CHAPTER FIVE.
AGNES IS ASKED A QUESTION.
"Whate'er I say, whate'er I syng, Whate'er I do, that hart shall se, That I shall serue with hart lovyng That lovyng hart that lovyth me."
Few things are more touching in their way than the fragment of papercontaining the poem from which the motto to this chapter is a quotation.Among the dusty business manuscripts of the Dean and Chapter ofCanterbury, in the oldest division, relating to the affairs of thePriory of Christ Church, were found by the Historical Commission twosongs, scribbled on scraps of paper. One was a love-song of the commontype, such as, allowing for difference of diction, might be had in anysecond-rate music-shop of the present day. But the other was of a verydifferent and far higher order. It was the cry of the immured birdwhich has been forced from its nest in the greenwood, and for which lifehas no other attraction than to sit mournfully at the door of the cage,looking out to the fair fields, and the blue sky in which it shallstretch its wings no more. None but God will ever know the name or thestory of that poor heart-weary monk, torn from all that he loved onearth, who thus "pressed his soul on paper," one hundred years beforethe dissolution of the monasteries. We can only hope that through thesuperincumbent wood, hay, stubble, he dug down to the one Foundation andwas safe: that through the dead words of the Latin services he heard theLiving Voice calling to all the weary and heavy-laden, and that he toocame and found rest.
But to turn to our story.
The days rolled slowly on, undistinguishable from one another save bythe practical divisions of baking-day, washing-day, brewing-day, and soforth; and, certainly, not distinguished by any increase of comfort inthe outward surroundings of Agnes's lot. She was trying to do her workheartily, as to the Lord; but it did seem to her that the harder shetried, the harder Mistress Winter was to please; the crosser was Joan,the more satirical was Dorothy. The only sunshine of her life was onthose precious Sunday afternoons, when always the tall gaunt figuremight be seen ascending the desk in the nave of Saint Paul's, and, afterthe reading from Scripture, came a few pithy, fervent words, which Agnestreasured up as very gems. But by-and-by, another gleam of sunlightbegan to creep into her life.
It was again Sunday afternoon, and the reading in Saint Paul's was overfor that day. But it was too soon to go back to the bosom of thatuncongenial household which Agnes called home; for Mistress Winter wasgenerally extra cross--and the ordinary exhibition was enough withoutthe extra--if Agnes presented herself before she was expected. The nowdeserted steps of the Cross were the only place where she could sit; andaccordingly she took refuge there. Not many minutes were over, when sherecognised the dark figure of Friar Laurence passing through thechurchyard with his usual rapid step. All at once a thought seemed tostrike him. He paused, turned, and came straight up to the place whereAgnes was seated.
"And how is it with thee, my daughter?" he demanded.
"Well, Father; and I thank you," said she. "Verily, touching outwardthings, as aforetime; but touching the inward, methinks the good Lordlearneth me somewhat."
"Be thou an apt scholar," said he.
Agnes grew desperate, and resolved to plunge into the matter. She wasafraid lest he should leave her, with one of his usual rapid movements,before she had got to know what she wanted.
"Father!" she said hastily, crimsoning as she spoke, "pray you, give meleave to demand a thing of you."
"Ask thy will, my daughter."
"Pray you, tell me of your grace, wherefore in your goodly discoursesyou make at all no mention of our Lady?"
The Friar sat down on the steps, when he was asked that question.
"What wouldst thou have me for to say of her?"
"Nay, Father!" returned Agnes, humbly. "You be a learned priest, and Ibut an ignorant maiden; but having alway heard them that did preachsermons to make much of our Lady, methought I would fain wit, an' Imight ask it at you, wherefore you make thus little."
"My child!" answered the Friar quietly, "who died on the rood for thee?"
"Jesus Christ our Lord," responded Agnes readily.
"What! not Saint Mary?"
"Certes, nay, Father, as methinks."
"And who is it that pleadeth with God for thee?"
"You have told me, Father, our Lord Christ is He. Yet the folk sayalway, that our Lady doth entreat our Lord for to hear our prayers."
"Child!" asked the Black Friar, "did Christ die for thee against Hiswill?"
"I would humbly think, not so, Father," answered Agnes meekly, "sith Heneeded not to have so done at all without it were His good pleasure."
"Right!" was the rejoinder. "It was by reason that God the Father lovedthee, that He gave Christ to die for thee; it was by reason that Christloved thee, that He bare for thee the pain and shame of the bittercross. Tell me, is there in this world any that thou lovest?"
Agnes hesitated. It seemed something new and strange to think that shecould love, or could be loved, since the death of her mother. But shethought, and said, that she loved little Will Flint.
"Tell me, then," pursued her teacher, "if this little lad were in somesore trouble, and that thou couldst quickly ease him thereof, should heneed for to run home and fetch his mother to entreat thee?"
