CHAPTER SIX.
A SUNDAY IN THE CITY.
"The rod of Heaven has touched them all, The word from Heaven is spoken Rise, shine and sing, thou captive thrall, Are not thy fetters broken!" Keble.
On Sunday morning, when the young Birkenholts awoke, the whole airseemed full of bells from hundreds of Church and Minster steeples. TheDragon Court wore a holiday air, and there was no ring of hammers at theforges; but the men who stood about were in holiday attire: and thebrothers assumed their best clothes.
Breakfast was not a meal much accounted of. It was reckoned effeminateto require more than two meals a day, though, just as in the verdurer'slodge at home, there was a barrel of ale on tap with drinking hornsbeside it in the hall, and on a small round table in the window a loafof bread, to which city luxury added a cheese, and a jug containingsack, with some silver cups beside it, and a pitcher of fair water.Master Headley, with his mother and daughter, was taking a morsel ofthese refections, standing, and in out-door garments, when the brothersappeared at about seven o'clock in the morning.
"Ha! that's well," quoth he, greeting them. "No slugabeds, I see. Willye come with us to hear mass at Saint Faith's?" They agreed, and MasterHeadley then told them that if they would tarry till the next day insearching out their uncle, they could have the company of TibbleSteelman, who had to see one of the captains of the guard about analteration of his corslet, and thus would have every opportunity offacilitating their inquiries for their uncle.
The mass was an ornate one, though not more so than they were accustomedto at Beaulieu. Ambrose had his book of devotions, supplied by the goodmonks who had brought him up, and old Mrs Headley carried something ofthe same kind; but these did not necessarily follow the ritual, andneither quiet nor attention was regarded as requisite in "hearing mass."Dennet, unchecked, was exchanging flowers from her Sunday posy withanother little girl, and with hooded fingers carrying on in allinnocence the satirical pantomime of Father Francis and SisterCatharine; and even Master Headley himself exchanged remarks with hisfriends, and returned greetings from burgesses and their wives while thecelebrant priest's voice droned on, and the choir responded--the pealsof the organ in the Minster above coming in at inappropriate moments,for there they were in a different part of High Mass using the Liturgypeculiar to Saint Paul's.
Thinking of last week at Beaulieu, Ambrose knelt meantime with his headburied in his hands, in an absorption of feeling that was not perhapswholly devout, but which at any rate looked more like devotion than thedemeanour of any one around. When the _Ite missa est_ was pronounced,and all rose up, Stephen touched him and he rose, looking about,bewildered.
"So please you, young sir, I can show you another sort of thing by andby," said in his ear Tibble Steelman, who had come in late, and markedhis attitude.
They went up from Saint Faith's in a flood of talk, with all manner ofpeople welcoming Master Headley after his journey, and thence came backto dinner which was set out in the hall very soon after their returnfrom church. Quite guests enough were there on this occasion to fillall the chairs, and Master Headley intimated to Giles that he must beginhis duties at table as an apprentice, under the tuition of the senior, atall young fellow of nineteen, by name Edmund Burgess. He lookedgreatly injured and discomfited, above all when he saw his twotravelling companions seated at the table--though far lower than thenight before; nor would he stir from where he was standing against thewall to do the slightest service, although Edmund admonished him sharplythat unless he bestirred himself it would be the worse for him.
When the meal was over, and grace had been said, the boards were removedfrom their trestles, and the elders drew round the small table in thewindow with a flagon of sack and a plate of wastel bread in their midstto continue their discussion of weighty Town Council matters. Every onewas free to make holiday, and Edmund Burgess good-naturedly invited thestrangers to come to Mile End, where there was to be shooting at thebutts, and a match at single-stick was to come off between KitSmallbones and another giant, who was regarded as the champion of thebrewer's craft.
Stephen was nothing loth, especially if he might take his own crossbow;but Ambrose never had much turn for these pastimes and was in no moodfor them. The familiar associations of the mass had brought the griefof orphanhood, homelessness, and uncertainty upon him with the moreforce. His spirit yearned after his father, and his heart was sick forhis forest home. Moreover, there was the duty incumbent on a good sonof saying his prayers for the repose of his hither's soul. He hinted asmuch to Stephen, who, boy-like, answered, "Oh, we'll see to that when weget into my Lord of York's house. Masses must be plenty there. And Imust see Smallbones floor the brewer."
Ambrose could trust his brother under the care of Edmund Burgess, andresolved on a double amount of repetitions of the appointedintercessions for the departed.
