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diff --git a/23121.txt b/23121.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..13d3f8d --- /dev/null +++ b/23121.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3719 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Little Lady, by Emily Sarah Holt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Our Little Lady + Six Hundred Years Ago + +Author: Emily Sarah Holt + +Illustrator: M. Irwin + +Release Date: October 20, 2007 [EBook #23121] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LITTLE LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + + + + +Our Little Lady--Six Hundred Years Ago, by Emily Sarah Holt. + +________________________________________________________________________ + +This is one of the approximately thirty books by Emily Holt about life +in the Middle Ages. The language of the book is basically English as +we would understand it, strongly flavoured with words and phrases from +the Middle Ages. The other thing that comes across strongly is how +different the attitudes to life were in those days. + +Avice, one of the elder women in the book, tells the story of how she +had become a nursery-maid in the Royal Palace, first at Windsor, and +then later at Westminster. One of the princesses she had to look after +was a most beautiful child, but had been born deaf and dumb. She had +various gestures with which she communicated, but the sadness was, that +they never could teach her to pray. Yet they were sure she spoke to +Christ in her own way. The poor child died young. This all took place +at the end of the thirteenth century, hence the six hundred years of the +title. + +________________________________________________________________________ + +OUR LITTLE LADY, SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. + + + +CHAPTER ONE. + +SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO--WHAT THINGS WERE LIKE. + +The afternoon service was over in Lincoln Cathedral, and the +congregation were slowly filing out of the great west door. But that +afternoon service was six hundred years ago, and both the Cathedral and +the congregation would look very strange to us if we saw them now. +Those days were well called the Dark Ages, and how dark they were we can +scarcely realise in the present day. Let us fancy ourselves coming out +of that west door, and try to picture what we should have seen there, +six hundred years ago. + +The Cathedral itself is hardly to be known. It is crowded with painted +images and embroidered banners, and filled with the smoke and scent of +burning incense. The clergy are habited, not in white surplices or in +black gowns, but in large stiff cloaks--copes they are called--of +scarlet silk, heavy with gold embroidery. The Bishop, who is in the +pulpit, wears a cope of white, thick with masses of gold, and on his +head is a white and gold mitre. How unlike that upper chamber, where +the disciples gathered together after the crucifixion of their Master! +Is it better or worse, do you ask? Well, I think if the Master were to +come in, it would be easier to see Him in the quiet upper chamber, where +there was nothing else to see, than in the perfumed and decorated +Cathedral where there was so much else! + +But now let us look at the congregation as they pass out. Are they all +women? for all alike seem to wear long skirts and thick hoods: there are +neither trousers, nor hats, nor bonnets. No, there is a fair sprinkling +of men; but men and women dressed more alike then than they do now. You +will see, if you look, that some of these long skirts are open in front, +and you may catch a glimpse of a beard here and there under the hood. +This is a poor woman who comes now: she wears a serge dress which has +cost her about three-halfpence a yard, and a threadbare hood for which +she may have given sixpence. + +Are things so cheap, then? No, just the other way about; money is so +dear. The wages of a mason or a bricklayer are about sixpence a week; +haymakers have the same; reapers get from a shilling to half-a-crown, +and mowers one and ninepence. The gentlemen who wait on the King +himself only receive a shilling a day. + +Here comes one of them, in a long green robe of shining silky stuff, +which is called samite; round his neck is a curiously cut collar of dark +red cloth, and in his hand he carries a white hood. Men do not confine +themselves to the quiet, sober colours that we are accustomed to see; +they are smarter than the ladies themselves. This knight, as he passes +out, throws his gown back, before mounting his horse, and you see his +yellow hose striped with black--trousers and stockings all in a piece, +as it were--with low black shoes, and gilt spurs. + +But who follows him?--this superbly dressed woman in rich blue +glistening samite, with a black and gold hood, under which we see her +hair bound with a golden fillet, and a necklace of costly pearls clasped +round her throat--for it is a warm day, and she has not tied her hood. +She must be somebody of consequence, for a smart gentleman leads her by +the hand, and one with a long staff walks in front, to keep the people +from pressing too close on her. She is indeed somebody of consequence-- +the Countess of Lincoln herself, by birth an Italian Princess; and she +is so grand, and so rich, and so beautiful and stately--and I am sorry +to add, so proud--that people call her the Queen of Lincoln. She has +not far to go home--only through the archway, and past Saint Michael's +Church and the Bull Gate, and then the great portcullis of the grim old +Castle lifts its head to receive its lady, and she disappears from our +sight. + +Do you notice that carpets are spread along the streets for her?--not +carpets like ours, but the only sort they have, which are a kind of +rough matting. And indeed she needs them, if those purple velvet shoes +of hers are not to be quite ruined by the time she reaches home. For +there are no pavements, and the streets are almost ankle-deep in mud, +and worse than mud. Dead cats, rotten vegetables, animal refuse, and +every kind of abominable thing that you could see or think of, all lie +about in heaps, in these narrow, narrow streets, where the sun can +hardly get down to the ground, and two people might sometimes shake +hands from opposite windows in the upper stories, for they come farther +out than the lower ones. Everybody throws all his rubbish into the +street; all his slops, all his ashes, all his everything of which he +wants to get rid. The smells are something dreadful, as soon as you +come out of the perfumed churches. It is pleasanter to have the +churches perfumed, undoubtedly; but it would be a good deal healthier if +they kept the streets clean. + +Quietly following the grand young Countess, at a respectful distance, +come two women who are evidently mother and daughter. Their dress shows +that they are not absolutely poor, but it tells at least as plainly that +they are not at all rich. Just as they reach the west door, a little +girl of ten comes quickly after them, dressed just like themselves, a +woman in miniature. + +"Why, Avice, where hast thou been?" says the elder of the two women. + +"I was coming, Grandmother," explains little Avice, "and Father Thomas +called me, and bade me tell you that the holy Bishop would come to see +you this afternoon, and sup his four-hours with you." + +Four-hours, taken as its name shows at four o'clock, was the meal which +answered to our tea. Bishops do not often drink tea with women of this +class, but this was a peculiar Bishop, and the woman to whom he sent +this message was his own foster-sister. + +"Truly, and I shall be glad to see him," says the Grandmother; and on +they go out of the west door. + +The carpets which were spread for the Countess have been rolled away, +and our three humble friends pick their steps as best they may among the +dirt-heaps, occasionally slipping into a puddle--I am afraid Avice now +and then walks into it deliberately for the fun of the splash!--and +following the road taken by the Countess as far as the Bull Gate, they +then turn to the left, leaving the frowning Castle on their right, and +begin to descend the steep slope well named Steephill. + +They have not gone many yards when two people overtake them--a man and a +woman. The man stops to speak: the woman marches on with her arms +folded and her head in the air, as if they were invisible. + +"Good morrow, Dan," says the old lady. + +"Good morrow, Mother," answers Dan. + +"What's the matter with Filomena?" + +"A touch of the old complaint, that's all," answers Dan drily. "We'd a +few words o' th' road a-coming--leastwise she had, for she got it pretty +much to herself--and for th' next twelve hours or so she'll not be able +to see anybody under a squire." + +"Is she often like that, Dan?" + +"Well, it doesn't come more days than seven i' th' week." + +"Why, you don't mean to say it's so every day?" said Agnes, the younger +woman of our trio. + +Dan shook his head. "Happen there's an odd un now and then as gets let +off," said he. "But I must after her, or there'll be more hot water. +And it comes to table boilin', I can tell you. Good morrow!" + +Dan runs rather heavily after his incensed spouse, and our friends +continue to pick their way down Steephill. For rather more than half +the way they go, and when just past the Church of Saint Lawrence, they +turn into a narrow street on the left, and in a few yards more they are +at home. + +Home is one of the smallest houses you ever saw. It has only two rooms, +one above the other; but they are a fair size, being about twenty-five +feet by sixteen. The upper, of course, is the bedroom; the lower one is +kitchen and parlour; and a ladder leads from one to the other. The +upper chamber holds a bed, which is like a box out of which the bottom +has been taken, filled with straw, and on that is a hard straw mattress, +two excessively coarse blankets, and a thick, shaggy, woollen rug for a +counterpane. There are not any sheets or pillow-cases; but a thick, +hard bolster, stuffed like the mattress with straw, serves for a pillow. + +At the foot of the oak bedstead is a large oak chest, big enough to hold +a man, in which the owners keep all their small property of any value. +There are no chairs, but the deep windows have wooden seats, and two +wooden stools are in the corners. As to wardrobes, chests of drawers, +dressing-tables, and washstands, nobody knows of such things at that +day. The chest serves the purpose of all except the washstand, and they +find that (as much as they have of it) at the draw-well in the little +back yard. The window is just a square hole in the wall, closed with a +wooden shutter, so that light and air--if not wind and rain--come in +together. A looking-glass they have, but a poor makeshift it is, being +of metal and rounded; and those who know what a comical aspect your face +takes when you see it in a metal teapot, can guess how far anybody could +see himself rightly in it. It is nailed up, too, so high on the wall +that it is not easy to see anything. This is all the furniture of the +bedroom. + +Downstairs there is more though there are no chairs and tables, unless a +leaf-table in the wall, which lets down, can go by that name. There are +two or three long settles stretching across the wall--the settle was +called a bench when it had a back to it, and a form if it had not. +There is a large bake-stone in one corner; the bread is put on the top +to bake, with the fire underneath, and when there is no fire, the top +can be used as a table, a moulding board, or in many other ways. But it +must not be supposed that such bread is in large square or cottage +loaves like ours. It is made in flat cakes, large or small, thick or +thin. By the side of the bake-stone is the sink, or rather that which +answers to one, being a rough brick basin, with a plug in the bottom, +and just beneath it is a little channel in the brick floor, by which, +when the plug is pulled up, the dirty water finds its way out into the +street under the house door. People who live in this way need--and +wear--short gowns and stout shoes. + +The opposite corner holds the pine-torches and chips; they burn nothing +but wood, for though coal is known, it is very little used. This is +partly because it is expensive; but also because it is considered +shockingly unhealthy. The smoke from wood or turf is thought very +wholesome; but that from coal is just the reverse. Opposite the +bake-stone is the window; a very little one, much wider than it is high, +and rilled with exceedingly small diamond-shaped panes of very poor +greenish glass set in lead, there being so much lead and so little glass +that the room is but dark in the brightest sunshine. Indeed, it is +decidedly a sign of gentility that the house has any window at all, +beyond the square hole with the wooden shutter. + +Up and down the room there are several stools, high and low; the high +ones serve when wanted as little movable tables. In the third corner is +a bread-rack, filled with hard oat-cake above, and the soft flat cakes +of wheat flour below; in the fourth stand several large barrels +containing salt fish, salt meat, flour, meal, and ale. From the top of +the room hang hams, herbs in canvas bags, strings of smoked fish, a few +empty baskets and pails, and anything else which can be hung up. The +rafters are so low that when the inmates move about they have every now +and then to courtesy to a ham or a pail, which would otherwise hit them +on the head. A door by the window leads into the street, and another +beyond the barrels gives access to the back yard. + +How would you like to go back, gentle reader, to this style of life? +This was the way in which your forefathers lived, six hundred years +ago--unless they were very grand people indeed. Then they lived in a +big castle with walls two or three feet thick, and ate from gold or +silver plates, and had the luxury of a chimney in their dining-rooms. +But even then, there were a good many little matters in respect of which +I do not fancy you would quite like to change with them! Would you like +to eat with your fingers, and to find creeping creatures everywhere, and +to have _no_ books and newspapers, and no letters, and no shops except +in great towns, and no way of getting about except on foot or horseback, +and no lamps, candles, clocks or watches, china, spectacles, nor carpets +on the floor? Yet this was the way in which kings and queens lived, six +hundred years ago. + +In respect of clothes, people were much better off. They dressed far +more warmly than we do, and used a great deal of fur, not only for +trimming or out-door wear, but to line their clothes in winter. But +their furs comprised much commoner and cheaper skins than we use; +ordinary people wore lambskins, with the fur of cats, hares, and +squirrels. Such furs as ermine and miniver were kept for the great +people; for there were curious rules and laws about dress in those days. +It was not, as it is now, a question of what you could afford to buy, +but of what rank you were. You could not wear ermine or samite unless +you were an earl at the lowest; nor must you sleep on a feather bed +unless you were a knight; nor might you eat your dinner from a metal +plate, if you were not a gentleman. Such notions may sound ridiculous +to us; but they were serious earnest, six hundred years ago. We should +not like to find that we had to go before a magistrate and pay a fine, +if our shoes were a trifle too long, or our trimmings an inch too wide. +But in the time of which I am writing, this was an every-day affair. + +In the house, women wore an odd sort of head-dress called a wimple, +which came down to the eyebrows, and was fastened by pins above the +ears. When they went out of doors, they tied on a fur or woollen hood +above it. The gown was very loose, and had no particular waist; the +sleeves were excessively wide and long. But when women were at work, +they had a way of tucking up their dresses at the bottom, so as to keep +them out of the perpetual slop of the stone or brick floor. Rich people +put rushes on their floors except in winter, and as these were only +moved once a year, all manner of unspeakable abominations were harboured +underneath. In this respect the poor were the best off, since they +could have their brick floors as clean as they chose: as, even yet, +there are points in which they have the advantage of richer people--if +they only knew it! + +But our picture is not quite finished yet. Look out of the little +window, and notice what you see. Can this be Sunday afternoon in a good +street? for every shop is open, and in the doorways stand young men +calling out to the passers-by to come in and look at their goods. "What +lack you? what lack you?" + +"Cherry ripe!" + +"Buy my fine kerchiefs!" + +"Any thimbles would you, maids?" Such cries as these ring on every +side. + +Yes, it is Sunday afternoon--"the rest of the holy Sabbath unto the +Lord." But look where you will, you can see no rest. Everywhere the +rich are at play, and the poor are at work. What does this mean? + +Think seriously of it, friends; for it will be no light matter if +England return to such ways as these again, and there are plenty of +people who are trying to bring them back. What it means is that if +holiness be lost from the Sabbath, rest will never stay behind. Play +for the few means work for the many. And let play get its head in, and +work will soon follow. + +If you want to walk the road of happiness, and to arrive at the home of +heaven, you must follow after God, for any other guide will lead in the +opposite direction. The people who tell you that religion is a gloomy +thing are always the people who have not any themselves. And things are +very different, according to whether you look at them from inside or +outside. How can you tell what there may be inside a house, so long as +all you know of it is walking past a shut door? + +Ever since Adam hid himself from the presence of the Lord God among the +trees of the garden, men and women have been prone to fancy that God +likes best to see them unhappy. The old heathen always used to suppose +that their gods were jealous of them, and they were afraid to be too +happy, lest the gods should be vexed! But the real God "takes pleasure +in the prosperity of His people," and "godliness hath the promise of the +life that now is, as well as of that which is to come." + +What language are our three friends talking? It sounds very odd. It is +English, and yet it is not. Yes, it is what learned men call "Middle +English"--because it stands midway between the very oldest English, or +Anglo-saxon, and the modern English which we speak now. It is about as +much like our English as broad Scotch is. A few words and expressions +through the story will give an idea how different it is; but if I were +to write exactly as they would have spoken, nobody would understand it +now. + +And how do they live inside this tiny house? Well, in some respects, in +a poorer and meaner way than the very poorest would live now. Look up, +and you will see that there is no chimney, but the smoke finds its way +out through a hole above the fire, and when it is wet the rain comes in +and puts the fire out. They know nothing about candles, but burn long +shafts of pine-wood instead. There are such things as wax candles, +indeed, but they are only used in church; nobody dreams of burning them +in houses. And there are lamps, but they are made of gold and silver, +and are never seen except in the big castles. There is no crockery; and +metal plates, as I said, are