"I care not how lone in this world I may be,
So long as the Master remembereth me."
_Helen Monro_.
"So sure as our sweet Lady, Saint Mary, worketh miracles at Walsingham,
never was poor woman so be-plagued as I, with an ill, ne'er-do-well,
good-for-nought, thankless hussy, picked up out of the mire in the
gutter! Where be thy wits, thou gadabout? Didst leave them at the
Cross yester-morrow? Go thither and seek for them! for ne'er a barley
crust shalt thou break this even in this house, or my name is not Martha
Winter!"
And, snatching up a broom, Mistress Winter hunted Agnes out of doors,
and slammed the door behind her.
It was not altogether a new thing for Agnes to be turned out into the
street for the night, and Mistress Winter reserved it as her most
tremendous penalty. Perhaps, had she known how Agnes regarded it, she
might have invented a new one. These occasions were her times of
recreation, when she usually took refuge with good-natured Mistress
Flint, who was always ready to give Agnes a supper and a share of her
girls' bed. A few hours in the cheerful company of the Flints was a
real refreshment to the hard-worked and ever-abused drudge. But this
time she did not at once seek Mistress Flint. She walked, as Mistress
Winter had amiably suggested, straight to the now deserted Cross, and
sat down on one of its stone steps. It would not be dark yet for
another hour, and until the gathering dusk warned her to return, Agnes
meant to stay there. She was feeling very sad and perplexed. The glory
in which the world had been steeped only yesterday had grown pale and
grey. The cares of the world had come in. Poor Agnes had set out that
morning with a firm determination to serve God throughout the day. Her
idea of service consisted in the ceaseless mental repetition of forms of
prayer. Busy with her Aves and Paternosters, she had forgotten to shut
the oven door, and a baking of bread had been spoiled. She sat now
mournfully wondering how any one in her position could serve God. If
such mischances as this were always to happen, she could never get
through her work. And the work must be done. Mistress Winter was one
of the last people in the world to permit religion to take precedence of
housewifery. How then was poor Agnes ever to "make her salvation" at
all?
The mistake was natural enough. All her life she had walked in the mist
of self-righteousness; her teachers had carefully led her into it.
Starting from the idea that man had to merit God's favour, was it any
wonder that, when told that God loved her already, she still fancied
that, in order to retain that love, she must do something to deserve it?
The new piece was sewn on the old garment, and the rent was made worse.
But now, must she give up the glad thought of being loved? If serving
God, as she understood that service, made her neglect her every-day
duties, what then? How was she ever to serve God? It was a misfortune
for Agnes that she had heard only half of the Friar's sermon. The other
half would have removed her difficulties.
She had reached this point in her perplexed thoughts, when she was
startled by a voice inquiring--
"What aileth thee, my daughter?"
Agnes looked up, and beheld the same dark shining eyes which had flashed
down upon her from the Cross yesterday morning.
"I scantly can tell," she said, speaking out her thoughts. "It seemeth
not worth the while."
"What seemeth thus?" asked the Friar.
"Living," said the girl quietly. There was no bitterness in her tone,
hardly even weariness; it was simply hopeless.
The Friar remained silent for a moment, and Agnes spoke again.
"Father," she faltered, in a low, shy voice, "I heard you preach here
yester-morrow."
"I brought thee glad tidings," was the significant answer.
The tears sprang to her eyes. "O Father!" she said, "I thought them so
glad--that God loved me, and would have me for to love Him; but now 'tis
all to no good. I cannot serve God."
"What letteth?"
"That I am in the world, and must needs there abide."
"What for no? Serve God in the world."
"Good Father, if you did but know, you should not say the same!" said
Agnes in the same hopeless tone in which she had spoken before.
"If I knew but what?"
In answer, Agnes told him her simple story; unavoidably revealing in it
the hardships of her lot. "You must needs see, good Father," she
concluded, "that I cannot serve God and do Mistress Winter's bidding."
"I see no such a thing, good daughter," replied the Friar. "Dost think
the serving of God to lie in the saying of Paternosters? It is thine
heart that He would have. Put thine heart in thy labour, and give Him
both together."
"But how so, Father?" inquired Agnes in an astonished tone. "I pray you
tell me how I shall give to God the baking of bread?"
"Who giveth thee thy daily bread?"
"That, no doubt, our Lord doth."
"Yet He giveth the same by means. He giveth it through the farmer, the
miller, and the baker. It falleth not straight down from Heaven. When
thou art the bakester, art not thou God's servant to give daily bread?
Then thy work should be good and perfect, for He is perfect. By the
servant do men judge of the master; and if thy work is to be offered
unto God, it must be the best thou canst do. Think of this the next
time thou art at work, and I warrant thee not to _forget_ the oven door.
But again: Who hath set thee thy work? When this hard mistress of
thine betook thee to her house, did not God see it? did not He order it?
If so be, then every her order to thee (that is not sinful, understand
thou) is God's order. Seek then, in the doing thereof, not to please
her, but Him."
"O Father, if I could do that thing!"