He was watching the party of youths set off, all except Giles Headley,who sulkily refused the invitations, betook himself to a window and satdrumming on the glass, while Ambrose stood leaning on the dragonbalustrade, with his eyes dreamily following the merry lads out at thegateway.
"You are not for such gear, sir," said a voice at his ear, and he sawthe scathed face of Tibble Steelman beside him.
"Never greatly so, Tibble," answered Ambrose. "And _my_ heart is tooheavy for it now."
"Ay, ay, sir. So I thought when I saw you in Saint Faith's. I haveknown what it was to lose a good father in my time."
Ambrose held out his hand. It was the first really sympathetic word hehad heard since he had left Nurse Joan.
"'Tis the week's mind of his burial," he said, half choked with tears."Where shall I find a quiet church where I may say his _de profundis_ inpeace?"
"Mayhap," returned Tibble, "the chapel in the Pardon churchyard wouldserve your turn. 'Tis not greatly resorted to when mass time is over,when there's no funeral in hand, and I oft go there to read my book inquiet on a Sunday afternoon. And then, if 'tis your will, I will takeyou to what to my mind is the best healing for a sore heart."
"Nurse Joan was wont to say the best for that was a sight of the trueCross, as she once beheld it at Holy Rood church at Southampton," saidAmbrose.
"And so it is, lad, so it is," said Tibble, with a strange light on hisdistorted features.
So they went forth together, while Giles again hugged himself in hisdoleful conceit, marvelling how a youth of birth and nurture could walkthe streets on a Sunday with a scarecrow such as that!
The hour was still early, there was a whole summer afternoon beforethem; and Tibble, seeing how much his young companion was struck withthe grand vista of church towers and spires, gave him their names asthey stood, though coupling them with short dry comments on the way inwhich their priests too often perverted them.
The Cheap was then still in great part an open space, where boys wereplaying, and a tumbler was attracting many spectators; while the ballad-singer of yesterday had again a large audience, who laughed loudly atevery coarse jest broken upon mass-priests and friars.
Ambrose was horrified at the stave that met his ears, and asked how suchprofanity could be allowed. Tibble shrugged his shoulders, and citedthe old saying, "The nearer the church,"--adding, "Truth hath a voice,and will out."
"But surely this is not the truth?"
"'Tis mighty like it, sir, though it might be spoken in a more seemlyfashion."
"What's this?" demanded Ambrose. "'Tis a noble house."
"That's the Bishop's palace, sir--a man that hath much to answer for."
"Liveth he so ill a life then?"
"Not so. He is no scandalous liver, but he would fain stifle all thevoices that call for better things. Ay, you look back at yon ballad-monger! Great folk despise the like of him, never guessing at the powerthere may be in such ribald stuff; while they would fain silence thatwhich might turn men from their evil ways while yet there is time."
Tibble muttered this to himself, unheeded by Ambrose, and then presentlycrossin
g the churchyard, where a grave was being filled up, withnumerous idle children around it, he conducted the youth into a curiouslittle chapel, empty now, but with the Host enthroned above the altar,and the trestles on which the bier had rested still standing in thenarrow nave.
It was intensely still and cool, a fit place indeed for Ambrose's filialdevotions, while Tibble settled himself on the step, took out a littleblack book, and became absorbed. Ambrose's Latin scholarship enabledhim to comprehend the language of the round of devotions he wasrehearsing for the benefit of his father's soul; but there was muchrepetition in them, and he had been so trained as to believe theircorrect recital was much more important than attention to their spirit,and thus, while his hands held his rosary, his eyes were fixed upon thewalls where was depicted the Dance of Death. In terrible repetition,the artist had aimed at depicting every rank or class in life as alikethe prey of the grisly phantom. Triple-crowned pope, scarlet-hattedcardinal, mitred prelate, priests, monks, and friars of every degree;emperors, kings, princes, nobles, knights, squires, yeomen, every sortof trade, soldiers of all kinds, beggars, even thieves and murderers,and, in like manner, ladies of every degree, from the queen and theabbess, down to the starving beggar, were each represented as grappledwith, and carried off by the crowned skeleton. There was no trucklingto greatness. The bishop and abbot writhed and struggled in the graspof Death, while the miser clutched at his gold, and if there were somenuns, and some poor ploughmen who willingly clasped his bony fingers andobeyed his summons joyfully, there were countesses and prioresses whotried to beat him off, or implored him to wait. The infant smiled inhis arms, but the middle-aged fought against his scythe.