only for the grand people. The middle +classes use wooden trenchers--our friends have two--hollowed out to keep +the gravy in; and the poor have no plates at all beyond a cake of bread. +Their drinking-glasses are just cows' horns, with the tip cut off and a +wooden bottom put in. They have also a few wooden bowls, and one +precious brass pot; half a dozen knives, rough unwieldy things, and four +wooden spoons; one horn spoon is kept for best. Forks? Oh dear, no; +nobody knows anything about forks, except a pitchfork. Table-linen? +No, nor body-linen; those luxuries are only in the big castles. Let us +watch Avice's mother as she sets the table for four-hours, remembering +that they are going to have company, and therefore will try to make +things a little more comfortable than usual. + +In the first place, there will be a table to set. If they were alone, +they would use one or two of the high stools. But Agnes goes out into +the little yard, and brings back two boards and a couple of trestles, +which she sets up in the middle of the room. This is the table--rather +a rickety affair, you may say; and it will be quite as well that nobody +should lean his elbow on it. Next, she puts on the boards four of the +cows' horns, and the two trenchers, with one bowl. She then serves out +a knife and spoon for each of four people, putting the horn spoon for +the Bishop. Her preparations are now complete, with the addition of one +thing which is never forgotten--a very large wooden salt-cellar, which +she puts almost at one end, for where that stands is a matter of +importance. Great people--and the Bishop is a very great person--must +sit above the salt, and small insignificant folks are put below. We may +also notice that the Bishop is honoured with a horn and a trencher to +himself. This is an unusual distinction. Husband and wife always share +the same plate, and other relatives very frequently. As to Avice, we +see that nothing is set for her. The child will share her mother's +spoon and horn; and if the Bishop brings his chaplain, he will have a +spoon and horn for himself, but will eat off the Grandmother's plate. + +Our picture is finished, and now the story may begin. + + + +CHAPTER TWO. + +HOW THINGS CHANGED. + +"Open the door, Avice, quick!" said Agnes, as a rap came upon it. +"Yonder, methinks, must be the holy Bishop." + +Avice ran to the door, and opened it, to find two priests standing on +the threshold. They entered, the foremost with a smile to the child, +after which he held up his hand, saying, "Christ save all here!" Then +he held out his hand, which both Agnes and her mother kissed, and sat +down on one of the forms by the table. Every priest was then looked +upon as a most holy person. Some of them were a long way from holiness. +But there were some who really deserved the title, and few deserved it +so well as Robert Copley, Bishop of Lincoln, whom, according to the +fashion of that day, people called Grosteste, or Great-head. + +For surnames were then only just beginning to grow, and very few people +had them--I mean, very few had received any from their fathers. They +had, therefore, to bear some name given to them. Sometimes a man was +named from his father--he was Robert John-son, or John Wil-son. +Sometimes it was from his trade; he was Robert the Smith, or John the +Carter. Sometimes it was from the place where he lived; he was Robert +at the Mill, or John by the Brook. But sometimes it was from something +about himself, either as concerned his person or his ways; he was Robert +Red-nose, or John White-hood, or William Turn-again. This is the way in +which all surnames have grown. Now, as Bishop Copley's soul lodged well +(as Queen Elizabeth said of Lord Bacon), in a large head and massive +brow, people took to calling him Great-head or Grosteste; and it is as +Bishop Grosteste, not as Bishop Copley, that he has been known down to +the present day. + +I have said that he was a peculiar man. He was much more peculiar, at +the time when he lived, than he would have been if he had lived now. +Saint Peter told bishops that they were not to be lords over God's +heritage, but to be ensamples to the flock; but when Bishop Grosteste +lived, most bishops were very great lords, and very poor examples. +Bishops, and clergymen too, were fond of going about in gay clothes of +all colours, playing at games, and even drinking at ale-houses. Many of +them were positively not respectable men. But Bishop Grosteste and his +chaplain were dressed in plain black, and they were of the few who walk +not according to the course of this world. To them, "I like" was of no +moment, and "I ought" was of great importance. And what other people +would say, or what other people might be going to do, was a matter of no +consequence whatever. + +Such men are scarce in this follow-my-leader world. If you are so +fortunate as to be related to one of them, take care you make much of +him, for you may go a long way before you see another. With most people +"I like" comes up at the top; and "What will people say?" comes next, +and often pretty near; but "What does God tell me to do?" is a long way +off, and sometimes so far off that they never come to it at all! + +Bishop Grosteste lived in one of the darkest days of Christianity. +Thick, dense ignorance, of all kinds, overwhelmed the masses of the +people. Books were worth their weight in gold, there were so few of +them; and still worse, very few could read them. When we know that +there was a law by which a man who had been sentenced to death could +claim pardon if he were able to read one verse of a Psalm, it gives us +an idea how very little people can have known, and what a precious thing +learning was held to be. Even the clergy were not much wiser than the +rest, and they were generally the best educated of any. Most of them +could just get through the services, not so much by reading them as by +knowing what they had to say; and they often made very queer blunders +between words which were nearly alike. A few, here and there, were +really learned men; and Bishop Grosteste was one of them. He had +learned "all that Europe could furnish," and he knew so much that the +poor ignorant people about him fancied he must have obtained his +knowledge by magic. But far better than all this, Bishop Grosteste was +taught of God. His soul was like a plant which grew up towards the +light, and Jesus Christ was his Sun. + +In this day of full, brilliant Gospel light, we can hardly imagine the +state of affairs then. Perhaps one fact will help us to do it as well +as many. In every house there was an image set up before which all +prayers were said. Sometimes it was a crucifix, sometimes an image of +the Virgin Mary, sometimes of some other saint--for the saints, male and +female, were a great crowd. But the crucifix or the Virgin Mary were +generally preferred; and why? Because the poor worshippers fancied that +the crucifix had more power than the image of a saint, and that the +Virgin was able to look after her own candle! A torch, or in later +times a candle, was always burning in front of the image; and of course +if the image could keep it alight, it was much less trouble to the +worshipper! + +But had they no common sense in those days? Well, really, it looks +sometimes as if they had not. When men once turn aside from God's Word, +it is impossible to say to what folly or wickedness they will not go. +"The entrance of Thy words giveth light; yea, it giveth understanding +unto the simple." + +Very few bishops then living would have taken any notice of the humble +foster-sister who lived in that tiny house, and worked: for her living-- +she and her daughter being both widows, and the child dependent on them. +It was hard work then, as now, for such people to get along. It is +often really harder for them than for the very poor. + +The guests being now come, Agnes dished up the four-hours--if that can +be called dishing up when there were no dishes! She lifted a great pan +off the hook where it hung over the fire--for it must be remembered +there were no bars, and pans had to be hung over the fire by a handle +like that of a kettle--and poured out into the bowl a quantity of soup. +She then served out a cake of white bread to the Bishop--a rare dainty-- +black bread to the chaplain and her mother, and hard oat-cake for +herself and Avice. They then began to eat, after the Bishop had made +the sign of the crossover the bowl, which answered to saying grace; all +the spoons going into the one bowl, the Bishop being respectfully +allowed to help himself first. + +"And how goes it now with thee, my sister Muriel?" asked the Bishop. + +The Grandmother gave a little shake of her head, though she answered +cheerfully enough. + +"Things go pretty well, holy Father, I thank you. Work is off and on, +as it may be; but we manage to keep a roof over our heads, as you see, +and we can even find a bowl of broth and a wheat-cake for our friends. +The Lord be praised for all His mercies!" + +"Well said, my sister. And what do you intend to make of your little +maid here?" + +"Marry, I intend to make a good worker of her," said Agnes in her turn, +"and not an idle giggling good-for-nought, as most of the lasses be. +She shall spin, and weave, and card, and sew, and scour, and wash, and +bake, and brew, and churn, and cook, and not let the grass grow under +her feet, or else I'll see!" + +"Truly a goodly list of duties for one maid," replied the Bishop, with a +smile. "And yet, good Agnes, I am about to ask if thou canst find room +for another on the top of them." + +"Verily, holy Father, I am she that should work my fingers to the bone +to pleasure you," was the hearty answer. + +"I thank thee, good my daughter. How shouldst thou like to go to +London?" + +"To London, Father!" And Agnes's eyes grew as round as shillings. + +To go to London was then looked on as a very serious matter. People +made their wills before they started. And to ignorant Agnes, who had +never in her life been ten miles from Lincoln, it sounded almost as +tremendous an idea as being asked to go to the moon. + +The Bishop smiled. He had been to Paris and Lyons. + +"Ay, even to London town. I do indeed mean it, my daughter. There is, +methinks, a career open to thee, which most should reckon rare +preferment, and good success. Ah, what is success?" he added, as if to +himself. "Howbeit, thou shalt hear. The Lady Queen lacketh nurses for +her children, and reckoning thou shouldst well fill such a place, I made +bold to speak for thee. And she thus far granted me, that thou shouldst +go up to Windsor, where the King's children are kept, and she herself is +at this present, there to talk with her, and let her see if thou art fit +for the post. If on further acquaintance she be pleased with thee, then +shalt thou be made nurse to one of the children; and if not, then the +Lady Queen will pay thy charges home. What sayest, my daughter?--and +thou also, Muriel, my sister?" + +Both Muriel and Agnes felt as if their breath were taken away. As to +Avice, she was listening with those large ears for which little pitchers +are proverbial. The Bishop had spoken quietly, as if it were an +every-day occurrence, of this enormous change which would affect their +whole lives. + +"Verily, Father, you are too good to us," said Muriel gratefully. + +"And I will try to thank you, Father," added Agnes, "when I get back my +senses, and can find out whether I am on my head or my heels." + +The Bishop and his chaplain laughed; and Agnes, recalled to her duties +by seeing the soup-bowl empty, jumped up and took down the spit on which +a chicken was roasting at the fire. Chickens were dear just then, and +this one had cost three farthings, having been provided in honour of +company. People helped themselves in those days in a very rough and +simple manner. Agnes held the chicken on the spit to the Bishop, who +cut from it with his own knife the part he preferred; then she served +the chaplain and Muriel in the same way, and lastly cut some off for +herself and Avice. Finally, when little was left beside the carcase, +she opened the back door, and bestowed the remains on Manikin the +turnspit dog, a little wiry, shaggy cur, which, released from his +labours, had sat on the hearth licking his lips while the process of +helping went on, knowing that his reward would come at last. Manikin +trotted off into the yard with his treasure, and Agnes came back to the +table and the subject. + +"Truly, holy Father, I know not how to thank you. But indeed I will do +my best to deserve your good word, should it please God so to order the +same." + +"I doubt not thou wilt do well, my daughter. Bear thou in mind that +Christ our Lord is thy Master, and thy service must be good enough to be +laid at His feet. Then shalt thou well serve the Queen." + +Agnes was a very ignorant woman. Bishop Grosteste, being himself a wise +man, could not at all realise how ignorant she was. She knew very +little how to serve God, but she did really wish to do it. And that, +after all, is the great thing. Those who have the will can surely, +sooner or later, find out how. + +When the guests were gone, Agnes threw another log of wood upon the +fire, and came and stood before it. "Well, Mother, what must we do +touching this matter? Verily I am all of a tumblement. What think +you?" + +"I think, my daughter," said old Muriel calmly from the chimney-corner, +"that we are not going to set forth for London within this next +half-hour." + +"Nay, truly; yet we must think well on it." + +"We shall do well to sleep on it, and yet better to ask counsel of the +Lord." + +"But we must go, Mother! It would never do to offend the holy Bishop!" + +"Bishop Robert my brother is not he that should be angered because we +preferred God's counsel to his. But it may be that we shall find, after +prayer and thought, that his counsel is God's." + +It was to that conclusion they came the next day. + +After the Bishop's departure, for a long time all was bustle and +confusion. Agnes declared that she did not know where her head was, nor +sometimes whether she had any. Avice was at the height of enjoyment. +Old Muriel went quietly about her work, keeping at it, "doing the next +thing," and got through more work than either. + +The Bishop did all he could to help them. He found them a tenant for +the house, lent them money--all his money not spent on real necessaries +was either lent or given to such as needed it more than he did; and at +last he sent them southwards on his own horses, and in charge of three +of his servants. From Lincoln to Windsor was a five days' journey of +rather long stages; and when at last they reached the royal borough, +simple--minded Agnes had begun to feel as if no further power of +astonishment were left in her mind. + +"Dear, I never thought the world was so big!" she had said before they +left Grantham; and when they arrived at Aylesbury, her cry was--"Eh, +what a power of folks be in this world!" + +Old Muriel took her journey, as she did everything, calmly. She, like +Bishop Grosteste himself, lived too much with God to be easily startled +or overawed by the grandeur of man. Avice was in a state of excitement +and delight through the whole time. + +They slept at a small inn; and the next morning, one of the Bishop's +servants, who had received his orders beforehand, took up to the Castle +a letter from his master, and waited to hear when it would please the +Queen to see them. He came back in an hour, with the news that the +Queen would receive them that afternoon. + +Agnes was in a condition of restless flutter till the time came. Then +they dressed themselves in their very best, and Luke, the Bishop's +servant, took them up to the Castle. + +If Agnes had felt confused at the mere idea of her interview, she found +the reality still more overwhelming than she expected. The first thing +she realised was that she stood in an immense hall, surrounded by what +seemed to her a crowd of very smart gentlemen. Then they were led +through passages and galleries, upstairs and downstairs, till Agnes felt +as though she could never hope to find her way back; and at last, in a +very handsome room, where the walls were covered with painting, and the +furniture upholstered in silk, they came into the midst of a second +crowd of very grand ladies. By this time poor Agnes had quite lost her +head; and when one of the fine ladies asked her what she wanted, she +could only drop a succession of courtesies and look totally bewildered. +Old Muriel managed better. + +"Under your leave, Madam, we have been sent for by my Lady the Queen." + +"Oh, are you the people who come about the nurses' place?" said the +young lady, who looked good-natured enough. "Follow me, and I will lead +you to the Queen's chamber." + +How many more chambers can there be? was the wonder uppermost in the +mind of Agnes. But they walked through several more, each to her eyes +grander than the last, painted, with stained glass windows, and +silk-covered furniture. At length the young lady desired them to wait a +moment where they were, while she took in their names to the Queen. She +drew back a crimson silk curtain, and disappeared behind it; and the +three--for they had never thought of leaving Avice behind--stood looking +round them in admiring astonishment. They were not left to wonder long. +The curtain was drawn back, and the voice of some unseen person bade +them go forward. + +They found themselves in a smaller room than the last, beautifully +decorated. The walls were painted a very pale blue, and large frescoes +ornamented each side of the chamber. Thick marble columns, highly +polished, jutted out into the room, and in the recess between each pair +was a marble bench, with cushions of crimson samite. Two walnut-wood +chairs, furnished with crimson samite cushions, stood in the middle of +the room. Small leaf-tables were fixed to the walls here and there. +The floor was of waxed wood, very slippery to tread upon. At the +farther side of the room two doors stood open, side by side, the one +leading to a little oratory in the turret, the other to a balcony which +ran round the tower. In one corner a young lady sat at an embroidery +frame, and in another a little girl of seven years old, who deeply +interested Avice, was feeding her pet peacock. In one of the chairs, +with some fancy work in her hand, sat a lady whose age was about +twenty-eight, and whose rich dress of gold-coloured samite, and the gold +and pearl fillet which bound her hair, divided Avice's attention with +the child and the peacock. Agnes was dropping flurried courtesies to +everybody at once. Muriel, who seemed to have a much better notion of +what she ought to do, took a step forward, and knelt before the lady who +sat in the chair. + +"Lady," she said, "we are the Queen's servants." + +Queen Eleanor, for it was she, looked up on them with a smile. She was +a beautiful brunette, lively and animated when she spoke, but with an +easy-going, lazy expression when she did not. It struck Avice, who had +eyes for everything, and was making good use of them, that her Majesty +might have brushed her rich dark hair a little smoother, and have +fastened her diamond brooch less unevenly than she had done. + +It was the pleasanter side of Queen Eleanor which was being shown to +them. She could be very pleasant when she was pleased, and very kind +and affable when she liked people. But she could be very harsh and +tyrannical to those whom she did not like; and she was one of those many +people with whom out of sight is out of mind. Let her see a suffering +child, and she would be sorry and