while dan was thus detailing his troubles in avice’s kitchen, his daughter emma was finishing her day’s work. she was apprenticed to an embroideress; for all kinds of embroidery were in much greater use then than now. there was no sort of trimming except embroidery and fur; there were no such things as printed cottons; and not only ladies’ dresses, but gentlemen’s, and all kinds of curtains and hangings, were very largely ornamented with the needle. mrs de la laund kept eighteen apprentices, and they worked in a long, narrow room with windows at each end—not glass windows, but just square openings, where light, wind, and rain or snow, came in together. it was about half an hour before it would be time to stop work. there was no clock in the room, and there were only three in all lincoln. clocks such as we have were then unknown. they had but two measures of time—the clepsydra, or water-clock, and the sun-dial. when a man had neither of these, he employed all kinds of ingenious expedients for guessing what time it was, if the day were cloudy and the sun not to be seen. king alfred had invented the plan, long before, of having candles to burn a certain time; the monks knew how long it took to repeat certain psalms. mrs de la laund stopped work when the cathedral bell tolled for vespers—that is, at four o’clock.
“you look tired, antigone,” said emma to her nearest neighbour, a pale girl of eighteen.
“tired? of course i’m tired,” was the unpromising answer. “where’s the good? one must go on.”
“she does not like the work,” said the girl on the other side of her.
“do you?” responded antigone, turning to her.
the girl gave a little laugh. “i don’t think whether i like it or not,” she said. “i like being taught what will get me a living some day.”
“i hate it!” answered antigone. “why should i have to work for my living, when lady margaret, up at the castle, never needs to put a needle in or out unless she pleases?”
“nay, you’re wrong there. my sister justina is scullion-maid at the castle, and i am sure, from what she tells me, you wouldn’t like to change with lady margaret.”
“my word, but i would!”
“why not, sarah?” asked emma.
“well,” replied sarah with a smile, “antigone likes what she calls a bit of fun when the day’s work is over; and she would not get nearly so much as she does, if she were in lady margaret’s place. she dwells in three chambers in her mother’s tower, and never comes down except to hall,” (namely, to meals,) “with now and then a decorous dance under the eyes of the lady countess. no running races on the green, nor chattering away to everybody, nor games—except upstairs in her own room with a few other young damsels. antigone would think she was in prison, to be used like that. and learning!—why, she has to learn latin, and surgery, and heraldry, and all sorts of needlework—not embroidery only; and cooking, and music, and i do not know what else. how would you like it, antigone?”
“well, at any rate, she has a change!” said antigone, with some acerbity.
“not quite the same thing as no work at all, for which i thought you were longing. and no liberty, remember.”
“but her gowns, sarah, her gowns!—and her hoods, and cloaks, and everything else! did you see her last saint michael? i’d have given a bit of liberty for that orange samite and those lovely blue slippers!”
sarah laughed and gave a little shake of her head.
“i know who is fond of hunt the slipper,” said she. “a pretty figure an orange samite gown would cut after an evening of it! i think, too, i would rather be free to go about on my feet than even to wear lovely blue slippers. nay, antigone, you may depend upon it, there are less pleasant things in lady margaret’s life than orange gowns and blue slippers. we can have a say about our weddings, remember: but she will be handed over to somebody she never saw, as like as not. i’d rather be as i am. mother says folks’ lots are more even than they like to think. poor folks fancy that rich ones have nothing to trouble them worth mention; and a sick man thinks, if he were only well, he would not mind being poor; and a man in prison says that if he could but be free, he could bear both illness and poverty. the truth is, everybody thinks his own trouble the worst; and yet, if we had our neighbours’ instead, nine times out of ten we should be glad to get back to our own. we know the worst of them, and often we don’t of the others. so that is why i say, i’d rather be as i am.”
“but people look down on you!” said antigone.
“well, let them. that won’t hurt me,” answered sarah.
“sarah, i do believe you’ve not a bit of spirit!”
