Chapter Two.
Father Dan.
“Fasting is all very well for those
Who have to contend with invisible foes:
But I am quite sure that it does not agree
With a quiet, peaceable man like me.”
Longfellow.
Fortunately for Agnes Stone, she was too low down in the world for many things to affect her which sorely troubled the occupants of the upper strata. Sumptuary laws were of no consequence to a woman whose best gown was patched with pieces of different colours, and who had not a hood in her possession; taxes and subsidies, though they might press heavily on the rich, were no concern of hers, for she did not own a penny; while no want, however complete, of letters, books, and newspapers, distressed the mind of one who had never learned the alphabet.
Mistress Winter dwelt in Cowbridge Street, otherwise Cow Lane; now the site of crowded City thoroughfares, but then a quiet, pleasant, suburban lane, the calm of which was chiefly broken by the presence, on market-days, of numbers of the animal whence the street took its name, caused by the close proximity of Smithfield. Green fields lay at the back of the houses, through which, on its way to the Thames, ran the little Fleet River, anciently known as the River of the Wells; beyond it towered the Bishop of Ely’s Palace, with its extensive walled garden, famous for strawberries; to the left was the pleasant and healthy village of Clerkenwell, whither the Londoners were wont to stroll on summer evenings, to drink milk at the country inn, and gossip with each other round the holy well. On the right hand, between Cow Lane and the Thames, lay the open, airy suburbs of Fleet and Temple, and the royal Palace of Bridewell, with its grounds. In front, Hosier Lane and Cock Lane gave access to Smithfield, beyond which was the sumptuous but now dissolved Priory of Saint Bartholomew, the once royal domain of Little Britain, and the walls and gates of the great city, with the grand tower of Saint Paul’s Cathedral visible in the distance, over the low roofs of the surrounding houses.
The locality of Cow Lane was far from being a low neighbourhood, though its name was not particularly aristocratic in sound. In the old days before the dissolution, which Agnes could just remember, the Prior of Sempringham had his town house in Cow Lane; and the Earl of Bath lived on the further side of the Fleet River, with Furnival’s Inn beyond, the residence of the Barons Furnival, now merged in the Earldom of Shrewsbury. Mistress Winter lived in the last house at the north end of the lane, next to Cow Cross, and almost in the country. There is no need to name her neighbours, with two exceptions, since these only are concerned in the story. But in Cow Lane every body knew every body else’s business; and the mistress at the Fetterlock could not put on a new ribbon without the chambermaid at the Black Lion being aware of it. Do not rush to the conclusion, gentle modern reader, that Cow Lane was full of inns or public-houses. Streets were not numbered in those days; and in order to effect the necessary distinction between one house and another, every man hung out his sign, selecting a silent woman (Note 1), a blue cow, a griffin, or a rose, according as his fancy led him. Sign-painting must have been a profitable trade at that time, and a very necessary one, when scarcely one man in twenty knew his alphabet; and the cardinal figures were cabalistic signs to common eyes.
The two families previously alluded to lived at the southern end of Cow Lane, and their respective names were Flint and Marvell. Mistress Flint was a cheerful, good-tempered woman, with whom life went easily, and who had a large family of sons and daughters, the youngest but one, little Will, being a special favourite with Agnes. The Marvells were very quiet people, who kept their opinions and feelings to themselves; though their son Christie, a mischievous lad of some twelve years, was renowned in Cow Lane for the exact opposite.
The day was drawing towards evening, when Agnes, as she turned round from emptying a pail of dirty water into the common sewer of Cow Lane, detected the burly figure of Father Dan, the Cordelier Friar, who was Mistress Winter’s family confessor, coming up from Seacoal Lane. Not without some fears of his errand, she waited till he came near, and then humbly louted—the ancient English reverence, now conventionally supposed to be restricted to charity children.
“Christ save all here!” said the priest, holding up three fingers in the style of benediction peculiar to his Order.
Taking no further notice of Agnes, he marched within, to be cordially welcomed, and his blessing begged, by Mistress Winter and Dorothy; for Joan was gone to see the bear-baiting in Southwark.
Father Dan was a priest of the popular type—florid, fat, and jovial. His penances were light and easy to those who had it in their power to ask him to dinner, or to make gifts to his Order. It might be that they were all the harder to those from whom such favours were not expected.
The Cordelier took his seat at the supper-table just laid by Dorothy, this being an easy and dainty style of work in which that young lady condescended to employ her delicate hands. Mistress Winter was busily occupied with a skillet containing some savoury compound, and the Friar’s eyes twinkled with expectant gastronomic delight as he watched the proceedings of his hostess. Supper being at last ready, the three prepared to do justice to it, while Agnes waited upon them. A golden flood of buttered eggs was poured upon the dish in front of the Friar, a cherry pie stood before Dorothy, while Mistress Winter, her sleeves rolled up, and her widow’s barb (Note 2) laid aside because of the heat, was energetically attacking some ribs of beef.
“Had Joan no purpose to be back for supper, Doll?” demanded her mother.
“Nay,” said Dorothy; “Mall Whitelock bade her to supper in Long Lane. I heard them discoursing of the same.”
“And what news abroad, Father?” asked Mistress Winter. “Pray you, give me leave to help you to another shive of the beef. Agnes, thou lither (wicked) jade, whither hast set the mustard?”