anxious to help; but a thousand +suffering people whom she did not see, even if something which she did +had made them suffer, were nothing at all to her. + +The Queen liked her visitors. She thought old Muriel looked reliable; +she was amused with the bewildered reverence of Agnes; and as to Avice, +a child more or less in Windsor Castle mattered very little. She would +do to feed the peacock when Princess Margaret did not choose to attend +to it. So the bargain was soon struck; and almost before she had +discovered what was going to happen to her, Agnes found herself the +day-nurse of the Lord Richard, the little Prince who was then in the +cradle. Muriel was made mistress of the nurses; and even little Avice +received a formal appointment as waiting-damsel on the Princess +Margaret, the little girl who was feeding the peacock. They were then +dismissed from the royal presence. + +"Thou hadst better go with them, Margaret Bysset," said the Queen, with +a rather amused smile, to the young lady who had brought them in; +"otherwise they may wander about all day." + +Guided by Margaret Bysset, they retraced their steps through the suite +of rooms, down winding stairs, and across the hall, to the great door +which led into the courtyard of the Castle. + +"Can you find your way now?" asked the young lady. + +"Nay, we can but try!" said Agnes. "Pray you, my mistress, how many +chambers be there in this Castle?" + +"Truly, I have not counted them," was the laughing answer. + +"Eh, dear, but I marvel if I can ever find mine own when we come to +dwell here!" + +"That will you soon enough. Look, here cometh your serving-man. Give +you good morrow!" + +A few days saw them safely housed in the Castle, where two of them were +to dwell for ten years before they returned to their own home at +Lincoln. But old Muriel was never to return. She lived through half +that time, just long enough to hear of the death of Bishop Grosteste, +who passed away on the ninth of October 1253. He literally died weeping +for the sins of his age. + +"Christ came into the world to save souls," were the words uttered with +his last breath. "He who takes pains to ruin them, shall he not be +called Antichrist? God built the universe in six days; but it took Him +thirty years to redeem fallen man. The Church can never be delivered +but by the sword from the Egyptian bondage in which the Popes hold her." + +The good old Bishop could say no more. His voice broke down in tears; +and with one great sob for England he yielded up his soul. + + + +CHAPTER THREE. + +AT UNCLE DAN'S SMITHY. + +The royal baby for whose benefit Muriel and Agnes had been engaged did +not live long; but he was succeeded by his brother Prince William, and +before he was old enough to do without nurses, a little Princess came +upon the scene. She was the last of the family, and she lived three +years and a half. After her death, the services of the nurses were no +longer needed. Queen Eleanor dismissed them with liberal wages and +handsome presents, and the two who were left--Agnes and Avice-- +determined to go back to Lincoln. Avice was now a young woman of +twenty. + +But when they reached their old home, they found many changes. The good +Bishop Grosteste was gone, but his chaplain, Father Thomas, had looked +after their interests, and Agnes found no difficulty in recovering her +little property. Happily for them, their tenants were anxious to leave +the house, and before many days were over, they had slipped quietly back +into the old place. + +There were no banks in those days. A man's savings bank was an old +stocking or a tin mug. Agnes disposed of the money she had left from +the Queen's payment, partly in the purchase of a cow, and partly in a +stocking, which was carefully locked up in the oak chest. They could +live very comfortably on the produce of the cow and the garden, aided by +what small sums they might earn in one way and another. And so the +years went on, until Avice in her turn married and was left a widow; but +she had no child, and when her mother died Avice was left alone. + +"I can never do to live alone," she said to herself; "I must have +somebody to love and work for." + +And she began to think whom she could find to live with her. As she sat +and span in the twilight, one name after another occurred to her mind, +but only to be all declined with thanks. + +There was her neighbour next door, Annora Goldhue: she had three +daughters. No, none of them would do. Joan was idle, and Amy was +conceited, and Frethesancia had a temper. Little Roese might have done, +who lived with old Serena at the mill end; but old Serena could not +spare her. At last, as Avice broke her thread for the fourth time, she +pushed back the stool on which she was sitting, and rose with her +determination taken, and spoke it out-- + +"I will go and see Aunt Filomena." + +Aunt Filomena lived about a mile from Lincoln, on the Newport road. Her +husband was a greensmith: that is to say, he worked in copper, and +hawked his goods in the town when made. Avice lost no time in going, +but set out at once. + +As she rounded the last turn in the lane, she heard the ring of Daniel +Greensmith's hammer on the anvil, and a few minutes' more walking +brought her in sight of the smith himself, who laid down his hammer and +shaded his eyes to see who was coming. + +"Why, Uncle Dan, don't you know me?" said Avice. + +"Nay, who is to know thee, when thou comes so seldom?" said old Dan, +wiping his hot face with his apron. "Art thou come to see me or my +dame?" + +"I want to see Aunt Filomena. Is she in, Uncle Dan?" + +"She's in, unless she's out," said Dan unanswerably. "And her tongue's +in, too. It's at home, _that_ is. Was this morning, anyhow. What dost +thou want of her?" + +"Well," said Avice, hesitating, "I want her advice--" + +"Then thou wants what thou'lt get plenty of," said Dan, with a comical +twist of his mouth, as he turned over some long nails to find a suitable +one. "I'll be fain if thou'lt cart away a middling lot, for there's +more coming my way than I've occasion for at this present." + +Avice laughed. "I daresay Aunt is overworked a bit," she said. +"Perhaps I can help her, Uncle Dan. Folks are apt to lose their tempers +when they are tired." + +"Some folks are apt to lose 'em whether they are tired or not," said the +smith, with a shake of his grizzled head. "I've got six lasses, and +four on 'em takes after her. I could manage one, and maybe I might +tackle two; but when five on 'em gets a-top of a chap, why, he's down +afore he knows it. I'm a peaceable man enough if they'd take me +peaceable. But them five rattling tongues, that gallops faster than Sir +Otho's charger up to the Manor--eh, I tell thee what, Avice, they do +wear a man out!" + +"Poor Uncle Dan! I should think they do. But are all the girls at +home? I thought Mildred and Emma were to be bound apprentices in +Lincoln." + +"Fell through wi' Mildred," said the smith. "Didn't offer good enough; +and She"--by which pronoun he usually designated his vixenish +wife--"wouldn't hear on it. Emma's bound, worse luck! I could ha' done +wi' Emma. She and Bertha's the only ones as can be peaceable, like me." + +"Mildred's still at home, then?" + +"Mildred's at home yet. And so's El'nor, and so's Susanna, and so's +Ankaret; and every one on 'em's tongue's worse nor t'other. And"--a +very heavy sigh--"so's She!" + +Avice knew that Uncle Dan was usually a man of fewer words than this. +For him to be thus loquacious showed very strong emotion or irritation +of some sort. She went round to the back door, and before she reached +it, she heard enough to let her guess the sort of welcome she might +expect to receive. + +Just inside the open door stood Aunt Filomena, a thin, red-faced, +voluble woman, with her arms akimbo, pouring out words as fast as they +could come; and in the yard, just outside the door, opposite to her, +stood her daughter Ankaret, in exactly the same attitude, also thin, +red-faced, and voluble. The two were such precise counterparts of one +another that Avice had hard work to keep her gravity. Inside the house, +Susanna and Mildred, and outside Eleanor, were acting as interested +spectators; the funniest part of the scene being that neither of them +listened to a word said by the other, but each ran at express speed on +her own rails. The youngest daughter, Bertha, was nowhere to be seen. + +For a minute the whole appearance of things struck Avice as so +excessively comical that she could scarcely help laughing. But then she +realised how shocking it really was. What sort of mothers, in their +turn, could such daughters be expected to make? She waited for a +moment's pause, and when it occurred, which was not for some minutes, +she said-- + +"Aunt Filomena!" + +"Oh, you're there, are you?" demanded the amiable Filomena. "You just +thank the stars you've got no children! If ever an honest woman were +plagued with six good-for-nothing, sluttish, slatternly shrews of girls +as me! Here's that Ankaret--I've told her ten times o'er to wash the +tubs out, and get 'em ready for the pickling, and I come to see if they +are done, and they've never been touched, and my lady sitting upstairs +a-making her gown fine for Sunday! I declare, I'll--" + +Her intentions were drowned in an equally shrill scream from Miss +Ankaret. "You never told me a word--not once! And 'tain't my place to +scour them tubs out, neither. It's Susanna as always--" + +"Then I won't!" broke in Susanna. "And you might be ashamed of +yourself, I should think, to put such messy work on me when Eleanor--" + +"You'd best let me alone!" fiercely chimed in Eleanor. + +"Oh dear, dear!" cried Avice, putting her hands over her ears. "My dear +cousins, are you going to drive each other deaf? Why, I would rather +scour out twenty tubs than fight over them like this! Are you not +Christian women? Come, now, who is going to scour the tubs? I will +take one myself if you will do the others. Who will join me?" + +And Avice began to turn up her sleeves in good earnest. "No, Avice, +don't you; you'll spoil your gown," said Eleanor, looking ashamed of her +vehemence. "See, I'll get them done. Mildred, won't you help?" + +"Well, I don't mind if I do," was the rather lazy answer. + +But Ankaret and Susanna declined to touch the work, the latter cynically +offering to lend her apron to Avice. + +As Avice scrubbed away, she began to regret her errand. To be afflicted +with such a lifelong companion as one of these lively young ladies would +be far worse than solitude. But where was the youngest?--the quiet +little Bertha, who took after her peaceable father, and whom Avice had +rarely heard to speak? She asked Eleanor for her youngest sister. + +"Oh, she's somewhere," said Eleanor carelessly. + +"She took her work down to the brook," added Mildred. "She's been +crying her eyes out over Emma's going." + +"Ay, Emma and Bertha are the white chicks among the black," said +Eleanor, laughing; "they'll miss each other finely, I've no doubt." + +Avice finished her work, returned Susanna's apron, and instead of +requesting advice from her Aunt, went down to the brook in search of +Bertha. She found her sitting on a green bank, with very red eyes. + +"Well, my dear heart?" said Avice kindly to Bertha. + +The kind tone brought poor Bertha's tears back. She could only sob +out--"Emma's gone!" + +"And thou art all alone, my child," said Avice, stroking her hair. She +knew that loneliness in a crowd is the worst loneliness of all. "Well, +so am I; and mine errand this very day was to see if I could prevail on +thy mother to grant me one of her young maids to dwell with me. What +sayest thou? shall I ask her for thee?" + +"O Cousin! I would be so--" Bertha's ecstatic tone went no farther. It +was in quite a different voice that she said--"But then there's Father! +Oh no, Cousin. Thank you so much, but it won't do." + +"That will we ask Father," said Avice. + +"Father couldn't get on, with me and Emma both away," said Bertha, in a +tone which she tried to make cheerful. "He'd be quite lost--I know he +would." + +"Well, but--" began Avice. + +"Then he'd find his self again as fast as he could," said a gruff voice, +and they looked up in surprise to see old Dan standing behind them. +"Thou's done well, lass. Thou's ta'en advice o' thy own kind heart, and +not o' other folks. Thee take the little maid to thee, and I'll see +thee safe out on't. She'll be better off a deal wi' thee, and she can +see our Emma every day then. So dry thy eyes, little un; it'll be all +right, thou sees." + +"But, Father, you'll not do without me!" + +"Don't thee be conceited, lass." Old Dan was trying hard to swallow a +lump in his throat. "I'll see thee by nows and thens. Thou'll be a +deal better off. And there's--there's El'nor." + +"Eleanor's not _always_ in a good temper," said Bertha doubtfully. + +"She's best o' t'other lot," said old Dan. "She's none so bad, by nows +and thens. I shall do rarely, thou'll see. But, Avice--dost thou think +thou could just creep off like at th' lee-side o' th' house, wi' the +little maid, afore She sees thee? When thou'rt gone I'll tell her, and +then I'll have a run for't till it's o'er. She's better to take when +first comings-off is done. She'll smooth down i' th' even, as like as +not, and then I'll send El'nor o'er wi' the little maid's bits o' gear. +Or, if she willn't go, I can bring 'em myself, when work's done. Let's +get it o'er afore She finds aught out!" + +Avice scarcely knew whether to laugh or to be sorry. Poor, weak, +easy-tempered Dan! They took his advice, and crept round by the +lee-side of the house, under cover of the hedge. When they were out of +sight, with a belt of trees between, old Dan took leave of them. + +"Thou'll be good to the little maid, Avice," said he. "I know thou +will, or I'd never ha' let her go. But she'll be better off--ay, a deal +better off, she'll be. She gets put upon, she does. And being +youngest, thou sees--I say, my lass, thou'd best call her aunt. She's +so much elder than thee; it'll sound better nor cousin." + +"Very good, Father," said Bertha. "But, O Father! who'll stitch your +buttons on, and comb your hair when you rest after work, and sing to +you? O Father, let me go back!" + +"Tut, tut, lass!" said old Dan, clearing his throat energetically. "If +one wife and four daughters cannot keep a man's buttons on, there's +somewhat wanting somewhere. I shall miss thy singing, I dare say; but I +can come down, thou knows, of a holy-day even, to hear thee. And as to +combin'--stars knows I shall get enough o' that, and a bit o'er that I +can spare for old Christopher next door. He's got no wife, and only one +lass, and she's a peaceable un. He's a deal to be thankful for. Now, +God be wi' ye both. Keep a good heart, and step out. I'll let ye get a +bit on afore I tell Her. And then I'll run for't!" + +Avice and Bertha "stepped out" accordingly; and as nobody came after +them, they concluded that things were tolerably smooth. They did not +see anybody from the smithy until two days later; and then, rather late +in the evening--namely, about six o'clock--Dan himself made his +appearance, with one bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder, and +another carried like a baby. + +"Well!" said he, as he sat down on the settle, and wiped his hot face +with his apron. "Well!" + +"O Father, I'm so glad!" said Bertha. "Are those my things? How good +of you to bring them!" + +"Ay, they be," said Dan emphatically. "Take 'em and make the best thou +can of 'em; for thou'll get no more where they came from, I can tell +thee." + +"Was Aunt Filomena very much put out?" asked Avice, in a rather penitent +tone. + +"She wasn't put out o' nothing," answered Dan, "except conduct becoming +a Christian woman. She was turned into a wild dragon, all o'er claws +and teeth, and there was three little dragons behind her, and they was +all a-top o' me together. If El'nor hadn't thought better on't, and +come and stood by me, there wouldn't have been much o' me to bring these +here." + +"Then you did not run, Uncle Dan?" replied Avice. + +"She clutched me, lass!" responded Dan, with awful solemnity. "And +t'others, they had me too. Thee try to run with a wild dragon holding +on to thy hair, and three more to thy arms and legs--just do! I wonder +I'm not tore to bits--I do. Howsome'er, here I be; and I just wish I +could stop. Ay, I do so!" + +And Dan's apron took another journey round his face. + +"Uncle Dan, would you like to take Bertha back?" was Avice's +self-sacrificing suggestion. + +"Don't name it!" cried Dan, dropping the apron. "Don't name it! There +wouldn't be an inch on her left by morning light! I wonder there's any +o' me. Eh, but this world is a queer un. Is she a good lass, Avice?" + +"Yes, indeed she is," said Avice. + +"I'm fain to hear it; and I'm fain thou's fallen on thy feet, my little +un. And, Avice--if thou knows of any young man as wants to go +soldiering, and loves a fray, just thee send him o'er to th' smithy, and +he shall ha' the pick o' th' dragons. I hope he'll choose Ankaret. +He'll get my blessing!" + +Aunt Filomena seemed to have washed her hands of her youngest daughter. +She never came near them; and Avice thought it the better part of valour +to keep away from the smithy. When Emma had a holiday, which was a rare +treat, she often spent it with her sister; and on still rarer occasions +Eleanor paid a short visit. But the only frequent visitor was old Uncle +Dan, and he came whenever he could, and always seemed sorry to go home. