CHAPTER THREE.
ROSE.
"Poor little souls!" repeated Margaret Thurston, when the children wereout 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 tocarry, 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 againstthem? How many unseen angels might there be on that road, watching overthe safety of the children, and of that homely jar of meal for theirsakes? It was not the first time that angels had attended to springs ofwater and cakes baken on the coals. No angel would dream of stopping tothink whether such work degraded him. It is only men who stoop lowenough for that. The highest work possible to men or angels is justdoing 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, onlyfour-and-thirty: his mistress died a matter of six months back, andtruly 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 agood father," answered Margaret. "John Johnson is as good a man as everstepped, I'll say that for him: and so was Helen a rare good woman. Iknew her well when we were maids together. Those children have beenwell 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. "AgnesLove told me--Jack Love's wife, that dwells on the Heath--you'll maybeknow her?"
"Ay, I know her, though not well."
"I've known her ever since she was a yard long. Well, she told me, theeven it happed came Jack Johnson to their house, and when she oped thedoor, she was fair feared of him, he looked so strange--his face allwhite, 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 rightstrange talk, and says she, `Jack Johnson, what can you mean? Never wasa 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 becausenow I shall never see her stand up on the waste by Lexden Road,' sayshe. `She's safe from that anguish for evermore!' And you know whatthat meant."
Yes, Alice Mount knew what that meant--that allusion to the waste groundby Colchester town wall on the road to Lexden, where the citizens shottheir rubbish, and buried their dead animals, or threw them unburied,and burned their martyrs. It was another way of saying what the Voicefrom Heaven had cried to the Apostle--"Blessed are the dead that die inthe Lord from henceforth!"
"It's a marvel they haven't done somewhat to them Loves afore now," saidMargaret, after a minute's silence.
"I thought they had?" replied Alice. "Wasn't John Love up afore theSheriff once at any rate?"
"Oh, ay, they've had him twice o'er; don't you mind they gat them awayin the night the last time, and all his goods was taken to the Queen'suse? But now, see, he's come back, and they let him alone. They'vedone all they mean to do, I reckon."
"God grant it!" said Alice, with a sigh. "Meg, I cannot forget lastAugust. Twenty-two of us had up afore the Bishop, and we only escapedby the very skin of our teeth, as saith Job. Ay me! I sometimes marvelif we did well or no, when we writ our names to that submission."
"Truly, neighbour, so have I," replied Margaret rather bluntly. "Iwould 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. Turningdown the lane which led to Thorpe, they came in sight of a girl oftwenty years, sitting on a low stool at the door of the third cottage inthe lane, weaving worsted lace on a pillow with bobbins. Over the doorhung a signboard bearing a bell painted blue. The lace-maker was asmall-built girl, not in any way remarkable to look at, with smooth darkhair, nicely kept, and a rosy face with no beauty about it, but with abright, kind-hearted expression which was better than outside beauty.If a person accustomed to read faces had been there, he might perhapshave said that the small prominent chin, and the firm setting of thelips, suggested that Rose Allen occasionally had a will of her own. Themoment that Rose saw who was coming, she left her stool with a brightsmile 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 comein and sit a bit, neighbour?"
"Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do--at any rate till them childrencomes up," responded Margaret, with a little laugh. "Will you have mewhile then?"
"Ay, and as long after as you've a mind," said Alice heartily, leadingthe way into her cottage.
As Margaret had a mile yet to walk, for she lived midway between MuchBentley and Thorpe, she was glad of a rest. In the kitchen they foundRose, very busy with a skillet over the fire. There was no tea in thosedays, so there was no putting on of the kettle: and Rose was preparingfor supper a dish of boiled cabbage, to which the only additions wouldbe bread and cheese. In reply to her mother's questions, she said thather step-father had been in, but finding his wife not yet come frommarket, he had said that he would step into the next neighbour's untilshe came, and Rose was to call him when supper was ready.
William Mount, the second husband of Alice, was twenty years older thanhis 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 inMuch Bentley. This was but a small place, nestling at one corner of thelarge park of the Earl of Oxford, the owner of all the property for somedistance round. Of course he was _the_ great man in the esteem of theMuch Bentley people. During the reign of Edward the Sixth, whenProtestantism was in favour at Court, Lord Oxford had been a Protestantlike other people; but, also like many other people, he was one of thoseof 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 saidand thought about him--and very sad slavery it is. I would rather sweepa crossing than feel that I did not dare to say what I believed ordisbelieved, what I liked or did not like, because other people wouldthink it strange. It is as bad as being in Egyptian bondage. Yet thereare a great many people quite contented to be slaves of this kind, whohave not half so much excuse as Lord Oxford. If he went against thepriests, who then were masters of everything, he was likely to lose hisliberty and property, if not his life; while we may say any thing welike without need to be afraid. It is not always an advantage to have agreat deal to lose. The poor labourers of Much Bentley, who had next tono property at all, and could only lose liberty and life, were farbraver than the Earl whom they thought such a grand man, and who carrieda golden wand before the Queen.
Supper was over at the Blue Bell, and Margaret Thurston was thinkingabout going home, when a little faint rap came on the door of thecottage. Rose opened it, and saw a big jar standing on the door-sill, alittle boy sitting beside it, and an older girl leaning against thewall.
"Please, we're come," said Cissy.