father Thomas rose and laid his hand on Avice's head. His words, ascoming from a priest, rather surprised her.
"My child," he said softly, "let us pray for each other."
Avice stood looking out of the window after him as he went down thestreet.
"I wonder," she said to herself, "if our Lord ever turned away thusbecause Father Thomas's chamber was not clean! He seemed to know whatit was so well--yet how could such a good, holy man know anything aboutit?"
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Note 1. Aubrey is now a man's name only, but in the earlier hall of theMiddle Ages it was used for both sexes.
Note 2. This collect was slightly altered from that in the SarumMissal. The form here quoted is the older one.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
AS A LITTLE CHILD.
If you put a single straw into an eddying stream, other straws and bitsof rubbish of all sorts will come and join it, until by and bye it lookslike a little island in the midst of the water. And we often seesomething like this going on in men's minds. A man drops one idea,which another man takes up and considers, till ideas of his own come tojoin it, many things seen and heard contribute their help, and at lastthe single sentence grows into a mountain of action.
Avice would have been astonished if any one had told her that she hadmade an island. But her simple suggestion fell like an odd straw intothe stream of Father Thomas's thoughts, and grew and grew there, until afew days later it led to decided action.
Father Thomas was by nature a quiet man. His temper was gentle andeven; he hated everything like noise and bustle, far more tumult andquarrelling. He was not fond even of conversation, except now and thenas a pleasant variety to a quiet life, full of thinking and reading. Aman of this sort is generally an innocent man--by which I mean, a manwho does no harm to his neighbours: and considering how many men andwomen spend their lives in doing their neighbours harm of one sort oranother, that is a good deal to say of any man. But there is anotherpoint to be taken into account, namely, what good does such a man do?Why, no more than a chrysalis. And he is a poor specimen of manhood whois content to be of no more use in the world than a chrysalis, and to beas little missed when he goes out of it. This was the point whichtroubled Father Thomas's meditations. It was as if an angel had comedown to him, and pointed to the old smithy on the green, and said, "Whatare you doing for those people? God will demand an account of theirsouls, some day, and from somebody. Are you not your brothers' keeper?"Hitherto Father Thomas had gone on very comfortably, with a reflectionwhich serves a great many of us to excuse our pride or our laziness--Iwish it might ne
ver be heard again from human lips--"It is not myplace." It was true, in one sense. The smithy was in Newport parish,and Father Thomas belonged to the Cathedral. He tried to quiet theangel--which was really his own conscience--with the thought that he hadno business to intrude into somebody else's parish. But the angel wouldnot be quiet.
"Will God take that answer at the Judgment Day?" he said. "You knowvery well that the Vicar of Newport is an idle, careless man, who nevertroubles himself about the souls of his people: that so long as youobserve the proper forms of civility, and ask his leave to visit thesepeople, he will give it you in a minute, and be glad enough to think heis saved the trouble. That is the truth, and you know it."
Now, it is very unpleasant when one's conscience says in that blunt,downright, cutting way, "You know it:" and Father Thomas found it so.He made a few more excuses, which his conscience blew to the windsbefore they were well finished: and at last it laid hold of him, as itwere, by the shoulders, and said, "Look there!"
Father Thomas looked there--at the cross which then hung in everyclergyman's room. There were two lines carved on the wood at the bottomof this--lines which it was then not unusual to put at the bottom ofthese crosses.
"This did I for thee; What dost thou for Me?"
"Look there!" cried the Angel Conscience. "Christ bore that heavy crossfor you--bore the reviling and the agony, the spitting, the scourging,and the shame; and you won't face the Vicar of Newport for Him! Youcan't walk half a mile, and ask a civil question of a man from whom youexpect a civil answer, for love of the Man who came down all the wayfrom Heaven to earth, and endured all the contradiction of sinners forthree-and-thirty years, and faced all the malice of the devil, for thelove of you! Are you ashamed of yourself, Thomas de Vaux, or are younot?"
When it reached that point, Father Thomas was painting in a book. Booksin those days were often ornamented with very beautiful paintings: andthe one on which the priest was working, represented Peter denyingChrist in the High Priest's palace. He had just painted one side ofPeter's hair, but the other side was still blank. But when the Angelasked that question, down went the brush.