“i’d rather keep my spirit for what it is good for—to help me over hard places and along weary bits of road. all women have those at times. mother says—”
“where’s the good of quoting old women? they have outlived their youth.”
“well, at any rate they lived through it, and some of them picked up a bit of wisdom by the way.”
“you may keep your musty wisdom to yourself! i want none of it!” said antigone, scornfully.
“i want all i can get,” quietly responded sarah. “mother says (if you don’t care for it, emma may) that discontent is the worst companion a girl can have for making everything look miserable. you’ll be a deal happier, she says, with a dry crust and a good will to it, than with a roast ox and a complaining temper.”
“ay, that’s true!” said emma, with a sigh.
“poor emma!” laughed antigone. “you get enough of it, don’t you, at the smithy?”
“i would rather not talk over my mother and sisters, if you please,” returned emma.
“oh, you don’t need to take airs, my lady. i know!”
“come, let emma be,” said sarah. “let’s keep our tempers, if we haven’t much else. there’s the vesper bell!”
antigone’s work was not likely to be improved by the hasty huddled-up style in which it was folded, while sarah and emma shook theirs straight and carefully avoided creases. they had then to give it in to the mistress, who stood at one end of the room, putting all away in a large coffer. when the last girl had given in her work, mrs de la laund called for silence.
“on thursday next,” said she, “i shall give you a holiday after dinner. the queen comes to lincoln on that day, and i wish to give as many as are good girls the chance of seeing her enter. but i shall expect to have no creased work like antigone’s; nor split and frayed like geneveva’s; nor dirtied like femiana’s. now you may go.”
they had odd names for girls in those days. among the nobles and gentry, most were like ours; young ladies of rank were alice, cicely, margaret, joan, isabel, emma, or agnes: a strange name being the exception. but among working women the odd names were then the rule: they were yngeleis, sabelina, orenge, pimma, cinelote, argentella, and very many more of the same high-sounding kind.
when the apprentices left the work-room, they were free to do as they liked till seven o’clock, when they must all re-assemble there, answer to their names called over, repeat some prayers after mrs de la laund, and go to bed in a large loft at the top of the house. characters came out on these occasions. the majority showed themselves thoughtless and giddy: they went to run races on the green, and to play games—the better disposed only among themselves: but the wild, adventurous spirits soon joined a lot of idle youths as unsteady as themselves, with whom they spent the evening in rough play, loud laughter, and not altogether decorous joking. the little group of sensible girls kept away from such scenes. most of them went to see their friends, if within reasonable distance; those who had none at hand sat or walked quietly together. emma and sarah were among these.
any person entering lincoln on the following wednesday would plainly have seen that the town was preparing for some great event. every house draped itself in some kind of hanging—the rich in coarse silk, the poorer in bunting or whatever they could get. the iron hoops here and there built into the walls for that purpose, held long pine-sticks, to be lighted as torches after dark; and they would need careful watching, for a great deal of the city was built of wood, and if a spark lighted on the walls, a serious fire might be the result. in the numerous balconies which projected from the better class of houses sat ladies dressed in their handsomest garments on the thursday morning, and below in the street stood men and women packed tightly into a crowd, waiting for the queen to arrive. there was not much room in a mediaeval street, and the sheriffs did not find it easy to keep a clear passage for the royal train. as to keeping any passage for the traffic, that would have been considered quite unnecessary. there was not much to keep it for; and what there was could go round by back streets, just as well as not. few people set any value on time in the middle ages.
queen alianora was expected to arrive about twelve o’clock. she was not the queen eleanor of whom we read at the beginning of the story (for alianora is only one of the old ways of spelling eleanor), but her daughter-in-law, the lady alianora who had been a friend to the dumb princess. she was a spanish lady, and was one of the best and loveliest queens who ever reigned in england. goodness and beauty are not always found in company—perhaps i might say, not often; but they went together with her. she was a spanish blonde—which means that her hair was a bright shade of golden—neither flaxen nor red; and that her eyes were a deep, deep blue—the blue of a southern sky, such as we rarely if ever see in an english one. her complexion was fair and rosy, her features regular and beautiful, her figure extremely elegant and well-proportioned. the crowd, though good-humoured, was beginning to get tired, when she came at last.