"Child, when the Master went home for a season, and left His lodging
here below, He appointed `to every man his work.' Some of us have hard
work: let us press on with it cheerfully. If we be His, it is _His_
work. He knoweth every burden that we bear, and how hard it presseth,
and how sore weary are His child's shoulders. Did He bear no burdens
Himself in the carpenter's workshop at Nazareth; yea, and up the steep
of Calvary? Let Him have thy best work. He hath given thee His best."
Never before, nor in so short a time, had so many new ideas been
suggested to the mind of Agnes Stone. The very notion of Christ's
sympathy with men was something strange to her. She had been taught to
regard Mary as the tender human sympathiser, and to look upon Christ in
one of two lights--either as the helpless Infant in the arms of the
mother, or as the stern Judge who required to be softened by Mary's
merciful intercession. But the one gush of confidence over, she was
doubly shy. She shrank from clothing her vague thoughts with precise
and distinct language.
"I would I might alway confess unto you, Father," she said gratefully,
rising from her hard seat "I would have thee confess unto a better than
I, my daughter," was the priest's answer. "There is no confessor like
to the great Confessor of God. Christ shall make never a blunder; and
He beareth no tales. Thine innermost heart's secrets be as safe with
Him as with thyself."
"But must I not confess to a priest?" demanded Agnes in a surprised
tone.
"There is one Priest, my daughter," said the Friar. "And `because He
continueth ever, unchangeable hath He the priesthood.' There can be
none other."
This was another new idea to Agnes--if possible, more strange than the
former. She ventured a faint protest which showed the nature of her
thoughts.
"But He, that is the Judge at the doomsday! how could such as I e'er
confess to Him?"
A smile--which was sad, not mirthful--parted the grave lips of the Black
Friar.
"Child!" he answered, "there is no man so lowly, there is no man so
loving, as the Man Christ Jesus."
Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear his retreating steps.
She looked up with a further remark on her lips, and found that he was
gone.
It was nearly dark now, and there was only just time to reach the City
gate before the hour when it would be closed. Agnes hurried on quickly,
passed out of Newgate, and, afraid of being benighted, almost ran up
Giltspur Street to the south end of Cow Lane. A hasty rap on Mistress
Flint's door brought little Will to open it.
"Good lack!" said the child. "Mother, here is Mistress Agnes Stone."
"What, Agnes!" cried Mistress Flint's cheery voice from within. "Come
in, dear heart, and welcome. What news to-night, trow?"
"The old news, my mistress," said Agnes, smiling, "that here is a
supperless maid bereft of lodgment, come to see if your heart be as full
of compassion as aforetime."
"Lack-a-daisy! hath Gossip Winter turned thee forth? Well, thank the
saints, there is room to spare for thee here. Supper will be ready ere
many minutes, I guess. Prithee take hold o' th' other end of Helen's
work, and it shall be all the sooner."
Helen Flint, who was busy at the fire, welcomed the offered help with a
bright smile like her mother's, and set Agnes to work at once. The
latter was beginning to find herself very hungry, and Mistress Flint
treated her guest to considerably better fare than Mistress Winter did
her drudge. There were comparatively few of the household at home to
supper; for the party consisted only of Mr and Mrs Flint, two
daughters, Helen and Anne, and the little boys, Will and Dickon.
"What news abroad, Goodman?" demanded Mistress Flint, when her curiosity
got the better of her hunger.
"Why, that 'tis like to rain," returned her husband, a quiet,
unobtrusive man, with a good deal of dry humour.
"That I wist aforetime," retorted she; "for no sooner set I my foot out
of the door this morrow than I well-nigh stepped of a black snail."
"I reckon," observed Mr Flint, calmly cutting into a pasty, "that black
snails be some whither when there is no wet at hand."
"Gramercy, nay!" cried unphilosophical Mistress Flint.
"Oh, so?" said he. "Fall they from the sky, trow, or grow up out o' th'
ground?"
"Dear heart [darling, beloved one], Jack Flint! how can I tell?"
answered his wife.
"Then, dear heart, Mall Flint!" responded he, imitating her, "I'd leave
be till I so could."
Mistress Flint laughed; for nothing ever disturbed her temper, and the
banter was as good-humoured as possible.
"Well, for sure!" said she. "Is there ne'er a man put in the pillory,
nor a woman whipped at the cart-tail, nor so much as a strange fish gone
by London Bridge? Ha, Nan! yonder's a stranger in the bars. Haste
thee, see what manner of man."
Anne left the form on which she was sitting, and peered intently into
the grate.
"'Tis a dark man, Mother," said she, after careful investigation.
"Is he nigh at hand?" inquired Mistress Flint anxiously.
"I trow so," replied Anne, still occupied with the bars, "and reasonable
rich to boot."
"Marry, yonder's a jolly hearing!" said her mother.
"How so," asked Mr Flint, pursing up his lips, "without he make us a
gift of his riches?"
"Dear heart alive!" suddenly ejaculated Mistress Flint, turning round on
Helen. "How many a score o' times must I tell thee, Nell, that to lay
thy knife and spoon the one across the other is the unluckiest thing in
all this world, saving only the breaking of a steel glass
[looking-glass], and a winding-sheet in the candle? Lay them straight
along this minute, child! Dear, dear; but to think of it!"