"Lord, pardon Thy servant!" said Father Thomas humbly. "I am not worthyto carry so much as the corner of Thy cross after Thee. But I will takeit up, and go forth. Indeed, I did not know I was such a selfish, lazy,ease-loving man as I am!"
Saint Peter had to put up with only half his hair for the rest of thatday, for Father Thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw acloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, puton his fur cap, and went off to see the Vicar of Newport.
When a man braces himself up to do something which he does not like forthe love of God, sometimes God makes it a great deal easier and lessdisagreeable than he expected to find it. The Vicar was just coming outof his door as Father Thomas reached it.
"A fine day--peace be with thee!" said he. "Whither go you, Brother?"
"May I have your leave, Father, to visit one of your parishioners--thesmith that dwells about a mile hence, on the Newport road?"
"The saints love you! you may visit every man Jack of my parishioners,and take my blessing with you!" said the Vicar with a hearty laugh. "Iam not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellowsof that sort. I never know what to say to them, save hear confession,and they never have nought to say to me. You are cut from anotherquality of stuff, I reckon. Go your way, Brother Thomas, and makedecent Christians of them if you can. There's a she-bear lives there: Iwish you luck with her."
And with a farewell nod, the careless Vicar strode away.
"And into such hands as these, men's souls are given!" thought FatherThomas. "Lord, purify Thy Church! Ah, dear old Bishop! you might wellweep in dying."
He walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. DanielGreensmith's ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct andat last the words he was singing as he worked came to the priest's ears:
"All things turn unto decay, Fall, and die, and pass away. Sinketh tower and droppeth wall, Cloth shall fray and horse shall fall, Flesh shall die and iron rust, Pass and perish all things must. Well I understand and say, All shall die, both priest and lay; And small time, for praise or blame, When man dieth, lives his fame."
Note. This is translated from an old French poem, written before thetime of the story.
Father Thomas stopped beside the anvil, but the smith's back was turned,so that he did not see him.
"A sad song, my friend--if that were all."
"Eh?" said Dan, looking behind him, and then immediately throwing downthe hammer, and giving a pull to his forelock. Great respect was paidto priests at that day. "Axe your pardon, Father! Didn't see who itwere."
"I came to see thy wife, my son. Shall I go forward?"
"Not if you're o' my mind. Happen you aren't."
"Is she not at home?"
"Oh, ay, she's at home!"
The smith's tone might have meant that he could have wished she wassomewhere else. Father Thomas waited, till Dan flung down the hammer,and looked up at him.
"Had ye e'er a mother?" asked he.
"Ay," replied the priest.
"Was she one 'at took th' andirons to you when you didn't suit her?"
"Truly, no. She was a full good and gentle woman."
"And had ye e'er a sister?"
"Ay; three."
"Was they given to rugging your hair when they wasn't pleased?"
"Not at all, my son."
"Ah! you'd best go home, I reckon."
"What meanest thou?" asked Father Thomas, feeling much amused at thevery unusual style of Dan's reception.
"Well!" said Dan, passing his fingers through his hair, "I mean, ifthat's the way you was fetched up, you don't know the animal you've gotto deal with here. There's five dragons i' that house o' mine: and eachon 'em's got teeth and claws, and they knows how to use 'em, they does.If one on 'em wern't a bit better nor t'others, and did not come andstand by me now and then, I should ne'er ha' lived to talk to you thiseven. Nay, I shouldn't! Best go home, Father, while you've getten acoat on your back, and some hair on your head."
"Is it so bad as that?"
"Ah, it is!" was Dan's short but emphatic reply.
"But surely, my son, thy wife would never use a man ill that meant hergood?"
"Think she'll stop to ask your meanin'?" said Dan, with a contemptuousgrunt. "If she's not changed sin' I come fro' dinner, she'll be a-topof you before you can say `mercy.' And she's none a comfortable thingto have a-top of you, I give you fair warning."
"How was she at supper, then?--no better?"
"Supper! I durstn't go in for no supper. I likes hunger better nor afray. Happen El'nor 'll steal out to me with a crust after dark. Shedoes, sometimes."
"And how long does it take thy wife to cool down?"
Dan rubbed his forehead with his blackened hand.