the queen, who was not quite thirty years of age, rode on a white horse, whose scarlet saddle-cloth was embroidered with golden lions and roses, and which was led by garcia, her spanish master of the horse. she was dressed in green samite, trimmed with ermine. on her left hand rode the earl of lincoln, on her right, her eldest surviving son, the little prince alphonso, who was only seven years old. he died at the age of eleven. after the queen rode her two damsels, aubrey de caumpeden and ermetrude; and after them and the officers of the household came a number of lesser people, the mob of sight-seers closing in and following them up the street. (see note 1.) her majesty rode up steephill to the castle, where the countess of lincoln and her daughter lady margaret—a girl of about fifteen—received her just inside the gate. then the mob cheered, the queen looked back with a smile and a bow, the almoner flung a handful of silver pennies among them, the portcullis was hauled down, and the sight was over.
as emma turned back from the castle gate, she met her father and her sister eleanor, who, like her, had been sight-seeing.
“well!” said dan, “did thou see her?”
“oh yes, beautifully!” answered emma. “isn’t she handsome, father?”
“‘handsome is as handsome does,’” philosophically returned dan. “some folks looks mighty handsome as doesn’t do even to it. she was just like a pictur’ when i wed her. ay, she was, so!—where art thou going, emma?”
“i thought of looking in on aunt avice, father. are you and eleanor coming, too?”
“i’m not,” said eleanor. “i’m going to see laurentia atte gate. so i’ll wish you good even.”
she kept straight on, while dan and emma turned off for avice’s house. it was not surprising that they found nobody at home but the turnspit dog, who was sufficiently familiar with both to wag a welcome; but somebody sat in the chimney-corner who was not at home, but was a visitor like themselves. when the door was unlatched, father thomas closed the book he had been reading and looked up.
“good even, father,” said dan to the priest. “i reckon you’ve come o’ th’ same errand as us.”
“what is that, my son?”
dan sat down on the form, and put a big hand on each knee.
“well, it’s some’at like t’ shepherd comin’ to count t’ sheep, to see ’at none of ’em’s missin’,” said he. “it’s so easy to get lost of a big moor full o’ pits and quagmires. and this world’s some’at like it.—ah, avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of a mixtur’ when they gets home.”
“a very pleasant mixture, uncle,” said avice. “pray you of your blessing, holy father.”
father thomas gave it, and bertha, stooping down, kissed dan on his broad wrinkled forehead.
“did thou get a penny?” asked dan.
“i got two!” cried bertha, triumphantly. “and aunt avice got one. did you, father?”
“nay, lass—none o’ my luck! silver pennies and such knows better nor to come my way. nor they’d better not, without they’ll come right number. i should get tore to bits if i went home wi’ one, as like as not. she ’d want it, and so ’d ankaret, and so ’d susanna, and so ’d mildred; and atwixt ’em all it ’d get broke i’ pieces, and so should i. and see thou, it’s made i’ quarters, and i amn’t, so it wouldn’t come so convenient to me.”
pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that they were easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for there were no separate ones coined.
“father, have one of mine!” cried bertha at the beginning of dan’s answer.
“nay, nay, lass! keep thy bit o’ silver—or if thou wants to give it, let emma have it. she’ll outlive it; i shouldn’t.”
the silver penny changed hands at once. avice had meanwhile been hanging up her hood and cloak, and she now proceeded to prepare a dish of eggs, foreseeing company to supper. supper was exceedingly early to-day, as it was scarcely three o’clock; but dinner had been equally so, for nobody wanted to be busy when the queen came. a large dish of “eggs and butter” was speedily on the table—the “buttered eggs” of the north of england, which are, i believe, identical with the “scrambled eggs” of the united states. the party sat down to supper, father thomas being served with a trencher to himself.
“and how dost thou get along wi’ thy missis, my lass?” said dan to his daughter.