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR. + +BABY. + +A very quiet life was led by Avice and Bertha. The house work was done +by the two in the early morning--cleaning, washing, baking, churning, +and brewing, as they were severally needed; and in the afternoon they +sat down to their work, enlivened either by singing or conversation. +Sometimes both were silent, and when that was the case, unknown to +Avice, Bertha was generally watching her features, and trying to read +their meaning. At length, one evening after a long silence, she +suddenly broke the stillness with a blunt question. + +"Aunt, I wish you would tell me what you are thinking of when you look +so." + +"How do I look, Bertha?" + +"As if you were looking at something which nobody could see but +yourself. Sometimes it seems to be something pretty, and sometimes +something shocking; but oftener than either, something just a little +sad, and yet as if there were pleasantness about it. I don't know +exactly how to describe it." + +"That will do. When a woman comes to fifty years, little Bertha, there +are plenty of things in the past of her life, which nobody can see who +did not go through them with her. And often those who did so cannot see +them. That will leave a scar upon one which makes not a scratch upon +another." + +"But of what were you thinking, Aunt, if I may know?" + +"That thou mayest. I fancy, when thou spakest, I was thinking--as I +very often do--about my little Lady." + +"Now, if Aunt Avice is _very_ good," said Bertha insinuatingly, and with +brightened eyes, "that means a story." + +Aunt Avice smiled. "Ay, thou shalt have thy story. Only let us be sure +first that all is done which need be. Cast a few more chips on the +fire, and light another pine-torch; that is burnt nigh out. And see thy +bodkin on the floor--careless child!" + +Bertha jumped up and obeyed. From one corner of the room, where lay a +heap of neatly-cut faggots, she brought a handful, and threw it into the +wide fire-place, which stretched across half one side of the room, and +had no grate, the fire burning on the stone hearth: then from a pile of +long pointed stakes of pitch pine, she brought one, lighted it, and set +it in an iron frame by the fire-place made for that purpose; and lastly, +she picked up from the brick floor an article of iron, about a foot in +length, and nearly as thick as her little finger, which she called a +bodkin, but which we should think very rude and clumsy indeed. + +"Hast thou heard, Bertha," said Avice, "that when I was young, I dwelt +for a season in the Castle of Windsor, and my mother was nurse to some +of the children of the Lord King that then was? Brothers and sister +they were of our Lord King Edward that reigns now." + +Bertha's eyes brightened. She liked, as all girls do, to hear a story +which had to do with great people. + +"No, Aunt Avice, I never knew that. Won't you tell me all about it?" + +So Avice began and told her what we know already--how the Bishop had +recommended Agnes to the Queen, and all about the journey, and the +Castle, and the Queen herself. Then she went on to tell the rest of the +story. + +"We lived nigh five years," said Avice, "in the Castle of Windsor--until +the Lord Richard was dead, and the Lord William was nearly four years +old. Then the Lady Queen removed to the royal Palace of Westminster, +for the Lord King was gone over seas, and she with Earl Richard his +brother was left to keep England. It was in August, the year of our +Lord 1253, at we took up our abode in Thorney Island, where the Palace +of Westminster stands. It is a marshy place--not over healthy, some +folks say; but I never was ill while we dwelt there. And it was there, +on Saint Katherine's Day"--which is the 25th of November--"that our +little Lady was born. Her royal mother named her Katherine, after the +blessed saint. She was the loveliest babe that eye could rest on, and +she was christened with great pomp. And on Saint Edward's Day, when the +Lady Queen was purified"--namely, churched--"there was such a feast as I +never saw again while I dwelt with her. The provisions brought in for +that feast were fourteen wild boars, twenty-four swans, one hundred and +thirty-five rabbits, two hundred and fifty partridges, sixteen hundred +and fifty fowls, fifty hares, two hundred and fifty wild ducks, +thirty-six geese, and sixty-one thousand eggs." + +"Only think!" cried Bertha. "Did you get some, Aunt?" + +"Surely I did, child. The Lady Queen, I told thee, was then keeper of +England, for the Lord King was away across the seas; and good provision +she made. Truly, she was free-handed enough at spending. Would she had +been as just in the way she came by her money!" + +"Why, Aunt, what mean you?" asked Bertha, when Avice expressed her wish +that Queen Eleanor had been as just in gaining money as she was liberal +in spending it. + +"Why, child, taxes came heavy in those days. When the Lord King needed +money, he sent home to his treasurer, and it was had as he could get +it--sometimes by selling up divers rich folks, or by levying a good sum +from the Jews, or any way man could; not always by equal tenths or +fifteenths, as now, which comes not nigh so heavy on one or two when it +is equally meted out to all. But never was there king like our late +Lord King Henry (whom God pardon) for squeezing money out of his poor +subjects. Yet old folks did use to say his father King John was as ill +or worse." + +Taxes, in those days, were a very different thing from what they are +now, and were far more at the mere pleasure of the King, not only as to +the collecting of them, but as to the spending. Ignorant people fancy +that this is the case still; but it is not so. Queen Victoria has no +money from the taxes for her private spending. When she became Queen, +she gave up all the land belonging to her as Queen, on condition that +her daughters should be portioned, and that she should receive a certain +sum of money every year, of less value than the land she gave up; so +that it would be fraud and breach of trust in the people if they did not +keep their word to pay the sum agreed on to the Queen. There is so much +misunderstanding on this point that it is worth while to mention it. + +"Then were the King and Queen--" Bertha began. + +Avice answered the half-asked question. "They were like other folks, +child. They liked their own way, and tried to get it. And they liked +fine clothes, and great feasts, and plenty of company, and so forth; so +they spent their money that way. I'll not say they were bad folks, +though they did some bad things they were folks that only thought what +they liked, and did it; and folks that do that are sure to bring sorrow +to themselves and others too, whether they be kings and queens or cooks +and haymakers. The kings and queens can do it on a larger scale; that +is all the difference. There are few enough that think what God likes, +as holy Bishop Robert did, and like to do His will better than their +own; those that do scatter happiness around them, as the other sort +scatter misery. + +"Well, after a while, the Lady Queen left England, to join the Lord King +across seas; but before she went, she took our little Lady down to the +Castle of Windsor to the rest of the King's children. There was first +the Lady Beatrice, who was a maiden of twelve years; and the Lord +Edmund, a very pretty little boy of nine; and the Lord William, who was +but four; and there were also with them other children of different ages +that were brought up with them; but only one was near our little Lady's +age, or had much to do with her. That was Alianora de Montfort, +daughter of Earl Simon of Leicester, that bold baron that headed the +lords against the King; and her mother was the King's own sister, the +Lady Alianora. She was fifteen months older than our little Lady, and +being youngest of all, the two used to play together. A sweet child she +was, too; but not like my own little Lady--there never was a child like +her." + +"What was she like, Aunt?" + +"Tell me what the angels are like in Heaven, and thou shalt hear then. +She is an angel now--she hath been one these three-and-twenty years. +But methinks there can have been little to change in her face when she +blossomed into a cherub, and the wings would unfold themselves from her +as by nature. Never a child like her!--no, there never was one. She +had bright, dark eyes, wonderful eyes--eyes that her whole soul shone +in, and that took in everything which passed. She spoke with her eyes; +she had no other way. The souls of other children came out of their +lips; but she had not spent many months in this lower world, before we +saw with bitter apprehension and deep sorrow that God had sealed her +sweet lips with eternal silence. She saw all; she heard nothing; she +could never speak. My darling was deaf and dumb." + +"O Aunt Avice!" + +"Ay, verily at times I wondered if she were indeed an angel that God had +sent down to earth, for whose pure lips our English was too rough, and +our French too rude, and who could only speak the tongue they speak in +Heaven. She went back but whence she came; we were not fit company for +her. Methinks she was sent to let our earthbound hearts have one +glimpse of that upper world; and when her work was done, her Father sent +for her back home. + +"Though our little Lady could never speak, yet long before we discovered +that, we found how lively, and earnest, and intelligent she was. As I +told thee, she talked with her eyes. Nothing could be done in her +presence but she must see and know all about it. A little pull at my +gown would tell me she was there; and then I turned to see the bright +eager eyes looking into mine, and asking me as plainly as eyes could ask +to let her know all about it. She would never rest till she knew what +she wanted. Ay me, those eager eyes look into angels' faces now, and +maybe into the face of God upon the throne." + +"But, Aunt, how could she understand, if she could not hear?" + +"God told her somehow, child. He taught her, not we. We did our best, +truly; but our best would have been a poor business, if He had not taken +her in hand. Many a time, before I had finished trying to explain +something to her, that quick little nod would come which meant, `I +understand.' Then she had certain signs for different things. She made +those herself; we never taught them to her. She stroked what she liked, +as man would stroke a dog; when she disliked anything, she made a feint +of throwing her open hand out from her, as though she were pushing it +away. She had odd little ways of indicating different persons, by +something in them which struck her. Master Russell, the Queen's clerk, +and keeper of the royal children, used often to have a sprig of mint or +thyme in his lips as he went about; her sign for him was a bit of stick +or thread between her lips. For the priest, she tolled a bell. For the +Lady Beatrice, her sister, who had a little airy way of putting her head +on one side when anything vexed her, and my Lord Henry de Lacy, who +pouted if he were cross (which he was pretty often)--my little Lady +imitated them exactly. The Lady Alianora flourished her hands when she +spoke; that was the sign for her. For the Lord King, her father, whose +left eyelid drooped over his eye, she pulled her own down. She had some +such sign for everybody. She noticed everything." + +"Could she not say one word, Aunt?" + +"Yes, she could say three. Verily, sometimes I marvelled if she might +not have been taught more; but we knew not how, and how she got hold of +those three we could never tell." + +"What were they?" + +"They were, `up,' `who,' and `poor.'" + +"Well, she could not do much with those." + +"Could she not! `Who' asked all her questions. It answered for who, +what, where, when, how, and why. She went on saying it until we +understood and replied to the sense in which she meant it. `Poor' was +the word of emotion; it signified `I pity you,' `I love you,' `I am +sorry,' and `Forgive me.' And sometimes it meant, `Forgive him,' or +`Don't you feel sorry for her?' And I think `up' served for everything +else." + +"Aunt," said Bertha softly, "how did you teach the little Lady to pray? +She could tell her beads, I suppose; but would she know what they +meant?" + +For Bertha, like everybody else at that time, thought it necessary to +keep count of her prayers. Prayer, in her eyes, was not so much +communion with God, as it was a kind of charm which in some +unaccountable way brought you good luck. + +"Beads would have meant nothing to her but toys," was Avice's reply. +"The Lady de la Mothe taught her the holy sign"--by which Avice meant +the cross--"and led her to the image of blessed Mary, that she might do +it before her. But I do not think she ever properly understood that She +seemed only to have an idea that it was something she must do when she +saw an image; and she did it to the statue of the Lady Queen in the +great hall. We could not make her understand that one image was not the +same thing as another image. But I fancy she had some idea--strange and +dim it might be--of what we meant when we knelt and put our hands +together and looked up. I know she did it very often, without telling-- +always at night, before she slept. But it was strange that she never +went to the holy images at that time; she always seemed to go away from +them, and kneel down in a corner. And in her last illness, several +times, coming into the chamber, I found her lying with her hands folded +in prayer, and her eyes lifted up to Heaven. Perhaps God Himself told +her how to speak to Him. One of the strangest things of all was when +the little Lord William died; she was nearly three years old then. She +had been very fond of her little brother; he was nearest her age of all +her brothers and sisters, though he was almost four years older than +herself. She came to me sobbing bitterly, and with her little cry of +`Who? who?' I took it to mean `What has happened to him?' and I was +completely puzzled how to explain it to her. But all at once, while I +was beating my brains to think what I could say that would make her +comprehend it, she told me herself what I could not tell her. Making +the sign for the little Lord who was dead, she laid her head upon her +hand, and closed her eyes; and then all at once, with a peculiar grace +that I never saw in any child but herself, she lifted her arms, +fluttering her fingers like a bird flaps its wings, and gazing up into +the sky, while she said, `Up! up!' in a kind of rapture. And I could +only smile and bow my head to the truth which God had told her." [See +Note 1.] + +"But how could she know it?" asked astonished Bertha. + +Avice shook her head. "I cannot explain it; I can only tell what +happened. She was always very tender-hearted; she never could bear to +see any quarrelling, or cruelty, or injustice. If two of the children +strove together, our little Lady would run to them with a face of deep +distress, and take a hand of each and draw them together, as though she +were begging them to be friends; and if she could not get them to kiss +each other, she would kiss first one and then the other. I missed her +one day, and, after hunting a long while, I found her in the gallery +before a fresco of our Lord upon the Cross. She was stroking it and +kissing it, with tears in her eyes; and she turned to me saying, `Poor! +poor!' Her eyes always filled with tears when she saw the crucifix. +The moon used to interest her exceedingly; she would sit and watch it, +and kiss her hand to it. But, dear me! how the time must be getting on! +Jump up, Bertha, and prepare supper." + +Bertha folded up her work and put it aside. She drew one of the high +stools between her aunt and herself, and put out upon it the two wooden +trenchers and two tin mugs. Going to a corner cupboard, Bertha brought +out a few cakes of black bread, which she set on a smaller stool beside +the other; and then, lifting a pan upon the fire, she threw into it some +pieces of mutton fat. As soon as these were melted, Bertha broke four +eggs into them, stirring this indigestible mixture with a wooden +thible--an article of which my northern readers will not require a +description, but the southern must be told that it is a long flat +instrument with which porridge is stirred. For the eggs were not merely +fried in the fat, but were beaten up with it, the dish when finished +bearing the name of franche-mule. A sprig or two of dried herbs were +then shred into the pan, and the whole poured out, half on each of the +trenchers. It is more than possible that the extraordinarily rich, +incongruous, indigestible dishes wherein our fathers delighted, may have +something to do with the weaker digestions of their children. The tin +mugs were filled with weak ale from a barrel which stood under the +ladder. It was an oddity at that time to drink water. + +When supper was finished, Bertha washed the mugs and scraped the +trenchers clean (water never touched those), putting them back in their +places. She had scarcely ended when a tap was heard at the door. + +"Step in, Hildith," said Bertha, as she opened it. "Christ give thee a +good even!" + +"The like to thee," was the answer, as a rather worn-looking woman came +in. "Mistress Avice, your servant. Pray you, would you lend me the +loan of a tinder-box? I am but now come home from work, and am that +weary I may scarce move; and yon careless Jaket hath let the fire out, +and I must needs kindle the same again ere I may dress supper for the +children." + +It was no wonder if Hildith looked worn out, or if she could not afford +a tinder-box. That precious article cost a penny, and her wages were +fifteen pence a year. If we do a sum to find out what that would be +now, when money is much more plentiful, we shall find that Hildith's +wages come to twenty-two shillings and sixpence, and the tinder-box was +worth eighteen-pence. We should fancy that nobody could live on such a +sum. But we must remember two things: first, they then did a great deal +for themselves which we pay for; they spun and wove their own linen and +woollen, did their own washing, brewed their own ale and cider, made +their own butter and cheese, and physicked themselves with herbs. +Secondly, prices were very much lower as respected the necessaries of +life; bread was four loaves, or cakes, for a penny, of the very best +quality; a lamb or a goose cost fourpence, eight chickens were sold for +fivepence, and twenty-four eggs for a penny. Clothing stuffs were dear, +but then (as people sometimes say) they wore "for everlasting," and +ladies of rank would send half-worn gowns to one another as very +handsome presents. Fourpence was a good price to give for a pair of +shoes, and a halfpenny a day for food was a liberal allowance. + +"Any news to-night, Hildith?" asked Avice, as she handed her neighbour +the tinder-box. + +"Well, nay; without you call it news that sheriffs man brought word this +morrow that the Lord King had granted the half of her goods to old +Barnaba o' the Lichgate." + +"She that was a Jew, and was baptised at Whitsuntide? I am glad to hear +that." + +"Ay, she. I am not o'er sorry; she is a good neighbour, Jew though she +be." + +"Then I reckon she will tarry here, and not go to dwell in the House of +Converts in London town?" + +"Marry, she will so, if she have any wisdom teeth left. I would not +like to be carried away from all I know, up to yon big town, though they +do say the houses be made o' gold and silver." + +Avice smiled, for she knew better. + +"Nay, Hildith, London town is built of brick and stone like Lincoln." + +"Is it, now? I always heard it was made o' gold. But aren't there a +vast sight o' folk there? nigh upon ten thousand?" + +"Ay, and more." + +"However do they get victuals for them all?" + +"I got mine when I lived there," said Avice, laughing. + +"And don't they burn sea-coal?" + +"They did once; it is forbidden now." + +"Dirty, poisonous stuff! I wouldn't touch it. Well, good-even. Shut +the door quick, Bertha, and don't watch me out o' sight; 'tis the +unluckiest thing man can do." + +And Bertha believed it, as she showed by shutting the door. + +Old Barnaba, the Jewess, had been dealt with tenderly. In those days, +if a Jew were baptised, he forfeited all he had to the King. Most +unaccountable it is that any Christian country should have let such a +law exist for an hour! These destitute Jews, however, were provided for +in the House of Converts, in London, which stood at the bottom of +Chancery Lane, between it and Saint Dunstan's Church. + +It was bed-time soon after. Avice put away her distaff, Bertha folded +up her sewing, and they mounted the ladder. This was about seven +o'clock, which was then as late an hour as it was thought that +respectable people ought to be about. But by two o'clock the next +morning, Bertha was sweeping the kitchen, and Avice carding flax in the +corner. They did not trouble themselves about breakfast; it was an +unknown luxury, except for people who were very old or very delicate. +Two meals a day were the rule: dinner, at nine in the morning: supper, +at three in the afternoon. In those days they lived in a far harder and +less comfortable way than we do, and they had generally better health. +But, it must be admitted, they did not live nearly so long, and the +infant mortality among them was very great. + +Morning was no time for story-telling. The rooms had to be swept, the +bread to be baked, the clothes to be washed, the pigs and chickens to be +fed. Moreover, to-day was the first day of the Michaelmas fair, and +things must be bought in to last till Christmas. The active work was +finished by about seven o'clock. Dinner was now got ready. It +consisted of two bowls of broth, then boiled dumplings, and lastly some +stewed giblets. Having made things tidy, our friends now tied on +woollen hoods, and each taking down from the rafter-hooks a capacious +basket, they went forth to do their shopping. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. The peculiar ways attributed to the little Princess, and +especially this incident, are taken from an account of a real deaf and +dumb child, published many years ago. There was certainly something +about the Princess which her attendants considered wonderful and +beautiful. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE. + +THE DUMB PLAYMATES. + +Out into the Michaelmas fair our friends went. + +In these days, when fairs have quite changed their character, we cannot +easily form a notion of what they once were. The fair, held in every +town four times a year, was a very important matter. There were much +fewer shops than now; and not only in the town, but from all the +surrounding villages people flocked to the fair, to lay in food and +clothes and all sorts of necessaries, enough to last till the next +fair-day. They had very little fresh butcher's meat, and very few +vegetables except what they grew themselves; so they ate numbers of +things salted which we have fresh. Not only salt fish and salt neat, +but salt cabbage formed a great part of their diet. The consequence of +all this salt food was that they suffered dreadfully from scurvy. But +they did not run to the doctor, for except in rare instances there was +no doctor to run to! All doctors were clergymen then, and there were +very few of them. In the large towns there were apothecaries, or +chemists, who often prescribed for people; and there were "wise women" +who knew a good deal about herbs, and sometimes gave good medicines, +along with a great deal of foolish nonsense in the way of charms and all +sorts of silly fancies. At that time, ladies were taught a good deal +about medicine, and a benevolent lady was often the doctor for a large +neighbourhood. But we are wandering away from the Michaelmas fair, and +we must come back. + +The fair was a very busy scene. In some places it was hard work to get +along at all. The booths were set up, not in the streets but in the +churchyards, the market place, and on any waste space available. And +what with the noise of business, the hum of gossip, the shouts of +competing sellers, and the sound of hundreds of clogs on the round +paving-stones, it may be readily supposed that quiet was far away. + +Avice's first business was to lay in a stock of salt meat and salt fish. +Very little of either was used fresh, for it was not obtainable: and +still less would have been used so far as fish is concerned, had not the +law, alike of the Church and of the State, compelled it to be eaten +throughout Lent, and on every Friday in the year. Little enough fish +would anybody have touched then, but for that provision. Avice bought +half of a salted calf, which cost a shilling; five hundred herrings, at +half-a-crown; a bushel of salt, at threepence (which was dear); +twenty-five stock-fish, at two shillings; a quarter of a sheep, at +fourpence; a quarter of wheat, at six shillings; a quarter of oats, at +five shillings; half a quarter of salt cabbage, at five shillings; and +five pounds of figs, at three-halfpence a pound. This was her provision +for the three months which would elapse before the Christmas fair. She +then went to the drapery stalls, and laid in two hoods, for herself and +Bertha, at a shilling each; ten ells of russet, to serve for two gowns, +at eighteen-pence the ell; twelve ells of serge, at three-halfpence the +ell; two pairs of shoes, at fourpence each. The russet was intended for +their best dresses; the serge for common. Considering how very little +went to make a garment, it seems likely that our ancestors wove their +stuff a good deal wider than we do. Avice also laid in a few other +articles of different kinds: a brass pot, which cost her 2 shillings 2 +pence; five pounds of tallow, at three-halfpence a pound, and as many of +wax at sixpence; wax was largely used for a variety of objects. Her +last and costliest purchase she would have been better without. It was +a painted and gilded image of Saint Katherine, and cost fifteen +shillings. But Avice, though a good woman according to her light, had +enjoyed very little light, and did not understand half so well as we do +that she might go straight to God through the new and living way opened +upon the cross, without the intervention of any mediator except the Lord +Jesus. She thought she must pray through a saint; and she had no idea +of praying unless she could see something to pray to. Her old image had +lost much of its paint, and half an arm, and its nose was hopelessly +damaged. Therefore, as she must have one, poor Avice thought it best to +buy a new one, rather than have her old saint tinkered up. Alas for the +gods or the mediators who require to be tinkered! + +By the time that these purchases were made, and the goods brought home, +it was not far from the supper hour; and Bertha prepared that meal by +boiling a dish of salt cabbage from one of the barrels. This, with +black bread and ale, made their supper. + +The meal was just ready, and Avice had put away her carding, having +finished that kind of work for the day, when a rap at the door was +followed by the lifting of the latch, and the old smith put in his head. + +"Any room for a man, have ye?" + +"Plenty for you, Uncle Dan," answered Avice heartily; and Bertha's eyes +lighted up at the sight of her father. + +Dan came forward and sat down on the stool which Bertha set for him. + +"Has it not been a charming day?" said Avice. + +"Ay, it's fine weather i' Lincoln," was Dan's dry answer. "Up at +smithy, it's none so bad neither--yet. Just a touch of thunder we had +this morning,--a bit of a grumble i' th' distance like: but I've known +worser storms a deal. Ay, I have so!" + +Avice quite understood what kind of storm he meant. + +"How do you get on without me, Father?" asked Bertha. + +"Well, I'll not say I don't miss thee, my singing bird; but I'm willing, +when it's for thy good. I've got--let me see--two buttons left o' my +blouse, and I think there's one o' my flannel shirt, but I'm none so +sure. It's rather troublesome, for sure, when there's none o' th' +sleeves; they keep for ever a-slippin' up man's arm; but I could put up +wi' that easy if there was nought more. It's true I don't want to pull +'em down while even comes." + +"Oh, Father, let me sew you some on!" cried Bertha. + +"So thou shall," said Dan. "But I've a bit o' news for thee, lass. +Susanna's to be wed." + +"With whom, Uncle?" + +"Michael, cartwright, at corner." + +"Is it a good match?" + +"He's got his match, and she's got hern." + +"They are well matched, then," said Bertha, laughing. + +"They're a pair," said Dan, grimly. "He's eagre, and she's mustard; and +they'll none mix ill--but they'll set folks' throats a-fire as meddles +wi' 'em." + +Eagre is the old English word for vinegar, which is just "wine-eagre." +It means anything sharp and acid. + +"Is Aunt Filomena pleased?" asked Avice. + +"She's never pleased wi' nothing," was the reply of her unfortunate +husband. "She give him lots o' sauce when he first come, and he's had +another spoonful every time since. He gives it her every bit as hot--I +will say that for him. His mother went by name o' old Maud Touchup, and +he doth her no disfavour. She knew how to hit folks--_she_ did. And +Michael's a chip o' th' old block." + +"A little more cabbage, Uncle Dan?" + +"Nay, I thank thee. I must be going home, I reckon. Eh, but you're +peaceable here! I reckon man could sleep i' this house, and not be +waked up wi' jarring and jangling. I tell thee what, Avice--when the +big folks up to London town runs short o' money, I wonder they don't +clap a bit of a tax on women's tongues! It'd bring 'em in a tunful in a +week, _that_ would." + +"How would you collect it, Uncle Dan?" + +"Nay, there thou floors me. They'd best send down a chap all over steel +to th' smithy, He'd get plucked o' pieces else. Well, God be wi' thee, +Avice. God bless thee, Bertha, my lass. Good-night!" + +And Uncle Dan disappeared into the darkness. There were no street lamps +then. Every man had to carry his own lantern, unless he chose to run +the risk of breaking his neck over the round stones which formed the +streets, or the rough ground, interspersed with holes and pits, to be +found everywhere else. + +They now sat down to work for the rest of the evening, Avice on the +settle in the corner, Bertha on one of the low stools which she brought +up to the hearth. + +"Lack-a-day! what have I forgot!" said Avice as Bertha drew up her stool +and unfolded the apron she was making. "I thought to have asked Nora +Goldhue for a sprig of betony, or else purslane. 'Tis o'er late +to-night, and verily I am too weary to go forth again." + +"Have you bad dreams, Aunt?" asked Bertha, knowing that a sprig of +either of those herbs under the pillow was believed to drive them away. + +"Ay, child; they have troubled me these four nights past, but last night +more especially." + +No wonder, after a supper on franche-mule! But it never occurred to +ignorant Avice that supper and dreams could have anything to do with one +another. + +"Shall I fetch you a laurel leaf, Aunt?" suggested Bertha. + +"Ay, do, child; maybe that shall change the luck. Best go ere it rain, +too; and that will not be long, for I saw a black snail in the channel +as we came in." + +Bertha tied on her hood, and ran out to the house of the next-door +neighbour, who had a laurel in her garden, to beg a few of its leaves, +which were supposed to bring pleasant dreams. Having placed these under +her aunt's bolster, she sat down again to her work, and Avice resumed +her interrupted story. + +"It was in July, 1254, when our little Lady was but eight months old, +that the Lady Queen set forth to join the Lord King in Gascony. There +were many ships taken up for her voyage, amongst which were the _Savoy_, +the _Falcon_, and the _Baroness_, that was my Lord of Leicester's ship. +In the ship wherein the Lady Queen sailed, was built a special chamber +for her, of polished wood, for the which three hundred planks were sent +from the forest to Portsmouth. But so short was she of money, that she +was compelled to bid the Treasurer to send her all the cups and basins +which the King had of silver, and all gold in coin or leaf that could be +found in the treasuries. Moreover, the Jews throughout England were +distrained for five thousand marks, for the ransom of their bodies, and +their wives and little ones, and by sale of their lands and houses. The +Lady Queen took with her divers pieces of English cloth for the Lord +King, seeing that French cloth is not nigh so good. Some things also +she commanded for the children, who were to tarry at Windsor during her +absence. Twenty-four silver spoons were made, and fifty wild animals +taken for their provision in the park at Guildford. Robes were served +out, furred with hare's fur, for Edmund the King's son and Henry de +Lacy; four robes for the gentlewomen that had the care of the children; +and for Richard the chaplain, Master Simon de Wycumb the keeper, and +Master Godwyn the cook: these were of sendal. And there were robes +furred with lamb for the King's wards, and for John the Varlet, and +Julian the Rocker, and my mother, and me thine aunt." [See Note 1.] + +Both to Avice and Bertha it seemed quite a matter of course that the +Jews should find the money when the King wanted silk, or the King's +children silver spoons. + +"But it seems to me, Aunt," suggested Bertha, "that the Lady Queen must +have spent all her money before she started." + +"Oh no! the money was for the Lord King. In truth, I know not whether +she paid for the other things. But I did hear that as soon as the Lord +King knew she would come, and that she was bringing with her so much +money and plate, he began to spend with both hands on his side of the +sea. He sent at once for six cloths of gold that the Queen and Lord +Edward might offer in the churches of Bordeaux when they should arrive +there; he commanded to be made ready a fair jewel for Saint Edward the +Martyr, and a hundred pounds of jewels for Saint Edward the King, and +divers more for Saint Thomas of Canterbury, all which were offered when +he and the Queen returned home in December. There came in also, for the +King's coming back, many frails of figs, raisins, dates, cinnamon, +saffron, pepper, ginger, and such like; I remember seeing them unpacked +in Antioch Chamber, the little chamber by the garden." + +"And what did it all cost, Aunt?" + +"I know not, child. Maybe he never paid for those. He used to pay for +such things as he offered to the holy saints; but for debts to +tradesfolk and such, they took their chance. If he had money, he might +pay some of them or no, at his pleasure; and if not, then of course they +had to wait. Very sure am I that many a pound of musk came into the +wardrobe more than was paid for. Never was such a Prince for scents. +He loved musk as much as he feared lightning; and there was only one +thing in all this world that he feared more, and that was Earl Simon of +Leicester." + +"And did the Lady Queen squander her money as much as the Lord King, +Aunt Avice?" + +"She was every bit as bad. She always seemed to me as if a piece of her +brains had never grown up along with the rest. Some folks are like +that. In respect of money, she was a very child. She had not a notion +how far it would go, and she never would wait to have it before she +spent it. She always appeared to think it would come somehow: and so +far as she was concerned, it often did. But then she never saw the +homeless Jews who were sold up to furnish it, nor the ruined tradesmen +who had to wait till they could not pay their own way, and were sent to +prison for debt. I think she might have been sorry, if she had done. I +suppose we should all be sorry, if we knew half the evil we do. Well, +God pardon her!--she is a holy sister now in the priory at Amesbury. +And our present Queen always pays her bills, I have heard say. Long may +she live to do it!" + +"How old was the little Lady when her parents came back?" + +"She was just over a year old. I waited on her from the Castle of +Windsor to the Palace at Westminster, for the Lord King desired to +behold her at once. And was not he delighted with her! I doubt if any +of the royal children were as dear to the hearts of their parents as our +little Lady." + +"Was she pleased to go?" + +"Pleased!--she gave nobody a bit of rest," said Avice, laughing. "All +the journey through she was plucking at my gown, and pointing, first +here and then there, with her little cry of `Who? who?'--for she talked +at fifteen months old as much as she ever spoke in this world. And +before I could find out what she meant, she was pointing to something +else, and `Who? who?' came over again." + +"Did you know then that she was deaf and dumb?" + +"No! nor for months after. Truly, all her ways were so bright, and her +sense so keen, and her laugh so gladsome, that we never thought of such +a thing till she was long past the age when children ought to speak +freely. But when at last they began to fear the truth, it was indeed a +bitter grief to the royal parents. The Lord King offered five cloths of +gold at Saint Edward's shrine for the children, and specially for our +little Lady, in hope that the Divine mercy might be moved to have pity +on her. But it was all in vain." + +Avice sighed heavily. And there was no one to say to her, O woman, +_small_ is thy faith! Was the Divine mercy no greater, which called +that little child, unspotted by the world, to tread the fair streets of +the Golden City, than the mercy thou wouldst have had instead of it? + +"It was not long after that," said Avice, slowly drawing out the white +threads, "that our little Lady's health began to fail. The heats of +summer tried her sorely. She drooped like a flower that had no water. +Instead of playing with the other children, her gleeful laughter ringing +through the galleries of the Castle, she would come and draw her little +velvet stool to my side, and lay her head on my knee as if she were very +weary. And when I looked down and smiled on her, instead of smiling +back as she was wont, the great, dark wistful eyes used to look up so +sadly, as if her soul were looking out of them. Oh, it was pitiful to +read the dear eyes, when they said, `I am suffering: cannot you help +me?' And as time went on, they said it more and more. When the Lady +Queen came to Windsor, she was shocked at the sad change in our darling +little Lady. She called in Master Thomas, the King's surgeon, and he +advised that our little Lady should be removed from Windsor to some +country place, where the air was good, and where she could play about in +the fields. So she was put in charge of Emma La Despenser, Lady de +Saint John, at her manor of Swallowfield, in Berkshire. Of course I +went with her, and her cousin Alianora also, who was her favourite +playfellow, for it was not thought well she should be entirely with +older people, though I cannot say I was sorry to get rid of all those +rough boys. The Lord King also commanded that a kid should be taken in +the forest, as small and fair as might be found, for our little Lady to +play with: and very fond she was of it. It was a lovely little +creature, and grew as tame as possible. Ah, they were much alike, those +two little things!