For The Master's Sake Part 6

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 of Himself He loveth thee?"

"But, Father--I pray you pardon me if I speak foolishly, in mine unwisdom--how then needeth a mediator at all, if G.o.d the Father be so loving unto men?"

"G.o.d is a King, whose law thou hast broken. He is all perfect; therefore must His justice be perfect, no less than His mercy. A lawgiver that were all justice should be a scourge unto men; but a lawgiver that were all mercy should be as good as no law. G.o.d hath appointed 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 is the Advocate with the Father; but of an advocate with the Son never a word saith He. Wherefore G.o.d saw fit to appoint a Mediator, He knoweth, not I. I am content that having thus decreed, He hath Himself provided the same."

Agnes looked up, after a moment's thought, with an expression of fear and trouble on her white face.

"But what then of our Lady?"

"Wherefore should there be aught beyond what G.o.d hath told us?" replied Friar Laurence. "She was 'highly favoured' and 'blessed among women,'

in that she was the mother of the Saviour. Must she needs _be_ the Saviour to boot?"

"But we must wors.h.i.+p her, trow?"

"Must we so? 'Thou shalt wors.h.i.+p the Lord thy G.o.d, and Him only shalt thou serve.' Let us hold by G.o.d's Word, my daughter."

"Father, I wis so little thereof! nought at all but what I do hear of you," said Agnes with a sigh.

"Then, my child," he replied gently, "list thou the better. And here is a word for thee, and for all other in thy place: 'If any man do desire to do G.o.d's will, he shall know whether doctrine be truth or no.' Keep that desire ever sharp on the whetstone of prayer. Then, surely as G.o.d is in Heaven, thou shalt know."

The next minute he was gone.

"Agnes, sweet-heart!" demanded Dorothy that evening, in the sugary style which she only used when she was in a particularly tormenting mood, "prithee do me to wit of the name of thy dear friend, Master Black Friar? I beheld him and thee in so sweet converse at the Cross, it caused me to sigh that I had no such a friend as he. I pray thee lovingly of his goodly name?"

The answers which Dorothy usually received from Agnes to questions of this 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 of sentimental sorrow. "And thou never spakest word, when thou wist how dear all we do love thee, and the least we might do for joy of thy finding 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 low price 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 in mock 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 get absolution without no trouble at all!"

But about the last thing which Agnes had any intention of doing was to introduce Dorothy to John Laurence.

After that interview at the Cross, Agnes often met the Black Friar.

Sometimes he pa.s.sed her with a simple blessing in answer to her reverence; but more frequently he stopped her, and inquired into her spiritual welfare. She had many a difficulty in which to ask his counsel; many a trouble in which it was a relief to seek (and always to find) his sympathy. He was the only friend she had who spoke the language of Canaan. And it was far less as a priest than as a friend that Agnes regarded him. He was as different from old Father Dan, the Cordelier, as Mistress Flint differed from Mistress Winter. Agnes never knew, when preparing for one of those abhorred periodical interviews with the Cordelier, what he might say to her, or rather, what he might not say. She shrank with horror from his inquisitive questioning, and not much less from his petty humiliating penances. Father Dan's remedy for angry words was to fast for a week on bread and water; for pride, to lick 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 Black Friar, on the contrary, led Agnes out of herself altogether. He had only one topic, of infinite variety, for it was Jesus Christ. Only once had Agnes asked him whether he would recommend her to administer "the discipline" to herself, as a cure for discontent and murmuring.

"If thy shoulders be discontented, why, by all means," answered Friar Laurence, with his grave smile; "but if it be thine heart that murmureth, wherefore chastise thy shoulders?"

Agnes never put the question again, and never had recourse to the discipline. Of fasting, poor girl, she had already too much for her bodily profit, without any advent.i.tious use of it. And when she began to pray in reality, the rosary was very soon dropped. When a man's heart 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, and the chief preachers shared their fate. The first ma.s.s was sung at Saint Bartholomew's on the eleventh of August, when the people were ready to tear the officiating priest in pieces; but by the twenty-fourth of the same month it was heard in other churches in London, and the hearers were becoming reconciled to the innovation. The once powerful Duke of Northumberland was beheaded on Tower Hill, notwithstanding his profession of Popery at the last hour; the married priests were deprived; the French Protestant residents were banished; the altar was replaced in Saint Paul's; the Latin services, processions, palms, ashes, candles, holy bread, holy water, and all the rest of the rubbish swept away at the Reformation, came back one by one. That portion of the populace which had no particular religion was well pleased enough with these changes. The shows and the music were agreeable to them, and the Gospel sermons which they displaced had not been agreeable.

Some tell us in the present day that young people must be attracted to church, and that if music and pageant be not given them, their attendance is not likely to be secured. But what have we gained by thus going down to the Philistines to sharpen our weapons? Are these young people attracted to any thing but the music and the pageant? They are quite clever enough to realise the inconsistency of the man who serves them with bread in the pulpit, while he hands out husks from the chancel.