"I was wed to her," said he, "th' year afore the great frost, if youknow when that were--and I'd better have been fruz, a deal. I've had itmortal hot ever since. She's had that time to cool down in, and she'sno cooler nor she were then. Rather, if either, t'other way on, Ireckon."
Before Father Thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever methis ears came out of the window of the smithy.
"Ankaret!" it said. "Ankaret! An-ka-ret!"
"Ha! That's Her!" whispered Dan, as if he were awed by the sound.
An answering scream, as shrill, but scarcely so loud, came from theneighbouring cottage.
"Whatever do you want now?" said the second shriek.
"What dost thou yonder, thou slatternly minx?" returned the first."I'll mash every bone of thee, if thou doesn't come in this minute!"
"Then I sha'n't!" shrieked the second voice. "Two can play at that."
"Who is Ankaret?" asked Father Thomas of the smith.
"She's th' eldest o' th' dragons--that's our Ank'ret," said Dan in thesame half
-frightened whisper. "If you mun face Her, you'd best do itwhile Ank'ret's next door: both on 'em's too much for any man. Th'Angel Gabriel couldn't match the pair on 'em: leastwise, if he comesdown to axe me, _I_ sha'n't send him forward. And don't you go and sayI sent you, now. For pity's sake, don't!"
Father Thomas walked off, and knocked at the house door. He wasbeginning to think that if the former part of his task had been easierthan he expected, the latter was going to prove more difficult. Thedoor was opened by a young woman.
"Good day, my daughter. Is thy mother within?"
"She's here, Father. Pray you, come in."
The priest stepped inside, and sat down on a bench. For those times,the house was comfortable, and it was very clean. The young womandisappeared, and presently a pair of heavy boots came clattering downthe stairs, and Father Thomas felt pretty sure that the sweet Filomenaherself stood before him.
"Now then, what do _you_ want?" quoth she, in a tone which did not soundas if she were delighted to see her visitor.
"My daughter, I am a priest," said Father Thomas gently; "and I am cometo see thee for thy good."
"I've got eyes!" snapped Filomena. "Can't I see you're a priest?What's the good of such as you? Fat, lazy fellows that lives on thebest o' the land, wrung out of the hard earnings o' the poor, and neverdoes a stroke o' work theirselves, but sits a-twirling o' their thumbsall day long. That's what you are--the whole boiling of you! Get youout o' my house, or I'll help you!"
And Filomena took up a formidable-looking mop which stood in the corner,as if to let the priest clearly understand the sort of help which sheproposed to give him. She had tried this style of reception when theVicar took the liberty of calling on her some months before, with theresult that the appalled gentleman in question never ventured to renewhis visit, and told the anecdote with many shakes of the head over "thatshe-bear up at the smithy." She understood how to deal with a man ofthe Vicar's stamp, and she mistakenly fancied that all priests were ofhis sort. Sadly too many of them were such lazy, careless,self-indulgent men, who, having just done as much work as served toprevent the Bishop or their consciences (when they kept any) frombecoming troublesome, let all the rest go, and thought their duty done.But Father Thomas, as the Vicar had said, was cut from another kind ofstuff. Very sensitive to rudeness or unkindness, his feelings were notpermitted to override his duty of perseverance: and while he dearlyloved peace, he was not ready to buy it at the cost of something morevaluable than itself. While he might be slow to see his duty, yet onceseen, it would not escape him again.
The personal taunts which Filomena had launched at him he simply putaside as not worth an answer. They did not apply to him. He wasneither fat nor lazy: and if Filomena were so ignorant as to fancy thatthe clergy were paid out of the earnings of the poor, what did itmatter, when he knew they were not? He went straight to the root of thething. His words were gentle enough, but his tone was one of authority.
"Daughter, what an unhappy woman thou art!"
Filomena's fingers slowly unclosed from the mop, which fell back intothe corner. Father Thomas said no more: he merely kept his eyes uponher. His calm dignity took effect at last. Her angry eyes fell beforehis unchanged look. She was not accustomed to hear her abuse answeredin this manner.
"I just am!" she muttered with intense bitterness.
"Dost thou wish to be happy?"
"That's none for the like of us. It's only for rich folks, isn'tthat,--folks as has all they wants, and a bit over."