"Surely, nay!" responded Agnes. "I would do the same incontinent[immediately], of mine own compassion, and the more if he should ask it.I would never tarry for his mother!"
"My daughter, is thy love so much better than His that died for us?Should Christ tarry till His mother pray Him to be thine help, when ofHimself He loveth thee?"
"But, Father--I pray you pardon me if I speak foolishly, in mineunwisdom--how then needeth a mediator at all, if God the Father be soloving unto men?"
"God is a King, whose law thou hast broken. He is all perfect;therefore must His justice be perfect, no less than His mercy. Alawgiver that were all justice should be a scourge unto men; but alawgiver that were all mercy should be as good as no law. God hathappointed His Son to be thy Surety; and by reason that He is thy Surety,He is become thine Advocate. He hath said in His Word that the Son isthe Advocate with the Father; but of an advocate with the Son never aword saith He. Wherefore God saw fit to appoint a Mediator, He knoweth,not I. I am content that having thus decreed, He hath Himself providedthe same."
Agnes looked up, after a moment's thought, with an expression of fearand trouble on her white face.
"But what then of our Lady?"
"Wherefore should there be aught beyond what God hath told us?" repliedFriar Laurence. "She was `highly favoured' and `blessed among women,'in that she was the mother of the Saviour. Must she needs _be_ theSaviour to boot?"
"But we must worship her, trow?"
"Must we so? `Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shaltthou serve.' Let us hold by God's Word, my daughter."
"Father, I wis so little thereof! nought at all but what I do hear ofyou," said Agnes with a sigh.
"Then, my child," he replied gently, "list thou the better. And here isa word for thee, and for all other in thy place: `If any man do desireto do God's will, he shall know whether doctrine be truth or no.' Keepthat desire ever sharp on the whetstone of prayer. Then, surely as Godis in Heaven, thou shalt know."
The next minute he was gone.
"Agnes, sweet-heart!" demanded Dorothy that evening, in the sugary stylewhich she only used when she was in a particularly tormenting mood,"prithee do me to wit of the name of thy dear friend, Master BlackFriar? I beheld him and thee in so sweet converse at the Cross, itcaused me to sigh that I had no such a friend as he. I pray theelovingly of his goodly name?"
The answers which Dorothy usually received from Agnes to questions ofthis kind were as short as civility permitted.
"Master John Laurence," said she.
"And how long hast been of his cognisance, sweeting?" demanded Dorothy,with more honey on her tongue than ever.
"I have wist him some six weeks," said Agnes.
"Six weeks! woe worth
the day!" cried Dorothy, putting on an aspect ofsentimental sorrow. "And thou never spakest word, when thou wist howdear all we do love thee, and the least we might do for joy of thyfinding a new friend were to have the great bell rung at Paul's! Agnes,my fairest one, this is to entreat us but evil."
Agnes held her peace. She never felt any doubt of the exceedingly lowprice to be set upon Dorothy's affections towards her.
"Is he a priest, darling?" inquired Dorothy in her most coaxing tone.
"Ay," replied Agnes as curtly as before.
"Good lack, how delightsome!" exclaimed Dorothy, clasping her hands inmock rapture. "Do, of thy sweet gentlehood, bring me of his cognisance.But to think what it were to have a priest thy friend, and alway getabsolution without no trouble at all!"
But about the last thing which Agnes had any intention of doing was tointroduce Dorothy to John Laurence.
After that interview at the Cross, Agnes often met the Black Friar.Sometimes he passed her with a simple blessing in answer to herreverence; but more frequently he stopped her, and inquired into herspiritual welfare. She had many a difficulty in which to ask hiscounsel; many a trouble in which it was a relief to seek (and always tofind) his sympathy. He was the only friend she had who spoke thelanguage of Canaan. And it was far less as a priest than as a friendthat Agnes regarded him. He was as different from old Father Dan, theCordelier, as Mistress Flint differed from Mistress Winter. Agnes neverknew, when preparing for one of those abhorred periodical interviewswith the Cordelier, what he might say to her, or rather, what he mightnot say. She shrank with horror from his inquisitive questioning, andnot much less from his petty humiliating penances. Father Dan's remedyfor angry words was to fast for a week on bread and water; for pride, tolick a cross in the dust of the church floor; for envy and covetousness,the administration of a cat-o'-nine-tails on the shoulders. The BlackFriar, on the contrary, led Agnes out of herself altogether. He hadonly one topic, of infinite variety, for it was Jesus Christ. Only oncehad Agnes asked him whether he would recommend her to administer "thediscipline" to herself, as a cure for discontent and murmuring.