--both young, soft, lovely--and both dumb! I +marvelled sometimes whether they understood each other." + +"And did she not get any better, Aunt?" + +"Yes; for a time she did. The country air and food and quiet did seem +to do her good. She was so much better that she came back to Windsor +for the winter. But it was not thought well by Master Thomas that she +should go to London to be present at the great rejoicings that were made +when the Lady Alianora came from Spain--our Queen that now is, the holy +saints bless her! There were grand doings then, I heard; all London +city was curtained in her honour, and processions in every church, and +all superbly decorated; and the poor fed in the halls at Westminster, as +many as could get in; and the Lord King presented a silver cross to the +Abbey, and a golden plate of an ounce weight. Oh, it must have been a +grand sight!" + +"Who paid that bill, I wonder?" said Bertha, laughing. + +"Bless thee, child! how do I know? That was the autumn when there was +so much ado here at Lincoln touching the crucifixion of the blessed +Hugh, son of Beatrice, by the wicked Jews; one hundred and more of them +were brought to prison, first here, and afterwards at Westminster; and +when eighteen had been hanged, the rest were graciously allowed to buy +their lives for eighteen thousand marks. I daresay some of that went +for it--that is, for as much of it as got paid for." + +That sum would now be equal to about two hundred and sixteen thousand +pounds. It never came into Avice's head to doubt whether the Jews had +crucified little Hugh. Such charges were often enough brought against +them--when those who called themselves Christians wanted an excuse for +stealing the jews' money and jewels. There has never been a single +instance, in this country or any other, in which the charge has been +proved true. A further favourite accusation, that the Jews used the +blood of Christian children to make their passover cakes, we know cannot +have been true; for the Bible tells us that the Jews were strictly +forbidden to eat blood. But what absurdity might not be expected from +people who had no Bibles, and of whom not more than one in a thousand +could have read it if he had had one? Are we half thankful enough for +our own privileges? + +"Well!" continued Avice, "after this, the Lady Alianora came down to +Windsor with the Lady Queen, and our little Lady and she took to one +another wonderfully. And, indeed, it was little wonder, for she was as +fair and sweet a damsel as ever tripped over the greensward. Our little +Lady would run to her whenever she sat down in the children's chamber, +and say, `Up! up!' and then the Lady Alianora would smile sweetly, and +take her up beside her in the great state chair; and there they sat with +their arms round one another, looking like two doves with their heads +resting on each other's necks. And the Lady Alianora once said to me, +stroking our little Lady's hair--`I hope, Avice, thou givest her plenty +of love. She can understand that, if she cannot anything else.' Ay, +and so she could! She fretted sadly over the Lady Alianora when she +went away from Windsor. I think she and the little kid were more than +ever together after that. I have found them both asleep in a corner of +the chamber, resting on one another." + +"Was she fond of pets?" + +"She loved her little kid dearly, and she seemed to go to it for +comfort. I do not know that she cared much for anything else. The Lord +King was the one for gathering curious animals of all sorts. He had +three leopards in the Tower, and a white bear, which was taken out to +fish in the Thames; the citizens of London paid fourpence a day for the +bear's keep, and had to provide a chain and muzzle for it, and a long +cord whereby it was held when it fished in the river. And in the +spring, before the coming of the Lady Alianora, the French King sent to +our King a very strange animal, the like of which was never before seen +in England. It had scarcely any eyes that man might see, and not much +of a tail; but great flapping ears, and a most extraordinary thing that +hung down from its face, which was hollow like a pipe, and it could pick +things up with it as thou dost with thy fingers. It was a lead-coloured +beast, and ate nought but grass and hay and such-like; it would not +touch meat nor bones. They called it an oliphant,"--for so in old time +people pronounced elephant. "The Lord King thought great things of this +beast, and had a house built for it, forty feet by twenty, at the Tower: +it was made very strong, lest the great beast should break forth and +slay men. But truly it seemed a peaceable beast enough. + +"We dwelt much more quietly at Windsor, after the departure of the Lady +Alianora. For she went abroad with the Lord Edward her husband, and +Mariot de Ferrars, who had been there for some time--she went too; and +the King's son Edmund was made King of Sicily by the Lord Pope, and he +and the other lads were taken away; our little Lady and her cousin +Alianora de Montfort alone were left. The King thought to have made +money by Edmund his son; he was a fair boy in very truth, and he clad +him in Sicilian dress, which was graceful and comely, and showed him +before the Parliament, entreating them to find him money for all these +many expenses. But the Parliament did not seem disposed to pay for +seeing the young Lord. And, indeed, I heard Master Russell say that he +thought it strange the Lord King should make merchandise of his child's +beauty, as though he were some curious animal to be seen in a show. But +Bertha, my dear heart! we clean forgot to buy any honey--and only this +minute is it come to my mind. Tie on thine hood, I pray thee, and run +to the druggist for an half-dozen pounds." + +When it is understood that honey held in Avice's cookery and diet the +place that sugar does in ours, the necessity of remedying this mistake +will be seen. Sugar was much too expensive to be used by any but +wealthy people. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. The robes provided for Agnes and Avice are the sole imaginary +items in this account. Sendal was a very thin silk. + + + +CHAPTER SIX. + +SET FREE. + +As Bertha came back, carefully carrying her jar of honey, she heard a +considerable tumult in a street on her left hand, which led to the Jews' +quarter of the city. In every town, the Jews were shut up in a +particular part of it; and after London itself, the towns in which the +greatest number of Jews lived were Lincoln, York, Norwich, Oxford, and +Northampton. Since the dreadful persecution arising from the (real or +supposed) murder of little Hugh, Lincoln had been comparatively quiet +from such tumults; and Bertha was too young to know anything about it +but from hearsay. Wondering if some fresh commotion was going to arise, +and anxious to be safe at home before it should begin, Bertha quickened +her steps. There were only three more streets to cross, one of which +was a dark, narrow alley leading directly to the Jews' quarter. As +Bertha crossed this, she heard a low, frightened call upon her name, and +a slight figure crept out and crouched at her feet. + +"O Bertha!" said a girl's voice, broken by sobs and terrified catching +of the breath, "you are kind-hearted; I know you are. You saved a +little dog that the dreadful boys were trying to drown. Will you save +me, though I am beneath a dog in your eyes?" + +"Who are you?" asked astonished Bertha. + +"I am Hester, the daughter of Aaron," said the girl, "and there is a +deadly raid on our quarter. They accuse us of poisoning the wells. O +Bertha, they lay things to us that we never do! Save me, for my +womanhood's sake!" + +"Poor soul!" said Bertha, looking down at her. "Come with me to Aunt +Avice. Maybe she will let thee tarry in some corner till the tumult is +over. I dare say it will not be much." + +Bertha spoke in rather contemptuous tones, though they were not wanting +in pity. Everybody in England was taught then to rank Jews with vermin, +and to look upon it as a weakness to show them any kindness. + +The two girls reached the door in safety, and Bertha led Hester in. + +"Aunt Avice," she said, "there is a commotion in the Jews' quarter, and +here is a Jew maiden that wants to know if we will shelter her. I +suppose she won't hurt us much, will she?" + +The very breath of a Jew was fancied to be poisonous. + +Avice looked at the pale, terrified face and trembling limbs of the girl +who had cast herself on her mercy. + +"Well, I dare say not," said she; "at any rate, we will risk it. +Perhaps the good Lord may not be very angry; or if He is, we must say +more prayers, and beg our Lady Saint Mary to intercede for us. Come in, +child." + +Poor Avice! she knew no better. She had been taught that the Lord who +died for her was a stern, angry Judge, and that all the mercy rested in +His human mother. And the Jews had crucified Christ; so, thought Avice, +He must hate them! Perhaps, of such Christians as she was, He may have +said again, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." + +Hester came in quietly. "May God bless you!" she said. "I will try not +to breathe on you, for I know what you think." And she sat down meekly +on the floor, in a dark corner, not daring to offer any help, lest they +should imagine that she would pollute anything she touched. Avice threw +her a cake of bread, as she might have done to a dog; and Hester knew +that it was a kinder act than she would have received from most of the +Christians around. + +It was not yet quite bed-time, and Bertha sat down again to her work, +begging her aunt to finish the tale. They took no notice of Hester. + +"It is almost finished," said Avice; "there is little more to tell. The +winter got over, but spring was scarcely begun when our little Lady's +health failed again. The Lord King was so anxious about her that when +he was away from Windsor, he bade the Lady Queen to send him a special +messenger with news of her; and so delighted was he to hear of her +recovery, that he commanded a good robe to be given to the messenger, +and offered in thanksgiving an image of silver, wrought in the form of a +woman, to the shrine of Saint Edward." + +"Then she did recover, Aunt?" + +"Ay, but it was for the last time. As the summer drew on, the Lady +Queen asked Master Thomas if he thought it well that the little Lady +should have change again, and be sent into the country till the heat was +past. Master Thomas answered that he reckoned it unnecessary; and the +Lady Queen departed, well pleased. But as soon as she was gone, Master +Thomas said to me and Julian the Rocker, who were tending our little +Lady--`She will have a better change than to Swallowfield.' Quoth +Julian, `Say you so, Master? Whither do you purpose sending her?' And +he said, looking sadly on the child, `_I_ purpose sending her? Truly, +good Julian, no whither. But ere long time be over, the Lord our God +will send for her, by that angel that taketh no bribe to delay execution +of His mandate.' And then I knew his meaning: my darling was to die. +But the steps of the angel were very slow. The autumn came and went. +The child seemed languid and dull, and the Lord King offered a chasuble +of samite to the blessed Edmund of Pontigny at his altar at Canterbury." + +Edmund Rich, afterwards called Saint Edmund of Pontigny, was an +Archbishop of Canterbury with whom King Henry the Third was at variance +as long as he lived, much in the same way as Henry the Second had been +with Becket. Now he was dead, a banished man, the Pope had declared him +a saint, and King Henry made humble offerings at his shrine. But it is +amusing to find that with respect to this offering at least, his +Majesty's instructions were to buy the samite of the lowest price that +could be found! + +"It was all of no use," pursued Avice sorrowfully. "The angel had +received the mandate. Great feasts were held at Easter--there were +twenty beeves and fifty muttons, fifteen hundred pullets, and six +hundred shillings' worth of bread, beside many other things--but ere one +month was over, the feast became a fast. When Saint Philip's day dawned +my darling lay in her bed, with her fair eyes turned up to heaven and +her hands folded in prayer; and who may know what she said to God, or +yet more what He told to her? She had never been taught to pray; she +could not be." Avice's only notion of prayer was repeating a form of +words, and keeping time by a string of beads. "But I shall always think +that in some way beyond our comprehension, my darling could speak to +God. And on the evening of the Invention of the Cross"--which is May +3rd--"she spoke to Him in Heaven." + +"And did the Lady Queen sorrow very much, Aunt? I suppose, though, +great ladies like her would not care as much as poor people." + +"Wouldst thou, child? Ah, a mother is a mother, let her be a cottager +or a queen. And she sorrowed so sorely that for weeks afterwards she +lay ill, and all the skill of her physicians could avail nothing. The +Lord King, too, fell sick of a tertian fever, which held him many days, +and I believe it was out of sheer anguish for his dearest child. He +commanded a brass image of her to be placed on the tomb, but ere it was +finished he would have one of silver: and he gave fifty shillings a year +to the hermit of Charing, for a priest to pray daily for her in the +chapel of the hermitage." + +"Do you think she is still in Purgatory, Aunt?" + +Avice's religion, as taught not by the Word of God, but the traditions +of men, led her to be doubtful on that point. But her heart broke its +way through the bonds. + +"What, my white dove? my little unspotted darling, that never wilfully +sinned against God and holy Church? Child, if our holy Father the Pope +were to tell me himself that she was there, I would not believe him. Do +the angels go to Purgatory? Nay, I do verily believe that, seeing her +infirmity, Christ our Lord did all the work of salvation for her, and +that she sings now before our Father's face." + +Poor Avice! she could get no further. But we, who know God's Word, know +that there is but one Mediator between God and man, and that He has +offered a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of the +whole world. Before Bertha could reply, an answer came unexpectedly +from the dark corner. + +"Your God must be hard to propitiate," said the young Jewess. "In old +times, after the sacrifice was offered, a man was cleansed from sin. He +had not to cleanse himself by his own pain." + +"But you are heathens," said Avice, feeling it a condescension to argue +with a Jew. "Our religion is better than yours." + +"How?" was Hester's rejoinder. + +"Because we have been redeemed by our Lord, who died to save us from +Hell." + +"It does not sound like it. Then why had the little child to go there?" + +"She did not go there! She went to Purgatory." + +"She went to pain, if I understood you rightly. Why did your Messiah +not finish His work, and keep her from going to pain altogether?" + +"I cannot answer such wicked questions," said Avice. "The Church +teaches that God's love purifies His servants in Purgatory, and as soon +as their souls are clean they go to Heaven." + +"Our God does better for us than that," was Hester's quiet answer. "I +do not know what `the Church' is. But I suppose God's love is not for +Gentiles." + +And she relapsed into silence. Avice sat and span--and thought. Both +of them were terribly ignorant; but Avice did honestly desire to know +God's will, and such truth as was in Hester's words troubled her. And +as she thought, other words came to her, heard years ago from the pulpit +of Lincoln Cathedral, and from the long silent lips of that holy Bishop +Grosteste whom she so deeply revered. + +"By leaning on Christ," the Bishop had said, "every true Christian rises +into true life, peace, and joy; he lives in His life, sees light in His +light, is invigorated with His warmth, grows in His strength, and +leaning on the Beloved, his soul ascends upwards." + +Then for those who loved Christ and leaned on Him, either He must be +with them in Purgatory, and then it would be no pain at all: or--Avice +shrank from the alternative that perhaps there was no Purgatory at all! +It is hard to break free from trammels in which we have been held all +our lives. Bertha did not follow the course of her aunt's thoughts, and +wondered why she said, after long silence-- + +"Methinks God is enough for His people, wherever they are." + +Hester also had been thinking, and to as much purpose. + +"It is written, `In His name shall the Gentiles trust,'" she said. "And +I think, if He can love any Gentiles, it must be kindly and merciful +hearts like yours. Perhaps the Great Sacrifice--the Messiah Himself--is +meant for all men. But I think He will finish His work, and not leave +it incomplete, as your priests seem to teach you." + +"He will do right by all men, if thou meanest our Lord," replied Avice +gently. "And what was right for all, and best for us, we shall know +when we come to Him." + +"Then the little Lady knows it now, Aunt," said Bertha. + +"Yes, my darling knows it now. It may be she knows why her ears were +sealed and her tongue bound, now that they are unstopped and loosed. +And I marvel if any voice in the choirs of the angels can be so sweet as +hers." + +There was silence for a little while. Then Hester rose. + +"I thank you very much for your kindness," she said. "I think I might +go home. The streets seem quieter now." + +Avice went to the door, unlatched it, and peered forth into the night. + +"Yes, there seems to be no noise in the direction of your quarter now. +I think you will be safe. But if you feel uneasy, you can stay the +night in this room." + +"No, thank you," replied Hester gratefully. "I will not put you to that +trouble. You have been very good to me. May the God of Israel bless +you with His blessing!" + +Avice felt rather uneasy. She had always been taught that Jews were +idolaters, and she never imagined that Hester could be blessing her in +the name of the one living God. She fancied that the benediction of +some horrible Moloch was being called down upon her, and feared it +accordingly. But she answered kindly, for unkindness was not in her +simple, loving, God-fearing heart. Hester went out, and latched the +door behind her. + +"I am glad she is gone," said Bertha. "I could not feel easy while she +was here. Yet I could not have borne to turn her away without asking +you if you would take her in, Aunt. I hope we have not done wrong!" + +"I hope not, indeed," replied Avice, who was not quite easy in her own +mind. "I wonder why it should be so wrong to pity Jews, and be kind to +them. It looks so different from all the other commands of our Lord." + +Different, most truly! But such causes for wonder were likely to be +frequent enough, so long as men allowed the traditions of men to run +alongside of the infallible Word of God. And they had no power to read +for themselves the real words of the Lord, who had said to the father of +all Israel, "I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that +curseth thee." + +But the influx of visitors was not yet over for the evening. Hester had +not been gone long when a heavy rap came on the door. "Come in!" said +Avice; and Uncle Dan appeared. + +"Could you spare a chap a seat, think ye?" said he. "I've come for a +bit o' peace. We've got thunder and lightning and rain up at smithy. +_She's_ thunder, and Ankaret's lightning, and Mildred's rain, for she's +a-crying: and El'nor and me, we 're wet to skin wi' 't. So I put my cap +on and come here to dry me a bit." + +Avice laughed. "You're always welcome, Uncle Dan, and I hope you know +it," said she. "Bertha, my maid, bake a short-cake for thy father. +There's enough warmth in the bake-stone." + +"Short-cake's good," said Dan, "and I'll not go to deny it; but love and +peace are better. _She_ can make short-cake wi' anybody. It's th' jam +as goes wi' 't I don't like. She makes it so tart, and puts so much on. +Sure, if th' fire had went out, she'd easy bake a cake a-top of her +temper, and so could Ankaret. Eh, it do take a whole hive of honey to +sweeten some folks. There's bees in this world, for sure; but there's +many a waps to every bee." + +In the present day, "waps" is considered a vulgar way of pronouncing the +word; but it was correct English at the time of which I am writing. +"Wasp" is really the corrupt pronunciation. In the same way, they said +"claps" where we say "clasp." + +"Uncle Dan, I sometimes wonder you do not come and live in Lincoln +town." + +"Dost thee? Think I haven't noise enough at smithy?" + +"But I think you would make friends here, and find things pleasanter." + +"Humph!" said Dan, laying a big, hardened brown hand upon each knee. +"It's very plain to me, Avice, as thou doesn't live in a house where +everything thou does turns to hot water. Me make friends! She'd have +'em out o' th' door afore they'd a-comed in. They wouldn't come twice, +I reckon--nay, they wouldn't. That'd be end o' my friend-making, +Avice." + +"Uncle Dan, did you never try standing up to Aunt Filomena?" + +"Did I never try _what_? Ay did I, once--and got knocked down as sharp +as ninepins. Standing up! I'd love to see thee try it. Thou'd not be +right end up long." + +Bertha had gone upstairs, or Avice perhaps would not have spoken so +plainly, though the smith himself had long passed the stage of ignoring +his wife's failings in the presence of her children. + +"But you are her husband, Uncle Dan." + +"I reckon I know that Thou would, if she'd plucked as much of thy +whiskers out as she has o' mine." + +"And wives ought to obey their husbands." + +"Thou'll oblige me by saying so to her, and I'll be glad to know if thou +likes what thou'll get." + +"You think she cannot be managed?" + +"Not without one o' th' archangels likes to try. I'll not say he +wouldn't be sorry at after." + +"It does seem such a sad way for you to live," said Avice pityingly. + +"Grin and bide," said Dan philosophically. "Grin while I can, and bide +when I can't. But I'll tell thee what--if some o' them fighting fellows +as goes up and down a-seeking for adventures, 'd just take off Ankaret +and Mildred--well, I don't know about El'nor: she's been better o' +late--and eh, but they couldn't take Her, or I'd ha' given th' cow into +th' bargain, and been right glad on't--and if me and Emma and Bertha +could ha' settled down in a bit of a house somewhere, and been +peaceable--Come, it's no use hankering over things as can't be. +Elsewise, I'd ha' said a chap might ha' had a bit o' comfort then." + +"Uncle Dan, did you ever think of praying that Aunt Filomena might have +a better temper?" + +"Ever think of what?" demanded Uncle Dan in the biggest capitals ever +seen on a placard. + +"You know God could make her temper sweet, Uncle Dan." + +"Thou believes that, does thou?" + +"I do." + +"So will I--when I see't. I reckon I'll have a rare capful o' larks by +th' sky falling, first." + +"The sky will fall some day, my son," said the voice of Father Thomas, +behind Dan. His soft rap had been unheard through Dan's bass voice, and +he had entered unperceived. + +"Well, Father, you should know the rights on't," was Dan's answer, with +a pull at his hair. "Being a priest, I reckon you're good friends wi' +th' angels and th' sky and all that sort of thing; but--I ask your +pardon, Father, but She belongs to t'other lot, and you don't know her. +Eh, you don't, so!" + +And with an ominous shake of his head, and a good-night to Avice and +Bertha, Dan passed out. + +"Our Lord could do that, Father?" said Avice softly. + +"Certainly, my daughter. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He--in +the heavens, and in the earth, and in the sea, and in all depths.'" + +Father Thomas had not much of the Bible--only one Gospel and a Book of +Psalms--but what he had he studied well. And one page of the Word of +God will do a great deal for a man, with the Spirit of God to bring it +home to a willing ear and a loving heart. + +"May I pray for Aunt Filomena? I am so sorry for Uncle Dan. He is not +a bad man, and she makes his home unbearable." + +"God forgive her! By all means pray for both." + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN. + +A SPICE OF PHILOSOPHY. + +While Dan was thus detailing his troubles in Avice's kitchen, his +daughter Emma was finishing her day's work. She was apprenticed to an +embroideress; for all kinds of embroidery were in much greater use then +than 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, were +very largely ornamented with the needle. Mrs De la Laund kept eighteen +apprentices, and they worked in a long, narrow room with windows at each +end--not glass windows, but just square openings, where light, wind, and +rain or snow, came in together. It was about half an hour before it +would be time to stop work. There was no clock in the room, and there +were only three in all Lincoln. Clocks such as we have were then +unknown. They had but two measures of time--the clepsydra, or +water-clock, and the sun-dial. When a man had neither of these, he +employed all kinds of ingenious expedients for guessing what time it +was, if the day were cloudy and the sun not to be seen. King Alfred had +invented the plan, long before, of having candles to burn a certain +time; the monks knew how long it took to repeat certain psalms. Mrs De +la Laund stopped work when the cathedral bell tolled for vespers--that +is, at four o'clock. + +"You look tired, Antigone," said Emma to her nearest neighbour, a pale +girl of eighteen. + +"Tired? Of course I'm tired," was the unpromising answer. "Where's the +good? 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 my +living, when Lady Margaret, up at the Castle, never needs to put a +needle in or out unless she pleases?" + +"Nay, you're wrong there. My sister Justina is scullion-maid at the +Castle, and I am sure, from what she tells me, you wouldn't like to +change 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 bit +of fun when the day's work is over; and she would not get nearly so much +as she does, if she were in Lady Margaret's place. She dwells in three +chambers in her mother's tower, and never comes down except to hall," +(namely, to meals,) "with now and then a decorous dance under the eyes +of the Lady Countess. No running races on the green, nor chattering +away to everybody, nor games--except upstairs in her own room with a few +other young damsels. Antigone would think she was in prison, to be used +like that. And learning!--why, she has to learn Latin, and surgery, and +heraldry, 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 some +acerbity. + +"Not quite the same thing as no work at all, for which I thought you +were longing. And no liberty, remember." + +"But her gowns, Sarah, her gowns!--and her hoods, and cloaks, and +everything else! Did you see her last Saint Michael? I'd have given a +bit 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 an +orange samite gown would cut after an evening of it! I think, too, I +would rather be free to go about on my feet than even to wear lovely +blue slippers. Nay, Antigone, you may depend upon it, there are less +pleasant things in Lady Margaret's life than orange gowns and blue +slippers. We can have a say about our weddings, remember: but she will +be handed over to somebody she never saw, as like as not. I'd rather be +as 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 worth +mention; and a sick man thinks, if he were only well, he would not mind +being poor; and a man in prison says that if he could but be free, he +could bear both illness and poverty. The truth is, everybody thinks his +own trouble the worst; and yet, if we had our neighbours' instead, nine +times out of ten we should be glad to get back to our own. We know the +worst 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 hard +places 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 their +youth." + +"Well, at any rate they lived through it, and some of them picked up a +bit of wisdom by the way." + +"You may keep your musty wisdom to yourself! I want none of it!" said +Antigone, scornfully. + +"I want all I can get," quietly responded Sarah. "Mother says (if you +don't care for it, Emma may) that discontent is the worst companion a +girl can have for making everything look miserable. You'll be a deal +happier, she says, with a dry crust and a good will to it, than with a +roast 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 the +smithy?" + +"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't +much else. There's the vesper bell!" + +Antigone's work was not likely to be improved by the hasty huddled-up +style in which it was folded, while Sarah and Emma shook theirs straight +and carefully avoided creases. They had then to give it in to the +mistress, who stood at one end of the room, putting all away in a large +coffer. When the last girl had given in her work, Mrs De la Laund +called 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 as +are good girls the chance of seeing her enter. But I shall expect to +have no creased work like Antigone's; nor split and frayed like +Geneveva's; nor dirtied like Femiana's. Now you may go." + +They had odd names for girls in those days. Among the nobles and +gentry, most were like ours; young ladies of rank were Alice, Cicely, +Margaret, Joan, Isabel, Emma, or Agnes: a strange name being the +exception. But among working women the odd names were then the rule: +they were Yngeleis, Sabelina, Orenge, Pimma, Cinelote, Argentella, and +very many more of the same high-sounding kind. + +When the apprentices left the work-room, they were free to do as they +liked till seven o'clock, when they must all re-assemble there, answer +to 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 came +out on these occasions. The majority showed themselves thoughtless and +giddy: they went to run races on the green, and to play games--the +better disposed only among themselves: but the wild, adventurous spirits +soon joined a lot of idle youths as unsteady as themselves, with whom +they spent the evening in rough play, loud laughter, and not altogether +decorous joking. The little group of sensible girls kept away from such +scenes. Most of them went to see their friends, if within reasonable +distance; 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 plainly +have seen that the town was preparing for some great event. Every house +draped itself in some kind of hanging--the rich in coarse silk, the +poorer in bunting or whatever they could get. The iron hoops here and +there built into the walls for that purpose, held long pine-sticks, to +be 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 lighted +on the walls, a serious fire might be the result. In the numerous +balconies which projected from the better class of houses sat ladies +dressed in their handsomest garments on the Thursday morning, and below +in the street stood men and women packed tightly into a crowd, waiting +for 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 the +royal train. As to keeping any passage for the traffic, that would have +been 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 not +the Queen Eleanor of whom we read at the beginning of the story (for +Alianora is only one of the old ways of spelling Eleanor), but her +daughter-in-law, the Lady Alianora who had been a friend to the dumb +Princess. She was a Spanish lady, and was one of the best and loveliest +Queens who ever reigned in England. Goodness and beauty are not always +found in company--perhaps I might say, not often; but they went together +with her. She was a Spanish blonde--which means that her hair was a +bright shade of golden--neither flaxen nor red; and that her eyes were a +deep, deep blue--the blue of a southern sky, such as we rarely if ever +see in an English one. Her complexion was fair and rosy, her features +regular and beautiful, her figure extremely elegant and +well-proportioned. The crowd, though good-humoured, was beginning to +get 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 was +dressed in green samite, trimmed with ermine. On her left hand rode the +Earl of Lincoln, on her right, her eldest surviving son, the little +Prince Alphonso, who was only seven years old. He died at the age of +eleven. After the Queen rode her two damsels, Aubrey de Caumpeden and +Ermetrude; and after them and the officers of the household came a +number of lesser people, the mob of sight-seers closing in and following +them up the street. [See Note 1.] Her Majesty rode up Steephill to the +Castle, where the Countess of Lincoln and her daughter Lady Margaret--a +girl of about fifteen--received her just inside the gate. Then the mob +cheered, the Queen looked back with a smile and a bow, the Almoner flung +a 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 her +sister 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. "Some +folks looks mighty handsome as doesn't do even to it. _She_ was just +like 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 Eleanor +coming, too?" + +"I'm not," said Eleanor. "I'm going to see Laurentia atte Gate. So +I'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 turnspit +dog, who was sufficiently familiar with both to wag a welcome; but +somebody sat in the chimney-corner who was not at home, but was a +visitor like themselves. When the door was unlatched, Father Thomas +closed 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 big +moor 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 a +mixtur' when they gets home." + +"A very pleasant mixture, Uncle," said Avice. "Pray you of your +blessing, holy Father." + +Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on his +broad wrinkled forehead. + +"Did thou get a penny?" asked Dan. + +"I got two!" cried Bertha, triumphantly. "And Aunt Avice got one. Did +you, Father?" + +"Nay, lass--none o' my luck! Silver pennies and such knows better nor +to come my way. Nor they'd better not, without they'll come right +number. I should get tore to bits if I went home wi' one, as like as +not. She 'd want it, and so 'd Ankaret, and so 'd Susanna, and so 'd +Mildred; and atwixt 'em all it 'd get broke i' pieces, and _so_ should +I. And see thou, it's made i' quarters, and I amn't, so it wouldn't +come so convenient to me." + +Pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that they +were easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for there +were no separate ones coined. + +"Father, have one of mine!" cried Bertha at the beginning of Dan's +answer. + +"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 been +hanging up her hood and cloak, and she now proceeded to prepare a dish +of eggs, foreseeing company to supper. Supper was exceedingly early +to-day, as it was scarcely three o'clock; but dinner had been equally +so, 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 the +north of England, which are, I believe, identical with the "scrambled +eggs" of the United States. The party sat down to supper, Father Thomas +being served with a trencher to himself. + +"And how dost thou get along wi' thy Missis, my lass?" said Dan to his +daughter. + +"Oh, things is very pleasant as yet, Father," answered Emma with a +smile. "There's a mixture, as you said just now. Some's decent lasses +enough; and some's foolish; and some's middlin'. There's most of the +middlin' 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 queer +world, this un: mortal queer! But I asked thee how thou got on with thy +Missis, and thou tells me o' th' lasses. Never _did_ know a woman +answer straight off. Ask most on 'em how far it is to Newark, and +they'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, who +looked much amused. + +"I've seen too much on 'em!" responded Dan, conclusively. "I've got a +wife 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, you +two. So's Avice; and so's old Christopher's Regina. I know of ne'er +another, without it 's t' cat--and she scratches like t' rest when she's +put out. There _is_ other decent 'uns, happen. They haven't come my +way yet." + +"Why, Father!" cried Emma. "Think who you're lumping together--the Lady +Queen, and my Lady at the Castle, and Lady Margaret, and the Dean's +sister, 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, and +some's black as iron; but they all scrats. Women's like 'em.--You're +wise men, you parsons and such, as have nought to do wi' 'em. Old +Christopher, my neighbour up at smithy, he says weddin's like a bag full +o' snakes wi' one eel amongst 'em: you ha' to put your hand in, and you +may get th' eel. But if you dunna--why you've got to do t' best you can +wi' one o' t' other lot. If you'll keep your hand out of the bag you'll +stand best chance of not getting bit." + +"It is a pity thou wert not a monk, my son," said the priest, whose +gravity seemed hard to keep. + +"Ay, it is!" was Dan's hearty response. "I'm alway fain to pass a +nunnery. Says I to myself, There's a bonnie lot o' snakes safe tied up +out o' folkses' way. They'll never fly at nobody no more. I'm fain for +the 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 the +former. + +"Let 'em!" returned that gentleman with much cordiality. "A man gets a +bit o' peace then. It's t' only time he does. If they'd just go and +make a reg'lar end o' one another! but they never does,"--and the smith +pushed 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 I +can 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 another +friend before she returned to her employer's house. Avice and the +priest were left alone. For a few minutes both were silent; but perhaps +their thoughts were not very unlike. + +"I wish, under your leave, Father," said Avice at length, "that somebody +would say a word to Aunt Filomena. I am afraid both she and Uncle Dan +are very ignorant. Truly, so am I: and it should be some one who knows +better. I doubt if he quite means all he says; but he thinks too ill of +women,--and indeed, with five such as he has at home, who can wonder at +it? He has no peace from morning to night; and he is naturally a man +who loves peace and quiet--as you are yourself, holy Father, unless I +mistake." + +"Thou art not mistaken, my daughter," said Father Thomas. Something +inside him was giving him a sharp prick or two. Did he love quiet too +much, so as to interfere with his duties to his fellow-men? And then +something else inside the priest's heart rose up, as it were, to press +down the question, and bid the questioner be silent. + +"I wonder," said Avice, innocently, quite unaware of the course of her +companion's thoughts, "whether, if Aunt Filomena knew her duty better, +she might not give poor Uncle Dan a little more rest. He is good, in +his way, and as far as he knows. I wish I knew more! But then," Avice +concluded, 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 women +are 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 do +better. `Pour forth thy prayers to Him,' as saith the Collect for the +First Sunday after the Epiphany, `that thou mayest know what thy duty +requires of thee, and be able to comply with what thou knowest.' It is +a good prayer, and specially for them that are perplexed concerning +their duty." [See Note 2.] + +"But when one does know one's duty," asked Avice with simplicity, "it +seems so hard to make one's self do it." + +"Didst thou ever yet do that? Daughter, dost thou believe in the Holy +Ghost?" + +Avice's immediate answer was what would be the instinctive unthinking +response 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 we +believe: but hard to put our faith into plain words. If the faith were +clearer, 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 it +be. And thou shalt have thy reward." + +"Father, is it like keeping other things clear? The way to have the +floor clear and clean is to sweep it every morning." + +"Ay, my daughter, sweep it every morning with the besom of prayer, and +every night bear over it the torch of self-examination. So shall the +evil 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 that +work alone, with a torch lighted at the flame of thine own +righteousness. Light thy torch at the fire of God's altar; examine +thyself by the light of His holy law; and do it at His feet, so that +whatever evil thing thou mayest find thou canst take at once to Him to +be cleansed away. Content not thyself with brushing away thoughts, but +go to the root of that same sin in thine own heart. Say not, `I should +not have spoken proudly to my neighbour'--but, `I should not be proud in +my heart.' Deal rather with the root that is in thee than with the +branches of acts and words. There are sins which only to think of is to +do. Take to our Lord, then, thy sins to be cleansed away; but let thine +own thoughts dwell not so much on thy sins, thy deeds done and words +said, but rather on thy sinfulness, the inward fount of sin in thy +nature." + +"That were ugly work!" said Avice. + +"Ay. I reckon thou countest not the scouring of thy floor among thine +enjoyments. But it is needful, my daughter: and is it no enjoyment to +see it clean?" + +"Ay, that it is," admitted Avice. + +"I remember, my child, many years ago--thou wert but a little maid--that +holy Bishop Robert came to sup with thy grandmother Muriel. Tell me, +wouldst thou have been satisfied--I say not as a little child, since +children note not such things--but as a woman, wouldst thou have been +satisfied to receive the holy Bishop with a dirty floor, and offer to +him 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 latch +to come in and sup with thee, He find not the soiled floor and the +unclean vessel, and turn sorrowfully away, saying, `I thought to sup +with My child this night, but this is no place for Me.' Trust me, thou +wilt 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, as +coming 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 the +street. + +"I wonder," she said to herself, "if our Lord ever turned away thus +because Father Thomas's chamber was not clean! He seemed to know what +it was so well--yet how could such a good, holy man know anything about +it?" + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. Aubrey is now a man's name only, but in the earlier hall of the +Middle Ages it was used for both sexes. + +Note 2. This collect was slightly altered from that in the Sarum +Missal. 