The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose heartwas still sore for his father. After the sudden shock of such a loss,the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all alike, in themidst of their characteristic worldly employments, and the anguish andhopeless resistance of most of them, struck him to the heart. He movedbetween each bead to a fresh group; staring at it with fixed gaze, whilehis lips moved in the unconscious hope of something consoling; till atlast, hearing some uncontrollable sobs, Tibble Steelman rose and foundhim crouching rather than kneeling before the figure of an emaciatedhermit, who was greeting the summons of the King of Terrors, withcrucifix pressed to his breast, rapt countenance and outstretched arms,seeing only the Angel who hovered above. After some minutes of bitterweeping, which choked his utterance, Ambrose, feeling a friendly hand onhis shoulder, exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, "Oh, tell me, wheremay I go to become an anchorite! There's no other safety! I'll giveall my portion, and spend all my time in prayer for my father and theother poor souls in purgatory."
Two centuries earlier, nay, even one, Ambrose would have been encouragedto follow out his purpose. As it was, Tibble gave a little dry coughand said, "Come along with me, sir, and I'll show you another sort ofway."
"I want no entertainment!" said Ambrose, "I should feel only as if he,"pointing to the phantom, "were at hand, clutching me with his deadlyclaw," and he looked over his shoulder with a shudder.
There was a box by the door to receive alms for masses on behalf of thesouls in purgatory, and here he halted and felt for the pouch at hisgirdle, to pour in all the contents; but Steelman said, "Hold, sir, areyou free to dispose of your brother's share, you who are purse-bearerfor both?"
"I would fain hold my brother to the only path of safety."
Again Tibble gave his dry cough, but added, "He is not in the path ofsafety who bestows that which is not his own but is held in trust. Iwere foully to blame if I let this grim portrayal so work on you as tolead you to beggar not only yourself, but your brother, with no consentof his."
For Tibble was no impulsive Italian, but a sober-minded Englishman ofsturdy good sense, and Ambrose was reasonable enough to listen and onlydrop in a few groats which he knew to be his own.
At the same moment, a church bell was heard, the tone of which Steelmanevidently distinguished from all the others, and he led the way out ofthe Pardon churchyard, over the space in front of Saint Paul's. Manypersons were taking the same route; citizens in gowns and gold or silverchains, their wives in tall pointed hats; craftsmen, black-gownedscholarly men with fur caps, but there was a much more scanty proportionof priests, monks or friars, than was usual in any popular assemblage.Many of the better class of women carried folding stools, or had themcarried by their servants, as if they expected to sit and wait.
"Is there a procession toward? or a relic to be displayed?" askedAmbrose, trying to recollect whose feast-day it might be.
Tibble screwed up his mouth in an extraordinary smile as he said, "Relicquotha? yea, the soothest relic there be of the Lord and Master of usall."
"Methought the true Cross was always displayed on the High Altar," saidAmbrose, as all turned to a side aisle of the noble nave.
"Rather say hidden," muttered Tibble. "Thou shalt have it displayed,young sir, but neither in wood nor gilded shrine. See, here he comeswho setteth it forth."
From the choir came, attended by half a dozen clergy, a small, pale man,in the ordinary dress of a priest, with a square cap on his head. Helooked spare, sickly, and wrinkled, but the furrows traced lines ofsweetness, his mouth was wonderfully gentle, and there was a keenbrightness about his clear grey eye. Every one rose and made obeisanceas he passed along to the stone stair leading to a pulpit projectingfrom one of the columns.
Ambrose saw what was coming, though he had only twice before heardpreaching. The children of the ante-reformation were not called upon tohear sermons; and the few exhortations given in Lent to the monks ofBeaulieu were so exclusively for the religious that seculars were notinvited to them. So that Ambrose had only once heard a weary and heavydiscourse there plentifully garnished with Latin; and once he had stoodamong the throng at a wake at Millbrook, and heard a begging friarrecommend the purchase of briefs of indulgence and the daily repetitionof the Ave Maria by a series of extraordinary miracles for the rescue ofdesperate sinners, related so jocosely as to keep the crowd in a roar oflaughter. He had laughed with the rest, but he could not imagine hisguide, with the stern, grave eyebrows, writhen features and earnest,ironical tone, covering--as even he could detect--the deepest feeling,enjoying such broad sallies as tickled the slow merriment of villageclowns and forest deer-stealers.