"If thy shoulders be discontented, why, by all means," answered FriarLaurence, with his grave smile; "but if it be thine heart thatmurmureth, wherefore chastise thy shoulders?"
Agnes never put the question again, and never had recourse to thediscipline. Of fasting, poor girl, she had already too much for herbodily profit, without any adventitious use of it. And when she beganto pray in reality, the rosary was very soon dropped. When a man'sheart is in earnest, to keep count of his words is not possible.
Meanwhile, in the outer world, the downward progress was very rapid.One after another the Protestant Bishops were committed to prison, andthe chief preachers shared their fate. The first mass was sung at SaintBartholomew's on the eleventh of August, when the people were ready totear the officiating priest in pieces; but by the twenty-fourth of thesame month it was heard in other churches in London, and the hearerswere becoming reconciled to the innovation. The once powerful Duke ofNorthumberland was beheaded on Tower Hill, notwithstanding hisprofession of Popery at the last hour; the married priests weredeprived; the French Protestant residents were banished; the altar wasreplaced in Saint Paul's; the Latin services, processions, palms, ashes,candles, holy bread, holy water, and all the rest of the rubbish sweptaway at the Reformation, came back one by one. That portion of thepopulace which had no particular religion was well pleased enough withthese changes. The shows and the music were agreeable to them, and theGospel sermons which they displaced had not been agreeable.
Some tell us in the present day that young people must be attracted tochurch, and that if music and pageant be not given them, theirattendance is not likely to be secured. But what have we gained by thusgoing down to the Philistines to sharpen our weapons? Are these youngpeople attracted to any thing but the music and the pageant? They arequite clever enough to realise the inconsistency of the man who servesthem with bread in the pulpit, while he hands out husks from thechancel.
How many of us mean what we say, when the familiar words fall from ourlips, "I believe in the Holy Ghost"? Should we think it necessary, ifwe really did so, to add all these condiments and spices to the pureBread of Life? Would it not be easier to discern the real flavour ofthe heavenly ambrosia, if we might have it served without Italiancookery?
And is there to be no thought taken for those who are won to Christalready? to whom He is in Himself the all-sufficient attraction, andthese veils and gewgaws are but annoyances, or at least superfluities?Where is the building up of the saints, the edifying of the Body ofChrist? Once was it said to Peter, "Feed My lambs;" but twice "Feed Mysheep." How is it that so many are satisfied with a state of things inwhich the sheep of Christ are starved and disgusted for the sake of thelambs, or in many cases rather for the sake of those who are not in thefold at all?
In February, 1554, a great commotion was caused in the City and suburbsby the insurrection of Wyatt, which had for its object to arrest theQueen's projected marriage with Prince Philip of Spain. The Londonersdid not show themselves particularly valiant on this occasion, and thedoughty Doctor Weston--one of the most active and prominent of thePopish clergy--sang mass to them with a full suit of armour under hisvestments. The Duke of Suffolk, whose sad fate it was to be perpetuallygetting himself into trouble in the present, for fear of calamitieswhich might never occur in the future, ran away in terror lest he shouldbe suspected of complicity with the rebellion; a proceeding which ofcourse roused suspicion instantly, and sealed not only his own fate, butthat of his daughter, Lady Jane Grey. The latter was beheaded on thetwelfth of February, the former on the twenty-third. For weeks theprisons were full, and the gallows perpetually at work. The Londonerswere in so excited and frightened a state--is it any marvel?--that whenthe phenomena of a mock sun and an inverted rainbow occurred on thefifteenth, they were terrified beyond measure. There was enough toterrify them on the earth, without troubling themselves about the sky.No man's property, liberty, or life was safe for a moment unless he werea devout servant of holy Church; and even in that case he held them by afrail tenure, for private spite might accuse him of heresy, and then forhim there was little hope of mercy. One after another, the few who hadhitherto remained staunch either fled from England, fell from the faith,or suffered at the stake.
These being the awkward circumstances of the case, Mistress Winterthought it desirable not only to gild Saint Thomas, but to put on acloak of piety. The garment was cheap. It was not difficult to attendevensong as well as matins, and that every day instead of once in theweek; the drama performed in the Cathedral was very pretty, the musicpleasant to hear, the scent of the incense agreeable. It was easy to beextremely cordial to Father Dan, and to express intense subservience tohis orders. This kind of religion was no inconvenient bridler of thetongue, nor did it in the least interfere with the pride of the naturalheart. Humiliation is one thing, and humility is quite another.
Dorothy began seriously to consider whether she should take the veil.Her disposition was a mixture of the satirical and the sentimental.There would be a good deal of _eclat_ about the proceeding. It waspleasant to be regarded as holier than other people. Nevertheless therewere drawbacks; for Dorothy was not fond of hard scrubbing, and wasuncommonly fond of venison and barberry pie. And she had a suspicionthat rather more scrubbing than venison generally fell to the lot of theholy sisters of Saint Clare. But the idea of the implicit obedience toauthority which would in that case be required of her decided Dorothy toremain "in the world." She thought there was more hope of managing ahusband than a lady abbess.
