For the Master's Sake: A Story of the Days of Queen Mary

by Emily Sarah Holt

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  For the Master's Sake, by Emily Sarah Holt.

  ________________________________________________________________________The story is set in the middle of the sixteenth century, in London, at atime when a Catholic Queen had succeeded to the throne, shortly to marryKing Philip of Spain. The Protestant Bishops were replaced withCatholic ones, in particular Bonner, Bishop of London, and these setabout murderously dealing with the least signs of Protestantism.

  All this is very confusing to the average person, and that is what thestory is about. Just fairly ordinary citizens of London, trying to workout what they are supposed to think and do.

  The author was a strong Protestant, and this makes her arguments all thestronger.

  ________________________________________________________________________FOR THE MASTER'S SAKE, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.

  PREFACE.

  This is not a story which requires much preface. The tale speaks foritself. But it is only right to inform the reader, that the persons whoplay their parts in it (apart from the historical details given) are allfictitious, excepting John Laurence and Agnes Stone.

  It rests, under God, with the men and women of England--and chiefly withthose of them who are young now--whether such events as are heredepicted shall recur in this nineteenth century. The battle of theReformation will soon have to be fought over again; and reformations (noless than revolutions) are "not made with rose-water."

  "Choose you this day whom ye will serve! If the Lord be God, followHim; but if Baal, then follow him."

  Are we ready to follow the Master,--if He lead to Calvary? Or are weready to run the awful risk of hearing Christ's "Depart!" rather thanface men's "Crucify"? Now, while it is called to-day, let us settle thequestion.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  GLAD TIDINGS.

  "For when the heart of man shuts out, Straightway the heart of God takes in."

  _James Russell Lowell_.

  "Good lack, Agnes! Why, Agnes Stone! Thou art right well be-calledStone; for there is no more wit nor no more quickness in thee than in apebble. Lack-a-daisy! but this were never good land sithence preachingcame therein,--idle foolery that it is!--good for nought but to set folkby the ears, and learn young maids for to gad about a-showing of theirfine raiment, and a-gossiping one with another, whilst all the work tobe wrought in the house falleth on their betters. Bodykins o' me! canstnot hear mass once i' th' week, and tell thy beads of the morrow withone hand whilst thou feedest the chicks wi' th' other? and that shall bereligion enough for any unlettered baggage like to thee. Here have Ibeen this hour past a-toiling and a-moiling like a Barbary slave, whilethou, my goodly young damosel, wert a-junketing it out o' door; and forwhy, forsooth? Marry, saith she, to hear a shaven crown preach at theCross! Good sooth, but when I tell lies, I tell liker ones than so!And but now come home, by my troth; and all the pans o' th' fire mightha' boiled o'er, whilst thou, for aught I know, wert a-dancing inFinsbury Fields with a parcel of idle jades like thyself. Beshrew theefor a lazy hilding [young person; a term applied to either sex] thatne'er earneth her bread by the half! Now then, hold thy tongue,Mistress, and get thee a-work, as a decent woman should. When I lack alick o' th' rough side thereof, I'll give thee due note!"

  Thus far Mistress Martha Winter poured out the vials of her wrath,standing with arms akimbo in the doorway, and addressing a slight,pale-faced, trembling girl of twenty years, who stood before her withbowed head, and made no attempt at self-defence. Indeed, she would havebeen clever who could have slipped in a sentence, or even have edged ina word, when Mistress Winter had pulled out of her wrath-bottle thatcork which was so seldom in it, as Agnes Stone knew to her cost. Norwas it the girl's habit to excuse or defend herself. Mistress Winter'sdeprecation of that proceeding was merely a flourish of rhetoric. SoAgnes, as usual, let the tempest blow over her, offering no attempt tostruggle, but only to stand and endure.