Helen, in some perturbation, altered her knife and spoon to the required
positions.
"Now, Agnes, dear heart, prithee get some flesh o' thy bones!" said
Mistress Flint, returning to her usual cheery manner. "Good lack! I
love not to see a maid so like to a scarecrow as thou. Come now,
another shive of mutton? well, then, a piece o' th' pasty--do! Eh, in
good sooth, thou mayest well look white. Now, Will and Dickon, lads,
'tis time ye were abed."
Will and Dickon, thus addressed, promptly knelt down, one on each side
of his mother, and Will proceeded to gabble over his prayers, followed
by Dickon with articulate sounds which had no other merit than that of
bearing some resemblance to the words in question.
The boys commenced by crossing themselves, then they raced through the
Paternoster, the Angelical Salutation, and the Creed, all in Latin; of
course without the faintest idea of any meaning. They then repeated a
short prayer in English, entreating the Virgin, their guardian angels,
and their patron saints, to protect them during the night. This done,
Will rattled off half a dozen lines (carefully emphasising the
insignificant words), which alone of all the proceeding had either
interest or meaning in his eyes.
"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on:
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels at their head--
One to read, and one to write,
And two to guard my bed at night."
"Good lads!" said Mistress Flint, as she rose and restored the crucifix
which she had been holding before the boys to its usual place.
"Mother!" said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, "who be
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?"
Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh.
"Nay, dear heart!" answered his mother. "Those be the holy Apostles,
that writ the Evangels."
"What be the Evangels, Mother?"
"Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?" demanded Mistress Flint.
"Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in the
Minster."
"What be they about, Mother?"
"Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abed
this even," responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a query
which she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show of
peremptoriness, she drove Will and Dickon upstairs to the bedchamber, in
which slept the five boys of the family.
There was a minute's silence, only broken by the movements of Helen and
Anne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which had
been used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said--to nobody in
particular--
"What _be_ they about?"
His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shake
of the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen.
"Methinks, Master," said Agnes rather diffidently, "'tis about God, and
His love to men."
"What thereabout?" replied he, continuing to look into the fire.
"Why, Master," said Agnes, "surely you do wit better than I."
"Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want," said Anne a little
pettishly. "'Twill be time enough when I have the years o' my grandame,
I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome."
Agnes looked at her in amazement.
"Nan," said her father, "I heard thee this morrow a-singing of a
love-song."
"Well, so may you yet again," said she, laughing.
"That made thee not gloomsome, trow?" he asked.
"Never a whit! how should it?" replied Anne, still laughing.
"Let be! but 'tis queer," said he, rising. "Man's love is merry gear;
but God's love is crabbed stuff. 'Tis a strange world, my maids."
Both Helen and Anne broke into a peal of laughter; but Mr Flint was
grave enough. He walked through the kitchen, and out at the front door,
without saying more.
"What hath come o'er Father of late?" said Helen. "He is fallen to ask
as queer questions as Will."
"What know I?" replied Anne, "or care, for the matter of that. Come,
Nell, let us sing a bit, to cheer us!"
It struck Agnes that there was not much want of cheer in that house; but
Helen readily responded to her sister's wish, and they struck up a
popular song.
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
The hunt is up and away,
And Harry our King is gone hunting,
To bring his deer to bay.
"The east is bright with morning light,
And darkness it is fled,
And the merry horn wakes up the morn
To leave his idle bed.
"Behold the skies with golden dyes
Are glowing all around,
The grass is green, and so are the treen,
All laughing at the sound."
The sisters sang well, and Agnes enjoyed the music. This song was
followed by others, and Mistress Flint, coming down, joined in; and the
eldest son, Ned, made his appearance and did the same, till there was
almost a concert. At last Mistress Flint stopped the harmony, by
declaring that she could not keep awake five minutes longer; and all
parties made the best of their way to bed.
Mistress Winter was found, on the following morning, to have recovered
as much of her temper as she was usually in the habit of recovering.
That Joan had lost hers was nothing new; it was rarely the case that
both mother and daughter were in an amiable mood together. The former
received Agnes with her customary amenities, merely suggesting, with
pleasantry of her own kind, that of course 'twould be too heavy a toil
for her gracious madamship to carry the water-pails to Horsepool--the
spring in West Smithfield which supplied Cow Lane--and that so soon as
she could hear tell of a gentlewoman lacking of a service, she would
engage her at ten pound by the month to wait of her worshipfulness.
Agnes made no answer in words; she only took up the pails quietly and
went out. As she came up to Horsepool, she spied her friend Mistress
Flint, bent on a similar errand, coming up Cock Lane.
"Dear heart, Agnes!" cried the latter. "Is there none save thee to bear
those heavy pails of water? Methinks yon lazy Joan might lift one, and
be none the worsen. She hath the strength of a horse, and thou barely
so much as a robin."
Agnes smiled her thanks for her friend's sympathy, as she let down the
water-pails.
"I am used to the same, Mistress Flint, I thank you."
"Go to,--wert thou at the Cross t' other morrow? Methought I saw thy
face in the throng."