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 bits +of rubbish of all sorts will come and join it, until by and bye it looks +like a little island in the midst of the water. And we often see +something 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 to +join it, many things seen and heard contribute their help, and at last +the single sentence grows into a mountain of action. + +Avice would have been astonished if any one had told her that she had +made an island. But her simple suggestion fell like an odd straw into +the stream of Father Thomas's thoughts, and grew and grew there, until a +few days later it led to decided action. + +Father Thomas was by nature a quiet man. His temper was gentle and +even; he hated everything like noise and bustle, far more tumult and +quarrelling. He was not fond even of conversation, except now and then +as a pleasant variety to a quiet life, full of thinking and reading. A +man of this sort is generally an innocent man--by which I mean, a man +who does no harm to his neighbours: and considering how many men and +women spend their lives in doing their neighbours harm of one sort or +another, that is a good deal to say of any man. But there is another +point 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 who +is content to be of no more use in the world than a chrysalis, and to be +as little missed when he goes out of it. This was the point which +troubled Father Thomas's meditations. It was as if an angel had come +down to him, and pointed to the old smithy on the green, and said, "What +are you doing for those people? God will demand an account of their +souls, some day, and from somebody. Are you not your brothers' keeper?" +Hitherto Father Thomas had gone on very comfortably, with a reflection +which serves a great many of us to excuse our pride or our laziness--I +wish it might never be heard again from human lips--"It is not my +place." It was true, in one sense. The smithy was in Newport parish, +and Father Thomas belonged to the Cathedral. He tried to quiet the +angel--which was really his own conscience--with the thought that he had +no business to intrude into somebody else's parish. But the angel would +not be quiet. + +"Will God take that answer at the Judgment Day?" he said. "You know +very well that the Vicar of Newport is an idle, careless man, who never +troubles himself about the souls of his people: that so long as you +observe the proper forms of civility, and ask his leave to visit these +people, he will give it you in a minute, and be glad enough to think he +is 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 winds +before they were well finished: and at last it laid hold of him, as it +were, by the shoulders, and said, "Look there!" + +Father Thomas looked there--at the cross which then hung in every +clergyman's room. There were two lines carved on the wood at the bottom +of this--lines which it was then not unusual to put at the bottom of +these crosses. + +"This did I for thee; What dost thou for Me?" + +"Look there!" cried the Angel Conscience. "Christ bore that heavy cross +for 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! You +can't walk half a mile, and ask a civil question of a man from whom you +expect a civil answer, for love of the Man who came down all the way +from Heaven to earth, and endured all the contradiction of sinners for +three-and-thirty years, and faced all the malice of the devil, for the +love of you! Are you ashamed of yourself, Thomas de Vaux, or are you +not?" + +When it reached that point, Father Thomas was painting in a book. Books +in those days were often ornamented with very beautiful paintings: and +the one on which the priest was working, represented Peter denying +Christ in the High Priest's palace. He had just painted one side of +Peter's hair, but the other side was still blank. But when the Angel +asked that question, down went the brush. + +"Lord, pardon Thy servant!" said Father Thomas humbly. "I am not worthy +to carry so much as the corner of Thy cross after Thee. But I will take +it 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 that +day, for Father Thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw a +cloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, put +on 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 for +the love of God, sometimes God makes it a great deal easier and less +disagreeable than he expected to find it. The Vicar was just coming out +of 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--the +smith 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. "I +am not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellows +of 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 another +quality of stuff, I reckon. Go your way, Brother Thomas, and make +decent Christians of them if you can. There's a she-bear lives there: I +wish 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 Father +Thomas. "Lord, purify Thy Church! Ah, dear old Bishop! you might well +weep in dying." + +He walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. Daniel +Greensmith's ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct and +at 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 the +time 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 down +the hammer, and giving a pull to his forelock. Great respect was paid +to priests at that day. "Axe your pardon, Father! Didn't see who it +were." + +"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 was +somewhere 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 the +very unusual style of Dan's reception. + +"Well!" said Dan, passing his fingers through his hair, "I mean, if +that's the way you was fetched up, you don't know the animal you've got +to deal with here. There's five dragons i' that house o' mine: and each +on '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 and +stand by me now and then, I should ne'er ha' lived to talk to you this +even. Nay, I shouldn't! Best go home, Father, while you've getten a +coat 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 her +good?" + +"Think she'll stop to ask your meanin'?" said Dan, with a contemptuous +grunt. "If she's not changed sin' I come fro' dinner, she'll be a-top +of you before you can say `mercy.' And she's none a comfortable thing +to 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 a +fray. Happen El'nor 'll steal out to me with a crust after dark. She +does, 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 you +know when that were--and I'd better have been fruz, a deal. I've had it +mortal hot ever since. She's had that time to cool down in, and she's +no cooler nor she were then. Rather, if either, t'other way on, I +reckon." + +Before Father Thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever met +his 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 the +neighbouring 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 the +same half-frightened whisper. "If you mun face Her, you'd best do it +while 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 comes +down to axe me, _I_ sha'n't send him forward. And don't you go and say +I sent you, now. For pity's sake, don't!" + +Father Thomas walked off, and knocked at the house door. He was +beginning to think that if the former part of his task had been easier +than he expected, the latter was going to prove more difficult. The +door 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 woman +disappeared, and presently a pair of heavy boots came clattering down +the stairs, and Father Thomas felt pretty sure that the sweet Filomena +herself stood before him. + +"Now then, what do _you_ want?" quoth she, in a tone which did not sound +as if she were delighted to see her visitor. + +"My daughter, I am a priest," said Father Thomas gently; "and I am come +to 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 the +best o' the land, wrung out of the hard earnings o' the poor, and never +does a stroke o' work theirselves, but sits a-twirling o' their thumbs +all day long. That's what you are--the whole boiling of you! Get you +out 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 she +proposed to give him. She had tried this style of reception when the +Vicar took the liberty of calling on her some months before, with the +result that the appalled gentleman in question never ventured to renew +his visit, and told the anecdote with many shakes of the head over "that +she-bear up at the smithy." She understood how to deal with a man of +the Vicar's stamp, and she mistakenly fancied that all priests were of +his sort. Sadly too many of them were such lazy, careless, +self-indulgent men, who, having just done as much work as served to +prevent the Bishop or their consciences (when they kept any) from +becoming troublesome, let all the rest go, and thought their duty done. +But Father Thomas, as the Vicar had said, was cut from another kind of +stuff. Very sensitive to rudeness or unkindness, his feelings were not +permitted to override his duty of perseverance: and while he dearly +loved peace, he was not ready to buy it at the cost of something more +valuable than itself. While he might be slow to see his duty, yet once +seen, it would not escape him again. + +The personal taunts which Filomena had launched at him he simply put +aside as not worth an answer. They did not apply to him. He was +neither fat nor lazy: and if Filomena were so ignorant as to fancy that +the clergy were paid out of the earnings of the poor, what did it +matter, when he knew they were not? He went straight to the root of the +thing. 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 into +the corner. Father Thomas said no more: he merely kept his eyes upon +her. His calm dignity took effect at last. Her angry eyes fell before +his unchanged look. She was not accustomed to hear her abuse answered +in 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't +that,--folks as has all they wants, and a bit over." + +"No man has that," said Father Thomas, "except the little children who +sit at the feet of Jesus Christ. Become thou as a little child, and +happiness shall come to seek thee." + +"Me a little child!" There was no merriment in the laugh which +accompanied the words. + +"Ay, even thou. For `if there be a new creature in Christ, old things +pass away; behold, all things are made new.' [Note. 3 Corinthians five +17, Vulgate version.] That is the very childhood, my daughter--to be +made new. Will thou have it? It may be had for the asking, if it be +asked of God by a true heart--that childhood of grace, which is meek, +patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. For it is not thou that +canst 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 cottage +from the smithy. She stood for a minute where he left her, as if she +had been struck to stone. The whole style of his address was to her +something completely new, and so unlike anything she had expected that +for once in her life she was at a loss. + +Filomena took up the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead, as if +she were settling her brains into their places. + +"Well, that's a queer set-out!" said she at last, to nobody, for she was +left alone. "Me a baby! Whatever would the fellow be at? I reckon I +was one once. Eh, but it would be some queer to get back again! What +did he say? `Meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble.' +_That's_ not me! Old Dan wouldn't think he'd picked up his own wife, if +I 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 me +happy. I'm none that, neither, nor haven't been these many years. Eh +deary me! to think of me a baby!" + +While these extremely new ideas were seething in Filomena's mind, Father +Thomas reached the smithy. + +"Glad to see you!" said Dan, laying down his hammer. "You did not 'bide +so 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 a +tussle 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' a +hunch o' bread and cheese, and she said it were gettin' smoother a bit +nor 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 no +answer." + +Dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot. + +"Well!" said he, and shook his head slowly. "Well!" and wiped his face +with 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 could +strike our Filomena dumb mun ha' come straight fro' Heaven, for there +isn't his like o' earth! Now, Father, do just tell a body, what did you +say to her?" + +"I told her how to be happy." + +Dan stared. "She wants no tellin' that, I'll go bail! she's got every +mortal 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 happier +far than she." + +Dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if Father Thomas +had not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would have +told 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 other +folks." + +"I have told thee the truth, my son. Now, wilt thou do somewhat to help +thy 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 shake +of his grizzled head: "but how that's going to be shaped beats me, I can +tell 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 her +as a little child." + +"That's a corker, _that_ is!" Dan picked up the hammer, and began +meditatively to fashion a nail. "Our Ank'ret were a babby once," said +he, as if to himself. "She were a bonnie un, too. She were, so! I +used 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 times +could come back, it 'd be enough to make a chap think he'd getten into +Heaven by mistake." + +"I trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in Heaven, not by +mistake," said the priest. "But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care to +go the right road thither." + +"Which road's that, Father?" + +"It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the door +to it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for thee +and me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?" + +"Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great way +up, and I'm down here i' t' smithy." + +"He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt but +ask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earth +save into sin, if so be He may have man's company. `Greater than this +love hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.'" + +"Well, that stands to reason," said Dan. "When man gives his life, he +gives all there is of him." + +"Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life to +save 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 the +Lord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne,--`I gave all there was of +Me for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'" + +The big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. His +simple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ran +over. Men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to their +manliness to let their hearts be seen. Perhaps they were wiser than we +are. + +"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 old +Dan at t' smithy loves Him or not? I'm no-but a common smith. There's +hundreds just like me. Does He really care, think you?" + +"Thou art a man," said the priest, "and it was for men Christ died. And +there is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. Is a +true mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because there +are hundreds of babes in the world? Nay, Daniel Greensmith, it was for +thee the Lord Christ shed His blood on the cruel cross, and it is +thyself whose love and thanksgivings He will miss, though all the harps +of all the angels make music around His ear. Shall He miss them any +longer, my son?" + +Once more Dan threw aside the big hammer--this time on the inner side of +the smithy. + +"Father," said he, "you've knocked me clean o'er. I never knowed till +now as it were real." + +"As a little child!" said Father Thomas to himself, as he went back to +Lincoln. "The road into the kingdom will be far smoother for him than +her. Yet the good Lord can lead them both there." + +The very next visit that Dan paid to Avice and Bertha showed them +plainly that a change of some sort had come over him, and as time went +on they saw it still more plainly. His heart had opened to the love of +Christ like a flower to the sunlight. The moment that he really saw +Him, he accepted Him. With how many is it not the case that they do not +love Christ because they do not know Him, and they do not know Him +because no one of those who do puts Him plainly before them? + +It was much longer before Father Thomas and Avice saw any fruit of their +prayers for Filomena. There was so much more to undo in her case than +in her husband's, that the growth was a great deal slower and less +apparent. Avice discovered that Dan's complaints were fewer, but she +set it down entirely to the change in himself, long before she noticed +that Filomena's voice was less sharp, and her fats of fury less +frequent. But at length the day came when Filomena, having been +betrayed into a very mild copy of one of her old storms of temper, would +suddenly catch herself up and walk determinately out of the back door +till she grew cool: and when she came back would lay her hand upon her +husband'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 this +conclusion 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 a +temper 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 easier +a deal then. But I'm trying hard, and I hope our Lord'll help me. Thou +does 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 who +want 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 our +Lord 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 tell +its mother." + +They were walking slowly up Steephill when Avice said this. + +"Father Thomas has one apt scholar," said the priest's unexpected voice +behind her. "But it was a Greater than I, my daughter, who told His +disciples that `whosoever did not receive the kingdom of God as a little +child, should in no wise enter therein.'" + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. A mark was 13 shillings 4 pence, and was the largest piece of +money then known. + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Little Lady, by Emily Sarah Holt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LITTLE LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 23121.txt or 23121.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/1/2/23121/ + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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