“oh, things is very pleasant as yet, father,” answered emma with a smile. “there’s a mixture, as you said just now. some’s decent lasses enough; and some’s foolish; and some’s middlin’. there’s most of the middlin’ ones.”
“i’m fain to hear it,” said dan. “lasses is so foolish, i should ha’ thought there ’d be most o’ that lot. so ’s lads too. eh, it’s a queer world, this un: mortal queer! but i asked thee how thou got on with thy missis, and thou tells me o’ th’ lasses. never did know a woman answer straight off. ask most on ’em how far it is to newark, and they’ll answer you that t’ wind was west as they come fro’ barling.”
“thou hast not a good opinion of women, my son,” said father thomas, who looked much amused.
“i’ve seen too much on ’em!” responded dan, conclusively. “i’ve got a wife and six lasses.”
“bertha, we’d better mind our ways!” said emma, laughing.
“nay, it’s none you,” was dan’s comment. “you’re middlin’ decent, you two. so’s avice; and so’s old christopher’s regina. i know of ne’er another, without it ’s t’ cat—and she scratches like t’ rest when she’s put out. there is other decent ’uns, happen. they haven’t come my way yet.”
“why, father!” cried emma. “think who you’re lumping together—the lady queen, and my lady at the castle, and lady margaret, and the dean’s sister, and—”
“thou’ll be out o’ breath, if thou reckons all thou’st heard tell of,” said dan. “there’s cats o’ different sorts, child: some’s snowy white (when so be they’ve none been i’ th’ ash-hole), and some’s tabby, and some’s black as iron; but they all scrats. women’s like ’em.—you’re wise men, you parsons and such, as have nought to do wi’ ’em. old christopher, my neighbour up at smithy, he says weddin’s like a bag full o’ snakes wi’ one eel amongst ’em: you ha’ to put your hand in, and you may get th’ eel. but if you dunna—why you’ve got to do t’ best you can wi’ one o’ t’ other lot. if you’ll keep your hand out of the bag you’ll stand best chance of not getting bit.”
“it is a pity thou wert not a monk, my son,” said the priest, whose gravity seemed hard to keep.
“ay, it is!” was dan’s hearty response. “i’m alway fain to pass a nunnery. says i to myself, there’s a bonnie lot o’ snakes safe tied up out o’ folkses’ way. they’ll never fly at nobody no more. i’m fain for the men as hasn’t got ’em. ay, i am!”
avice and her young cousins laughed.
“do you think they never fly at one another, uncle dan?” asked the former.
“let ’em!” returned that gentleman with much cordiality. “a man gets a bit o’ peace then. it’s t’ only time he does. if they’d just go and make a reg’lar end o’ one another! but they never does,”—and the smith pushed away his trencher with a sigh. “well! i reckon i mun be going. she gave me while four:—and i’m feared o’ vesper bell ringing afore i can get home. there’ll be more bells nor one, if so. god be wi’ ye, lasses! good even, father.”
and the door was shut on the unhappy husband of the delightful filomena. emma took leave soon after, and bertha went with her, to see another friend before she returned to her employer’s house. avice and the priest were left alone. for a few minutes both were silent; but perhaps their thoughts were not very unlike.
“i wish, under your leave, father,” said avice at length, “that somebody would say a word to aunt filomena. i am afraid both she and uncle dan are very ignorant. truly, so am i: and it should be some one who knows better. i doubt if he quite means all he says; but he thinks too ill of women,—and indeed, with five such as he has at home, who can wonder at it? he has no peace from morning to night; and he is naturally a man who loves peace and quiet—as you are yourself, holy father, unless i mistake.”
“thou art not mistaken, my daughter,” said father thomas. something inside him was giving him a sharp prick or two. did he love quiet too much, so as to interfere with his duties to his fellow-men? and then something else inside the priest’s heart rose up, as it were, to press down the question, and bid the questioner be silent.