All stood for a moment while the Paternoster was repeated. Then theowners of stools sat down on them, some leant on adjacent pillars,others curled themselves on the floor, but most remained on their feetas unwilling to miss a word, and of these were Tibble Steelman and hiscompanion.
_Omnis qui facit peccattum, servus est peccati_, followed by therendering in English, "Whosoever doeth sin is sin's bond thrall." Thewords answered well to the ghastly delineations that seemed stamped onAmbrose's brain and which followed him about into the nave, so that hefelt himself in the grasp of the cruel fiend, and almost expected tofeel the skeleton claw of Death about to hand him over to torment. Heexpected the consolation of hearing that a daily "Hail Mary," perseveredin through the foulest life, would obtain that beams should be arrestedin their fall, ships fail to sink, cords to hang, till such confessionhad been made as should insure ultimate salvation, after such aproportion of the flames of purgatory as masses and prayers might notmitigate.
But his attention was soon caught. Sinfulness stood before him not asthe liability to penalty for transgressing an arbitrary rule, but as ataint to the entire being, mastering the will, perverting the senses,forging fetters out of habit, so as to be a loathsome horror paralysingand enchaining the whole being and making it into the likeness of himwho brought sin and death into the world. The horror seemed to grow onAmbrose, as his boyish faults and errors rushed on his mind, and he feltpervaded by the contagion of the pestilence, abhorrent even to himself.But behold, what was he hearing now? "The bond thrall abideth not inthe house for ever, but the Son abideth ever. _Si ergo Filiusliberavit, vere liberi eritis_." "If the Son s
hould make you free, thenare ye free indeed." And for the first time was the true liberty of theredeemed soul comprehensibly proclaimed to the young spirit that hadbegun to yearn for something beyond the outside. Light began to shinethrough the outward ordinances; the Church; the world, life, and death,were revealed as something absolutely new; a redeeming, cleansing,sanctifying power was made known, and seemed to inspire him with a newlife, joy, and hope. He was no longer feeling himself necessarilycrushed by the fetters of death, or only delivered from absolute perilby a mechanism that had lost its heart, but he could enter into theglorious liberty of the sons of God, in process of being saved, not _in_sin but _from_ sin.
It was an era in his life, and Tibble heard him sobbing, but with verydifferent sobs from those in the Pardon chapel. When it was over, andthe blessing given, Ambrose looked up from the hands which had coveredhis face with a new radiance in his eyes, and drew a long breath.Tibble saw that he was like one in another world, and gently led himaway.
"Who is he? What is he? Is he an angel from Heaven?" demanded the boy,a little wildly, as they neared the southern door.
"If an angel be a messenger of God, I trow he is one," said Tibble."But men call him Dr Colet. He is Dean of Saint Paul's Minster, anddwelleth in the house you see below there."
"And are such words as these to be heard every Sunday?"
"On most Sundays doth he preach here in the nave to all sorts of folk."
"I must--I must hear it again!" exclaimed Ambrose.
"Ay, ay," said Tibble, regarding him with a well-pleased face. "You areone with whom it works."
"Every Sunday!" repeated Ambrose. "Why do not all--your master and allthese," pointing to the holiday crowds going to and fro--"why do theynot all come to listen?"
"Master doth come by times," said Tibble, in the tone of irony that washard to understand. "He owneth the dean as a rare preacher."
Ambrose did not try to understand. He exclaimed again, panting as ifhis thoughts were too strong for his words--
"Lo you, that preacher-dean call ye him?--putteth a soul into what hathhitherto been to me but a dead and empty framework."
Tibble held out his hand almost unconsciously, and Ambrose pressed it.Man and boy, alike they had felt the electric current of that truth,which, suppressed and ignored among man's inventions, was coming as anew revelation to many, and was already beginning to convulse the Churchand the world.
Ambrose's mind was made up on one point. Whatever he did, and whereverhe went, he felt the doctrine he had just heard as needful to him asvital air, and he must be within reach of it. This, and not thehermit's cell, was what his instinct craved. He had always been astudious, scholarly boy, supposed to be marked out for a clerical life,because a book was more to him than a bow, and he had been easilytrained in good habits and practices of devotion; but all in a childishmanner, without going beyond simple receptiveness, until the experiencesof the last week had made a man of him, or more truly, the Pardon chapeland Dean Colet's sermon had made him a new being, with the realities ofthe inner life opened before him.