Nearly two years had passed away since Agnes had first heard FriarLaurence preach at Saint Paul's Cross, and once more Corpus Christi hadcome round. Since that time she had grown much in the spiritual life,though she had received no outward help beyond those rare Sundayreadings, and her occasional interviews with the Friar. Though CorpusChristi was still "uncertai
nly" kept, it naturally fell in with MistressWinter's new policy of veneered piety to be exceedingly respectful toall fasts and festivals. Accordingly she gave a grand banquet to somedozen acquaintances, and sent Agnes about her business. There waslikely to be reading on a holy day, and Agnes bent her steps towards theCathedral; but finding when she reached it that it was a little tooearly, she sat down on the steps of the Cross to wait. There was no oneabout; for most of those who cared to keep the feast did not care tohear sermons or Bible-readings; and Agnes was thinking so intently ashardly to be conscious whether she was alone or not.
"Good morrow, friend!" said a voice beside her; and John Laurence satdown a little way from her on the steps.
"Good morrow, Father," answered Agnes.
"Agnes, I would seek thy counsel."
Agnes looked up in astonishment. He seek her counsel! Was it not shewho had always sought his?
"Good lack, Father!" she exclaimed in her surprise.
John Laurence leaned his head thoughtfully on his hand, and made nofurther communication for some seconds.
"I know a Black Friar, Agnes," he said, speaking slowly, as if weighingeach word, "who seeth no cause, neither in God's Word, neither in commonreason, wherefore priests should not be wedded men, as thou wist thatmany, these ten years past, have been. But he is yet loth to break hismind unto the maid, seeing that many perils do now seem to lie in theway of wedded priests, and he cannot tell if it were well done or no,that he should speak unto her. If penalty fell on him, being thus wed,it should not leave her scatheless. Tell me, now, how thinkest thou?--should he do well to break his mind, or no? A maid may judge betterthan a man how a maid should take it."
"I would think, Father," answered the astonished Agnes, "that a maidwhich did truly love any man should not suffer uncertain sorrow to standbetwixt her and him."
"Yet how, if it were certain?"
"Nay, nor so neither."
"Go to! Put it this case were thine own. Shouldst thou be afeared towed with a priest?"
Agnes did not quite like such a home question. Yet she replied calmly,without any idea of the other question which was coming.
"Methinks, no; not if I truly loved him."
"And couldst thou truly love--_me_, Agnes?"
For an instant Agnes gave no answer. She had as little expected to havethat question asked her as she had expected to be created a duchess.
"Say sooth, if thou shouldst be feared," said John Laurence; and thefaint suspicion of pain in his tone unloosed her lips at once.
Afraid! Afraid to leave all her dreary past behind her, and to begin anew life, with her cup of gladness full to the very brim? John Laurencewas satisfied with his answer. But, for the first time, not one word ofreading or comment reached Agnes's mind in an intelligible form.
"May be, my gracious Lady, your good Ladyship should like your palfreycalled!" were the words that greeted Agnes when she made herreappearance in Mistress Winter's kitchen, having certainly been moreforgetful than usual of the flight of time. "Or, may be, it mightplease your honourableness to turn your goodly eyes upon the clock, andbehold whether it be meet time for a decent maid to come home of afeast-day even? By my troth, I would wager thou hadst been toWestminster and hadst danced a galliardo in the Queen's Grace's hall,did I not know that none with 's eyes in 's head should e'er so much aslook on thee. Thou idle doltish gadabout! Dost think I keep thee inboard and lodgment and raiment for to go a-gossiping with every idlecompanion thou mayest meet? Whither hast been, thou dawdlesome patch?Up to no good, I warrant thee!"
"I have been to Paul's, Mistress, an' it like you," was all that Agnesanswered.
"Soothly, it liketh me well, sweeting! Alisting some fat pickpursefriar, with his oily words, belike?"
"I have been a-talking with a friend," said Agnes boldly.
"Marry come up! So my sweet young damosel hath made friends, quotha!Prithee, was it my Lady's Grace of Suffolk thou wentest forth to see, ormy Lady of Norfolk, trow? Did she give thee a ride o' her velvetpillion, bestudded with gold?"
Agnes thought it would be best to get it over. The storm which mustcome might as well fall soon as late. She stood up, and looked theterrible Mistress Winter in the face.
"Please it you, Mistress Winter, I am handfast to wedlock; and he thatshall be mine husband it is that I have talked withal this even."
And having so spoken, Agnes waited quietly for the tempest.