"No man has that," said Father Thomas, "except the little children whosit at the feet of Jesus Christ. Become thou as a little child, andhappiness shall come to seek thee."
"Me a little child!" There was no merriment in the laugh whichaccompanied the words.
"Ay, even thou. For `if there be a new creature in Christ, old thingspass away; behold, all things are made new.' [Note. 3 Corinthians five17, Vulgate version.] That is the very childhood, my daughter--to bemade new. Will thou have it? It may be had for the asking, if it beasked of God by a true heart--that childhood of grace, which is meek,patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. For it is not thou thatcanst conquer Satan, but Christ in thee, that shall first conquer thee.Thou in Christ--this is safety: Christ in thee--here is strength. Seek,and thou shalt find. Farewell."
And without giving Filomena time to answer, Father Thomas turned away,and was lost in a moment behind the bushes which separated the cottagefrom the smithy. She stood for a minute where he left her, as if shehad been struck to stone. The whole style of his address was to hersomething completely new, and so unlike anything she had expected thatfor once in her life she was at a loss.
Filomena took up the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead, as ifshe were settling her brains into their places.
"Well, that's a queer set-out!" said she at last, to nobody, for she wasleft alone. "Me a baby! Whatever would the fellow be at? I reckon Iwas one once. Eh, but it would be some queer to get back again! Whatdid he say? `Meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble.'_That's_ not me! Old Dan wouldn't think he'd picked up his own wife, ifI were made new o' that fashion. It didn't sound so bad, though.Wonder how it 'd be if I tried it! That chap said it would make mehappy. I'm none that, neither, nor haven't been these many years. Ehdeary me! to think of me a baby!"
While these extremely new ideas were seething in Filomena's mind, FatherThomas reached the smithy.
"Glad to see you!" said Dan, laying down his hammer. "You did not 'bideso long!" with a grim smile.
"Long enough," said the priest shortly.
"I believe you! If you wasn't glad to get your back turned, you liked atussle wi' a dragon better nor most folks. Was she white-hot, or no-but[Only] red? El'nor, she came down to me while you was in there, wi' ahunch o' bread and cheese, and she said it were gettin' smoother a bitnor it had been most part o' th' day. What said she to you?"
"Less than I said to her."
"You dunnot mean she hearkened you?"
"Not at first. But in the end, she hearkened me, and made me noanswer."
Dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot.
"Well!" said he, and shook his head slowly. "Well!" and wiped his facewith his apron, "Well!" he exclaimed a third time. "If I'd ha' knowed!I'd ha' given forty marks [Note 1.] to see th' like o' that. Eh, do'bide a minute, and let me take th' measure on you! T' chap that couldstrike our Filomena dumb mun ha' come straight fro' Heaven, for thereisn't his like o' earth! Now, Father, do just tell a body, what did yousay to her?"
"I told her how to be happy."
Dan stared. "She wants no tellin' that, I'll go bail! she's got everymortal thing her own way."
"That is not the way to be happy," answered the priest. "Nay, my son,she is a most unhappy woman, and her face shows it. Thou art happierfar than she."
Dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if Father Thomashad not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would havetold him so.
"Me happier nor our Filomena! Me! Father, dunnot be angered wi' me,but either you're downright silly, or you're somewhat more nor otherfolks."
"I have told thee the truth, my son. Now, wilt thou do somewhat to helpthy wife to be happy? If she is happy, she will be humble and meek--happy, that is, in the way I mean."
"I'll do aught as 'll make our Filomena meek," replied Dan, with a shakeof his grizzled head: "but how that's going to be shaped beats me, I cantell you. Mun I climb up to th' sky and stick nails into th' moon?"
"Nay," said the priest with a smile. "Thou shalt pray God to make heras a little child."
"That's a corker, _that_ is!" Dan picked up the hammer, and beganmeditatively to fashion a nail. "Our Ank'ret were a babby once," saidhe, as if to himself. "She were a bonnie un, too. She were, so! Iused to sit o' th' bench at th' door of an even, wi' her on my knee,a-smilin' up like--eh, Father, but I'll tell you what, if them timescould come back, it 'd be enough to make a ch
ap think he'd getten intoHeaven by mistake."