Father Dan’s news was of a minute type. He was no intellectual philosopher, no profound conspirator; he was indeed slightly interested in the advancement of the Church, and much more deeply so in that of his own particular Order; but beyond this, his mind was one of those which dwell rather on the game season than the government of the country, and was likely to feel more pleasure in an enormous gooseberry, or a calf with two heads, than in the outbreak of a European war, or the discovery of an unknown continent. The great subject in his mind at the moment was starch. Somebody—Father Dan regretted that he was not able to name him—had discovered the means of manufacturing a precious liquid, which would impart various colours, and indescribable powers of standing alone, to any texture of linen, lawn, or lace.
“Good heart! what labour it shall save!” cried lazy Dorothy—who did assist in the more delicate parts of the household washing, but shirked as much of it as she could.
“Ay, and set you off, belike, Mistress Doll,” added the complimentary Friar. “As for us, poor followers of Saint Francis, no linen alloweth us our Rule, so that little of the new matter is like to come our way. They of Saint Dominic shall cheapen well the same (buy plenty of it), I reckon,” he added, with a contemptuous curl of his lip, intended for the rival Order.
“But lo’ you, there is another wonder abroad, as I do hear tell,” remarked Mistress Winter, “and ’tis certain matter the which, being taken—Agnes, thou dolt! what hast done wi’ the salad?—being taken hendily (gently, delicately) off the top of ale when ’tis a-making, shall raise bread all-to (almost) as well as sour dough. I know not what folk call it.—Thou idle, gaping dizzard (fool)! and I have to ask thee yet again what is come of aught, it shall be with mine hand about thine ears! Find a spoon this minute!”
“Ha!” said Father Dan, helping himself to sack (Note 3), which had been brought out specially to do him honour. “Yeast is it I have heard the same called. ’Tis said the bread is better tasted therewith, rather than sour dough.”
“Pray you, good Father, to eat of this salad,” entreated his hostess. “I had it of one of my Lord of Ely his gardeners; and there is therein the new endive, and the Italian parsley, that be no common matter.”
That the Cordelier was by no means indifferent to the good things of this life might be seen in his face, as he drew the wooden salad bowl a little nearer.
“Have you beheld the strange bird that Mistress Flint hath had sent to her over seas?” inquired he. “I do hear that great lords and ladies have kept such like these fifty years or so; but never saw I one thereof aforetime. ’Tis bright yellow of plumage, and singeth all one as a lark: they do call his name canary.”
“Nay, forsooth, I never see aught that should do me a pleasure!” said Mistress Winter crustily. “Gossip Flint might have told me so much.—Take that, thou lither hussy! I’ll learn thee to let fall the knives!”
And on the ear of the unfortunate Agnes, as she was stooping to recover the dropped knife, came Mistress Winter’s hand, with sufficient heaviness to make her grow white and totter ere she could recover her balance.
Father Dan took no notice. He could not have afforded to quarrel with Mistress Winter, especially now when priests of the old style were at a discount; and in his eyes such creatures as Agnes were made to be beaten and abused. He merely saw in his hostess a notable housewife, and in Agnes a kind of animated machine, with just soul enough to be kept to the duty of confession, and require a careless absolution, three times in the year. Such people had no business, in Father Dan’s eyes, to have thoughts or feelings of any sort. They were sent into the world to mop and cook and serve their betters. Of course, when the animated machines did take to thinking for themselves, and to showing that they had done so, the Cordelier regarded it as most awkward and inconvenient—a piece of insubordinate presumption that must be stamped out at once, and not suffered to infect others.
After further conversation in the same style, being unable to go on eating and drinking for ever, Father Dan rose to depart. It was not confession-time, and on all other occasions Father Dan’s pastoral visits came very much under the head of revelling. There was not a syllable of religious conversation; that was considered peculiar to the confessional.
Mistress Winter and Dorothy, after a little needlework and some more scolding of Agnes, tramped upstairs to bed; and Joan, coming in half an hour later, excessively cross after her day’s pleasuring, followed the example. Having put away the supper things, and laid every thing in readiness for the morrow’s work. Agnes stood for a moment before she too lay down on her hard pallet in the one chamber above that served all four as bedroom. Through the uncurtained window high up in the room the June stars looked down upon her. She had no notion of prayer, except telling beads to Latin Paters and Aves; but the instinct of the awakened spirit rose in something like it.
“God, Thou lovest me!” she said in her heart. He was there, somewhere beyond those stars. He would know what she was thinking. “I know but little of Thee; I desire to know more. Thou, who lovest me, tell some one to teach me!”
It would have astonished her to be told that such unuttered longings for the knowledge of God could be of the nature of prayer. Brought up in intense formalism, it never occurred to her that it was possible to pray without an image, a crucifix, or a pair of beads. She crept to her poor straw pallet, and lay down. But the latest thought in her heart, ere she dropped asleep, was, “God loves me; God will take care of me, and teach me.” She would have been startled to hear that this was faith. Faith, to her, meant relying on the priest, and obeying the Church. But was there no whisper—unheard even by herself—
“O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt?”
Note 1. This, I am sorry to say, was a lady without a head. It probably indicated the residence of an old bachelor.
Note 2. The barb was a plaiting of white linen, which was fastened at the chin, and entirely covered the neck.
Note 3. Sack appears to have been a general name for white wine, especially the sweeter kinds.