“i wonder,” said avice, innocently, quite unaware of the course of her companion’s thoughts, “whether, if aunt filomena knew her duty better, she might not give poor uncle dan a little more rest. he is good, in his way, and as far as he knows. i wish i knew more! but then,” avice concluded, with a little laugh, “i am only a woman.”
“yet thou art evidently one of the few whom he likes and respects,” answered the priest. “be it thine, my daughter, to show him that women are not all of an evil sort. do thy best, up to the light thou hast; and cry to god for more light, so that thou mayest know how to do better. ‘pour forth thy prayers to him,’ as saith the collect for the first sunday after the epiphany, ‘that thou mayest know what thy duty requires of thee, and be able to comply with what thou knowest.’ it is a good prayer, and specially for them that are perplexed concerning their duty.” (see note 2.)
“but when one does know one’s duty,” asked avice with simplicity, “it seems so hard to make one’s self do it.”
“didst thou ever yet do that? daughter, dost thou believe in the holy ghost?”
avice’s immediate answer was what would be the instinctive unthinking response of most professing christians.
“why, father, of course i do!”
“good. what dost thou believe?”
avice was silent. “ah!” said the priest. “it is easy to think we believe: but hard to put our faith into plain words. if the faith were clearer, maybe the words would follow.”
“it is so difficult to get things clear and plain!” sighed poor avice.
“have one thing clear, daughter—the way between god and thine own soul. let nothing come in to block up that—however fair, howsoever dear it be. and thou shalt have thy reward.”
“father, is it like keeping other things clear? the way to have the floor clear and clean is to sweep it every morning.”
“ay, my daughter, sweep it every morning with the besom of prayer, and every night bear over it the torch of self-examination. so shall the evil insects not make their nests there.”
“i don’t quite know how to examine myself,” said avice.
“and thou wilt err,” answered father thomas, “if thou set about that work alone, with a torch lighted at the flame of thine own righteousness. light thy torch at the fire of god’s altar; examine thyself by the light of his holy law; and do it at his feet, so that whatever evil thing thou mayest find thou canst take at once to him to be cleansed away. content not thyself with brushing away thoughts, but go to the root of that same sin in thine own heart. say not, ‘i should not have spoken proudly to my neighbour’—but, ‘i should not be proud in my heart.’ deal rather with the root that is in thee than with the branches of acts and words. there are sins which only to think of is to do. take to our lord, then, thy sins to be cleansed away; but let thine own thoughts dwell not so much on thy sins, thy deeds done and words said, but rather on thy sinfulness, the inward fount of sin in thy nature.”
“that were ugly work!” said avice.
“ay. i reckon thou countest not the scouring of thy floor among thine enjoyments. but it is needful, my daughter: and is it no enjoyment to see it clean?”
“ay, that it is,” admitted avice.
“i remember, my child, many years ago—thou wert but a little maid—that holy bishop robert came to sup with thy grandmother muriel. tell me, wouldst thou have been satisfied—i say not as a little child, since children note not such things—but as a woman, wouldst thou have been satisfied to receive the holy bishop with a dirty floor, and offer to him an uncleansed spoon to put to his lips?”
“oh no, father, surely not!”
“then see, daughter, that when the bishop of thy soul lifteth the latch to come in and sup with thee, he find not the soiled floor and the unclean vessel, and turn sorrowfully away, saying, ‘i thought to sup with my child this night, but this is no place for me.’ trust me, thou wilt lose more than he, if he close the door and depart.”
avice’s eyes filled with tears.
“o father, pray for me! i cannot bear to think of that.”
father thomas rose and laid his hand on avice’s head. his words, as coming from a priest, rather surprised her.
“my child,” he said softly, “let us pray for each other.”
avice stood looking out of the window after him as he went down the street.
“i wonder,” she said to herself, “if our lord ever turned away thus because father thomas’s chamber was not clean! he seemed to know what it was so well—yet how could such a good, holy man know anything about it?”
note 1. aubrey is now a man’s name only, but in the earlier hall of the middle ages it was used for both sexes.
note 2. this collect was slightly altered from that in the sarum missal. the form here quoted is the older one.
