Chapter Twelve.
Trying on the Armour.
“Oh, thy father ’ll do right well!” said Rose encouragingly. “I dare be bound he thought it should be a pleasant change for thee.”
“Ay, I dare say Father thought of us and what we should like,” said Cissy. “He nodded to Mistress Wade, and smiled on me, as he went forth; so of course I had to ’bide. But then, you see, I’m always thinking of Father.”
“I see,” said Rose, laughing; “it’s not, How shall I do without Father? but, How can Father do without me?”
“That’s it,” replied Cissy, nodding her capable little head. “He’ll do without Will and Baby—not but he’ll miss them, you know; but they don’t do nothing for him like me.”
This was said in Cissy’s most demure manner, and Rose was exceedingly amused.
“And, prithee, what dost thou for him?” said she.
“I do everything,” said Cissy, with an astonished look. “I light the fire, and dress the meat, (Note 1) and sweep the floor. Only I can’t do all the washing yet; Neighbour Ursula has to help me with that. But about Father—please, when I’ve said the Paternoster (the Lord’s Prayer), and the Belief, and the Commandments, might I ask, think you, for somebody to go in and do things for Father? I know he’ll miss me very ill.”
“Thou dear little-soul!” cried Rose.
But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to be the graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in that quiet, sweet way which she usually did.
“Little Cissy,” she said, “is not God thy Father, and his likewise? And thinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, or no?”
“Father likes us to be happy,” said Cissy simply.
“And ‘your Father knoweth,’” softly replied Elizabeth, “‘that ye have need of all these things.’”
“Oh, then, He’ll send in Ursula, or somebody,” responded Cissy, in a contented tone. “It’ll be all right if I ask Him to see to it.”
And Cissy “asked Him to see to it,” and then lay down peacefully, her tranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the children were asleep in a few minutes.
“Now, Bessy, we can have our talk.”
So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of the wind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasant for November, and the girls sat down together for a chat.
“How go matters with you at Master Clere’s, Bessy?”
“Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would Mistress Amy were a bit steadier than she is.”
“She’s a gadabout, isn’t she?”
“Nay, I’ve said all I need, and maybe more than I should.”
“Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?”
“Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net’s drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even you and I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at the end of one way.”
“Ay, I’m afeard so,” said Rose gravely. “Bessy, think you that you can stand firm?”
“Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if He hold me not.”
“Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy.”
“Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need it rather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, what matter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The waters beat upon the rock, not on thee.”
“But one sees them coming, Bess.”
“Well, what if thou dost? They’ll not touch thee.”
“Eh, Bess, the fire ’ll touch us, be sure!”
“It’ll touch our flesh—the outward case of us—that which can drop off and turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and Elizabeth Foulkes.”
“Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage.”
“Why, Rose, art feared of death?”
“Not of what comes after, thank God! But I’m feared of pain, Bessy, and of dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it.”
“Best not look forward. Maybe ’tis more shocking to think of than to feel. That’s the way with many things.”
“O Bessy! I can’t look on it calm, like that. It isn’t nature.”
“Nay, dear heart, ’tis grace, not nature.”
“And thou seest, in one way, ’tis worser for me than for thee. Thou art thyself alone; but there’s Father and Mother with me. How could I bear to see them suffer?”
“The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not give thee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I’ve no father—he’s in Heaven, long years ago. But I’ve a good mother at Stoke Nayland, and I’d sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We do but know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay the charges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times in God’s Word is it said, ‘Fear not?’ Would the Lord have so oft repeated it, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?”
“Ah!” said Rose, sighing, “and the ‘fearful’ be among such as are left without the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I draw back! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible to bear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the fire were felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I’m feared.”
“It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thine hold on God. ‘Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe.’ But that should not be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it.”
“I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a few years, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, and we are young. ‘All that a man hath will he give for his life.’”
“Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Him for whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss? Couldst thou bear to lose Him?—Him, who endured the bitter rood (Cross) rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart.”
“I do trust not, verily; yet—”
“What, not abed yet?” cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. “I came up but to see if you had all you lacked. Doll’s on her way up. I reckon she shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That’s well. But, deary me, what long faces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or what discourse have you, that you both look like judges?”
“Something like it, Hostess,” said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. “Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if we should hold fast.”
The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls to the other.
“Why, what’s a-coming?” said she.
“Nay, we know not what, but—”
“Dear heart, then I’d wait till I did! I’ll tell you what it is—I hate to have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast it aside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my good maids, don’t waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them till they’re wanted, and then they’ll be bright and ready for use. You’re not going to be burned to-night; you’re going to bed. And screwing up your courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I can tell you. You don’t know, and I don’t, that any one of us will be called to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon it He’ll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go to sleep.”
“I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home.”
“Good-night, then, Bessy, and don’t sing funeral dirges over your own coffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really got here? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids.”
And Mrs Wade bustled away.
Note 1. At this time they used the word meat in the sense of food of any kind—not butchers meat only.