How many of us mean what we say, when the familiar words fall from our lips, "I believe in the Holy Ghost"? Should we think it necessary, if we really did so, to add all these condiments and spices to the pure Bread of Life? Would it not be easier to discern the real flavour of the heavenly ambrosia, if we might have it served without Italian cookery?

And is there to be no thought taken for those who are won to Christ already? to whom He is in Himself the all-sufficient attraction, and these veils and gewgaws are but annoyances, or at least superfluities?

Where is the building up of the saints, the edifying of the Body of Christ? Once was it said to Peter, "Feed My lambs;" but twice "Feed My sheep." How is it that so many are satisfied with a state of things in which the sheep of Christ are starved and disgusted for the sake of the lambs, or in many cases rather for the sake of those who are not in the fold at all?

In February, 1554, a great commotion was caused in the City and suburbs by the insurrection of Wyatt, which had for its object to arrest the Queen's projected marriage with Prince Philip of Spain. The Londoners did not show themselves particularly valiant on this occasion, and the doughty Doctor Weston--one of the most active and prominent of the Popish clergy--sang ma.s.s to them with a full suit of armour under his vestments. The Duke of Suffolk, whose sad fate it was to be perpetually getting himself into trouble in the present, for fear of calamities which might never occur in the future, ran away in terror lest he should be suspected of complicity with the rebellion; a proceeding which of course roused suspicion instantly, and sealed not only his own fate, but that of his daughter, Lady Jane Grey. The latter was beheaded on the twelfth of February, the former on the twenty-third. For weeks the prisons were full, and the gallows perpetually at work. The Londoners were in so excited and frightened a state--is it any marvel?--that when the phenomena of a mock sun and an inverted rainbow occurred on the fifteenth, they were terrified beyond measure. There was enough to terrify them on the earth, without troubling themselves about the sky.

No man's property, liberty, or life was safe for a moment unless he were a devout servant of holy Church; and even in that case he held them by a frail tenure, for private spite might accuse him of heresy, and then for him there was little hope of mercy. One after another, the few who had hitherto remained staunch either fled from England, fell from the faith, or suffered at the stake.

These being the awkward circ.u.mstances of the case, Mistress Winter thought it desirable not only to gild Saint Thomas, but to put on a cloak of piety. The garment was cheap. It was not difficult to attend evensong as well as matins, and that every day instead of once in the week; the drama performed in the Cathedral was very pretty, the music pleasant to hear, the scent of the incense agreeable. It was easy to be extremely cordial to Father Dan, and to express intense subservience to his orders. This kind of religion was no inconvenient bridler of the tongue, nor did it in the least interfere with the pride of the natural heart. 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 was pleasant to be regarded as holier than other people. Nevertheless there were drawbacks; for Dorothy was not fond of hard scrubbing, and was uncommonly fond of venison and barberry pie. And she had a suspicion that rather more scrubbing than venison generally fell to the lot of the holy sisters of Saint Clare. But the idea of the implicit obedience to authority which would in that case be required of her decided Dorothy to remain "in the world." She thought there was more hope of managing a husband than a lady abbess.

Nearly two years had pa.s.sed away since Agnes had first heard Friar Laurence preach at Saint Paul's Cross, and once more Corpus Christi had come round. Since that time she had grown much in the spiritual life, though she had received no outward help beyond those rare Sunday readings, and her occasional interviews with the Friar. Though Corpus Christi was still "uncertainly" kept, it naturally fell in with Mistress Winter's new policy of veneered piety to be exceedingly respectful to all fasts and festivals. Accordingly she gave a grand banquet to some dozen acquaintances, and sent Agnes about her business. There was likely to be reading on a holy day, and Agnes bent her steps towards the Cathedral; but finding when she reached it that it was a little too early, she sat down on the steps of the Cross to wait. There was no one about; for most of those who cared to keep the feast did not care to hear sermons or Bible-readings; and Agnes was thinking so intently as hardly to be conscious whether she was alone or not.

"Good morrow, friend!" said a voice beside her; and John Laurence sat down 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 she who had always sought his?

"Good lack, Father!" she exclaimed in her surprise.

John Laurence leaned his head thoughtfully on his hand, and made no further communication for some seconds.

"I know a Black Friar, Agnes," he said, speaking slowly, as if weighing each word, "who seeth no cause, neither in G.o.d's Word, neither in common reason, wherefore priests should not be wedded men, as thou wist that many, these ten years past, have been. But he is yet loth to break his mind unto the maid, seeing that many perils do now seem to lie in the way 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 better than a man how a maid should take it."

"I would think, Father," answered the astonished Agnes, "that a maid which did truly love any man should not suffer uncertain sorrow to stand betwixt 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 to wed 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.