His present feeling was relief from the hideous load he had felt whiledwelling on the Dance of Death, and therewith general goodwill to allmen, which found its first issue in compassion for Giles Headley, whomhe found on his return seated on the steps--moody and miserable.
"Would that you had been with us," said Ambrose, sitting down beside himon the step. "Never have I heard such words as to-day."
"I would not be seen in the street with that scarecrow," murmured Giles."If my mother could have guessed that he was to be set over me, I hadnever come here."
"Surely you knew that he was foreman."
"Yea, but not that I should be under him--I whom old Giles vowed shouldbe as his own son--I that am to wed yon little brown moppet, and bemaster here! So, forsooth," he said, "now he treats me like any commonlow-bred prentice."
"Nay," said Ambrose, "an if you were his son, he would still make youserve. It's the way with all craftsmen--yea and with gentlemen's sonsalso. They must be pages and squires ere they can be knights."
"It never was the way at home. I was only bound prentice to my fatherfor the name of the thing, that I might have the freedom of the city,and become head of our house."
"But how could you be a wise master without learning the craft?"
"What are journeymen for?" demanded the lad. "Had I known how GilesHeadley meant to serve me, he might have gone whistle for a husband forhis wench. I would have ridden in my Lady of Salisbury's train."
"You might have had rougher usage there than here," said Ambrose."Master Headley lays nothing on you but what he has himself proved. Iwould I could see you make the best of so happy a home."
"Ay, that's all very well for you, who are certain of a great man'shouse."
"Would that I were certified that my brother would be as well off asyou, if you did but know it," said Ambrose. "Ha! here come the dishes!'Tis supper-time come on us unawares, and Stephen not returned from MileEnd!"
Punctuality was not, however, exacted on these summer Sunday evenings,when practice with the bow and other athletic sports were enjoined byGovernment, and, moreover, the youths were with so trustworthy a memberof the household as Kit Smallbones.
Sundry City magnates had come to supper with Master Headley, and whetherit were the effect of Ambrose's counsel, or of the example of a handsomelad who had come with his father, one of the worshipful guild ofMerchant Taylors, Giles did vouchsafe to bestir himself in waiting, andin consideration of the effort it must have cost him, old Mrs Headleyand her son did not take notice of his blunders, but only Dennet fellinto a violent fit of laughter, when he presented the stately aldermanwith a nutmeg under the impression that it was an overgrown peppercorn.She suppressed her mirth as well as she could, poor little thing, for itwas a great offence in good manners, but she was detected, and, onlychild as she was, the consequence was the being banished from the tableand sent to bed.
But when, after supper was over, Ambrose went out to see if there wereany signs of the return of Stephen and the rest, he found the littlemaiden curled up in the gallery with her kitten in her arms.
"Nay!" she said, in a spoilt-child tone, "I'm not going to bed before mytime for laughing at that great oaf! Nurse Alice says he is to wed me,but I won't have him! I like the pretty boy who had the good dog andsaved father, and I like you, Master Ambrose. Sit down by me and tellme the story over again, and we shall see Kit Smallbones come home. Iknow he'll have beaten the brewer's fellow."
Before Ambrose had decided whether thus far to abet rebellion, shejumped up and cried: "Oh, I see Kit! He's got my ribbon! He has wonthe match!"
And down she rushed, quite oblivious of her disgrace, and Ambrosepresently saw her uplifted in Kit Smallbones' brawny arms to utter hercongratulations.
Stephen was equally excited. His head was full of Kit Smallbones'exploits, and of the marvels of the sports he had witnessed and joinedin with fair success. He had thought Londoners poor effeminatecreatures, but he found that these youths preparing for the trainedbands understood all sorts of martial exercises far better than any ofhis forest acquaintance, save perhaps the hitting of a mark. He washalf wild with a boy's enthusiasm for Kit Smallbones and Edmund Burgess,and when, after eating the supper that had been reserved for the latecomers, he and his brother repaired to their own chamber, his tongue ranon in description of the feats he had witnessed and his hopes ofemulating them, since he understood that Archbishop as was my Lord ofYork, there was a tilt-yard at York House. Ambrose, equally full of hisnew feelings, essayed to make his brother a sharer in them, but Stephenentirely failed to understand more than that his book-worm brother hadheard something that delighted him in his own line of scholarship, fromwhich Stephen had happily escaped a year ago!