"Poor little souls!" repeated Margaret Thurston, when the children were
out of hearing.
Alice Mount looked back, and saw the small pair still toiling slowly on,
the big jar between them. It would not have been a large jar for her to
carry, but it was large and heavy too for such little things as these.
"However will they get home!" said she. "Nobody to look after them but
`God and Father'!"
The moment she had said it, her heart smote her. Was that not enough?
If the Lord cared for these little ones, did it matter who was against
them? How many unseen angels might there be on that road, watching over
the safety of the children, and of that homely jar of meal for their
sakes? It was not the first time that angels had attended to springs of
water and cakes baken on the coals. No angel would dream of stopping to
think whether such work degraded him. It is only men who stoop low
enough for that. The highest work possible to men or angels is just
doing the will of God: and God was the Father of these little ones.
"What is their Father?" asked Alice Mount.
"Johnson? Oh, he is a labouring man--a youngish man, only
four-and-thirty: his mistress died a matter of six months back, and
truly I know not how those bits of children have done since."
"They have had `God and Father,'" said Alice "Well, I've no doubt he's a
good father," answered Margaret. "John Johnson is as good a man as ever
stepped, I'll say that for him: and so was Helen a rare good woman. I
knew her well when we were maids together. Those children have been
well fetched up, take my word for it."
"It must have been a sad matter to lose such a wife," said Alice.
"Well, what think you?" answered Margaret, dropping her voice. "Agnes
Love told me--Jack Love's wife, that dwells on the Heath--you'll maybe
know her?"
"Ay, I know her, though not well."
"I've known her ever since she was a yard long. Well, she told me, the
even it happed came Jack Johnson to their house, and when she oped the
door, she was fair feared of him, he looked so strange--his face all
white, and such a glitter of his eyes--she marvelled what had taken him.
And says he, `Agnes, my Helen's gone.' `Gone? oh dear!' says she.
`Ay, she's gone, thank God!' says he. Well, Agnes thought this right
strange talk, and says she, `Jack Johnson, what can you mean? Never was
a better woman than your Helen, and you thanking God you've lost her!'
`Nay, Agnes, could you think that?' says he. `I'm thanking God because
now I shall never see her stand up on the waste by Lexden Road,' says
he. `She's safe from that anguish for evermore!' And you know what
that meant."
Yes, Alice Mount knew what that meant--that allusion to the waste ground
by Colchester town wall on the road to Lexden, where the citizens shot
their rubbish, and buried their dead animals, or threw them unburied,
and burned their martyrs. It was another way of saying what the Voice
from Heaven had cried to the Apostle--"Blessed are the dead that die in
the Lord from henceforth!"
"It's a marvel they haven't done somewhat to them Loves afore now," said
Margaret, after a minute's silence.
"I thought they had?" replied Alice. "Wasn't John Love up afore the
Sheriff once at any rate?"
"Oh, ay, they've had him twice o'er; don't you mind they gat them away
in the night the last time, and all his goods was taken to the Queen's
use? But now, see, he's come back, and they let him alone. They've
done all they mean to do, I reckon."
"God grant it!" said Alice, with a sigh. "Meg, I cannot forget last
August. Twenty-two of us had up afore the Bishop, and we only escaped
by the very skin of our teeth, as saith Job. Ay me! I sometimes marvel
if we did well or no, when we writ our names to that submission."
"Truly, neighbour, so have I," replied Margaret rather bluntly. "I
would not have set mine thereto, I warrant you."
Alice sighed heavily. "God knoweth we meant not to deny His truth,"
said she; "and He looketh on the heart."
After that they were silent till they came to Much Bentley. Turning
down the lane which led to Thorpe, they came in sight of a girl of
twenty years, sitting on a low stool at the door of the third cottage in
the lane, weaving worsted lace on a pillow with bobbins. Over the door
hung a signboard bearing a bell painted blue. The lace-maker was a
small-built girl, not in any way remarkable to look at, with smooth dark
hair, nicely kept, and a rosy face with no beauty about it, but with a
bright, kind-hearted expression which was better than outside beauty.
If a person accustomed to read faces had been there, he might perhaps
have said that the small prominent chin, and the firm setting of the
lips, suggested that Rose Allen occasionally had a will of her own. The
moment that Rose saw who was coming, she left her stool with a bright
smile which lighted up all her face, and carrying the stool in one hand,
and her lace pillow in the other, disappeared within the house.
"She's quick at her work, yonder maid," said Margaret.
"Ay, she's a good lass, my Rose!" was her mother's answer. "You'll come
in and sit a bit, neighbour?"
"Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do--at any rate till them children
comes up," responded Margaret, with a little laugh. "Will you have me
while then?"
"Ay, and as long after as you've a mind," said Alice heartily, leading
the way into her cottage.
As Margaret had a mile yet to walk, for she lived midway between Much
Bentley and Thorpe, she was glad of a rest. In the kitchen they found
Rose, very busy with a skillet over the fire. There was no tea in those
days, so there was no putting on of the kettle: and Rose was preparing
for supper a dish of boiled cabbage, to which the only additions would
be bread and cheese. In reply to her mother's questions, she said that
her step-father had been in, but finding his wife not yet come from
market, he had said that he would step into the next neighbour's until
she came, and Rose was to call him when supper was ready.
William Mount, the second husband of Alice, was twenty years older than
his wife, their ages being sixty-one and forty-one. He was a tall,
grey, grave-looking man,--a field labourer, like most of the dwellers in
Much Bentley. This was but a small place, nestling at one corner of the
large park of the Earl of Oxford, the owner of all the property for some
distance round. Of course he was _the_ great man in the esteem of the
Much Bentley people. During the reign of Edward the Sixth, when
Protestantism was in favour at Court, Lord Oxford had been a Protestant
like other people; but, also like many other people, he was one of those
of whom it has been well said that:
"He's a slave who dare not be
In the right with two or three."
Lord Oxford was a slave in this sense--a slave to what other people said
and thought about him--and very sad slavery it is. I would rather sweep
a crossing than feel that I did not dare to say what I believed or
disbelieved, what I liked or did not like, because other people would
think it strange. It is as bad as being in Egyptian bondage. Yet there
are a great many people quite contented to be slaves of this kind, who
have not half so much excuse as Lord Oxford. If he went against the
priests, who then were masters of everything, he was likely to lose his
liberty and property, if not his life; while we may say any thing we
like without need to be afraid. It is not always an advantage to have a
great deal to lose. The poor labourers of Much Bentley, who had next to
no property at all, and could only lose liberty and life, were far
braver than the Earl whom they thought such a grand man, and who carried
a golden wand before the Queen.
Supper was over at the Blue Bell, and Margaret Thurston was thinking
about going home, when a little faint rap came on the door of the
cottage. Rose opened it, and saw a big jar standing on the door-sill, a
little boy sitting beside it, and an older girl leaning against the
wall.
"Please, we're come," said Cissy.