Our Little Lady Part 10

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, la.s.s--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, la.s.s! 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 n.o.body wanted to be busy when the Queen came. A large dish of "eggs and b.u.t.ter" was speedily on the table--the "b.u.t.tered 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 la.s.s?" 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 la.s.ses enough; and some's foolish; and some's middlin'. There's most of the middlin' ones."

"I'm fain to hear it," said Dan. "La.s.ses 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' la.s.ses. 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 la.s.ses."

"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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.body 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. G.o.d be wi' ye, la.s.ses! 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 p.r.i.c.k 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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!"