"I trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in Heaven, not bymistake," said the priest. "But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care togo the right road thither."
"Which road's that, Father?"
"It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the doorto it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for theeand me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?"
"Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great wayup, and I'm down here i' t' smithy."
"He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt butask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earthsave into sin, if so be He may have man's company. `Greater than thislove hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.'"
"Well, that stands to reason," said Dan. "When man gives his life, hegives all there is of him."
"Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life tosave thine?"
"I reckon it 'd be harder to help it, Father."
Father Thomas turned as if to go. "My son," said he, "wilt thou let theLord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne,--`I gave all there was ofMe for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'"
The big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. Hissimple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ranover. Men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to theirmanliness to let their hearts be seen. Perhaps they were wiser than weare.
"Eh, Father, but you never mean it'd be like that?" cried poor Dan."Somehow, it never come real to me, like as you've put it. Do you mean'at He _cares_--that it makes any matter to Him up yonder, whether oldDan at t' smithy loves Him or not? I'm no-but a common smith. There'shundreds just like me. Does He really care, think you?"
"Thou art a man," said the priest, "and it was for men Christ died. Andthere is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. Is atrue mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because thereare hundreds of babes in the world? Nay, Daniel Greensmith, it was forthee the Lord Christ shed His blood on the cruel cross, and it isthyself whose love and thanksgivings He will miss, though all the harpsof all the angels make music around His ear. Shall He miss them anylonger, my son?"
Once more Dan threw aside the big hammer--this time on the inner side ofthe smithy.
"Father," said he, "you've knocked me clean o'er. I never knowed tillnow as it were real."
"As a little child!" said Father Thomas to himself, as he went back toLincoln. "The road into the kingdom will be far smoother for him thanher. Yet the good Lord can lead them both there."
The very next visit that Dan paid to Avice and Bertha showed themplainly that a change of some sort had come over him, and as time wenton they saw it still more plainly. His heart had opened to the love ofChrist like a flower to the sunlight. The moment that he really sawHim, he accepted Him. With how many is it not the case that they do notlove Christ because they do not know Him, and they do not know Himbecause no one of those who do puts Him plainly before them?
It was much longer before Father Thomas and Avice saw any fruit of theirprayers for Filomena. There was so much more to undo in her case thanin her husband's, that the growth was a great deal slower and lessapparent. Avice discovered that Dan's complaints were fewer, but sheset it down entirely to the change in himself, long before she noticedthat Filomena's voice was less sharp, and her fats of fury lessfrequent. But at length the day came when Filomena, having beenbetrayed into a very mild copy of one of her old storms of temper, wouldsuddenly catch herself up and walk determinately out of the back doortill she grew cool: and when she came back would lay her hand upon herhusband's shoulder, and say--
"Dan, old man, I'm sorry I was bad to thee. Forgive me!"
And Dan, at first astounded beyond measure, grew to accept thisconclusion as a matter of course, and to say--
"Let her alone, and she'll come round."
And then Avice's eyes were opened.
One day, when she was unusually softened by the death of Susanna's baby,Filomena opened her heart to her niece.
"Eh, Avice, it's hard work! Nobody knows how hard, that hasn't had atemper as mastered 'em. I've pretty nigh to bite my tongue through,many a time a day. I wish I'd begun sooner--I do! It'd ha' come easiera deal then. But I'm trying hard, and I hope our Lord'll help me. Thoudoes think He'll help me, doesn't thou, Avice? I'm not too bad, am I?"
"Father Thomas says, Aunt," replied Avice, "that God helps all those whowant His help: and the worse we are, the more we want of His mercy."
"That's true!" said Filomena.
"And Father Thomas says," continued Avice, "that we must all go to ourLord just like little children, ready to take what He sees good for us,and telling Him all our needs of body and soul, as a child would tellits mother."
They were walking slowly up Steephill when Avice said this.
"Father Thomas has one apt scholar," said the priest's unexpected voicebehind her. "But it was a Greater than I, my daughter, who told Hisdisciples that `whosoever did not receive the kingdom of God as a littlechild, should in no wise enter therein.'"
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Note 1. A mark was 13 shillings 4 pence, and was the largest piece ofmoney then known.
THE END.
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