  Mistress Winter had made an excellent investment when, six years before,she adopted Agnes Stone, then an orphan, homeless and friendless; not byany means to be "treated as one of the family," but to be tyrannisedover as drudge and victim in general. The transaction furnished herwith two endless topics for gossip, on which she dilated with greatenjoyment--her own surpassing generosity, and the orphan's intenseunworthiness. The generosity was not costly; for the portion of foodbestowed on Agnes consisted of the scraps usually given to a dog, whileshe was clothed with such articles as were voted too shabby for thefamily wear. All work which was dirty or disagreeable, fell to Agnes asa matter of course. The widow's two daughters, Joan and Dorothy,respectively made her the vent for ill-temper, and the butt for sarcasm;and if, in some rare moment of munificence, either of them bestowed onher a specked apple, or a faded ribbon, the most abject gratitude wasexpected in return. She was practically a bond slave; for except byrunning away, there was no chance of freedom; and running away, in hercase, meant starvation.

  It had not always been thus. For ten years, more or less, before herterm of bondage to Martha Winter, Agnes had lived with an aunt, her onlysurviving relative. During this stage of her life, she had taken herfair share in the household work, had been fed and clothed--coarselyindeed, for her aunt was comparatively poor, but sufficiently--and shehad been allowed a reasonable number of holidays, and had not beenscolded, except when she deserved it. Though her aunt was anundemonstrative woman, who never gave her an endearing word or a caress,yet life with her was Elysium compared with present circumstances. Butbeyond even this, far back in early childhood, Agnes could dimlyrecollect another life again--a life which was love and sunshine--when amother's hand came between her and hardship, a mother's heart broodedwarmly over her, and a mother's lips called her by tender pet names, "asone whom his mother comforteth." That was long ago; so long, that tolook back upon it was almost like recalling some previous state ofexistence; but the very memory of it, dim though it was, made thepresent bondage all the harder.

  The offence which Agnes had committed on this occasion lay in havingexceeded the time allowed her by six minutes. Out of respect to theday, which was the festival of Corpus Christi, she had been graciouslygranted the rare treat of a whole hour to spend as she pleased. She hadchosen to spend it in hearing the latter half of a sermon preached atPaul's Cross. For, despite Mistress Winter's disdainful incredulity,the assertion was the simple truth; though that lady, being one of thenumerous persons who cannot imagine the possibility of anythingunpleasant to themselves being delightful to others, had been unable togive credence to the statement. As to the charge of dancing in FinsburyFields, poor Agnes had never in her life been guilty of such a piece ofdissipation. But she knew what to expect when she came in sight of theclock of Saint Paul's Cathedral, and became mournfully conscious thatshe would have to confess where she had been: for Mistress Winter hadpeculiar ideas about religion, and a particular horror of beingrighteous overmuch, which usually besets people who have no tendency inthat direction. Anything in the shape of a sermon was her specialabhorrence. Every Sunday morning Agnes was required to wait upon herliege lady to matins--that piece of piety lasting for the week: andthree times in the year, without the faintest consideration of herfeelings--always terribly outraged thereby--poor Agnes was draggedbefore the tribunal of the family confessor, and required to give a listof her sins since the last occasion. But anything beyond this, andsermons in particular, found no favour in the eyes of Mistress Winter.

  Generally speaking, Agnes shrank from the mere _thought_ of a lecturefrom this terrible dame. But this time, beyond the unpleasant sensationof
the moment, it produced no effect upon her. Her whole mind was fullof something else; something which she had never heard before, and couldnever forget again; something which made this hard, dreary, practicalworld seem entirely changed to her, as though suddenly bathed in a floodof golden light.

  God loved her. This was what Agnes had heard. God, who could doeverything, who had all the universe at His command, loved her, the poororphan, the unlettered drudge; penniless, despised, unattractive--Godloved her, just as she was. She drank in the glad tidings, as a parchedsoil drinks the rain.

  But this was not all. God wanted her to love Him. He sought for herlove, He cared for it. Amid all the hearts laid at His feet, He wouldmiss hers if she did not give it. The thought came upon her like a newrevelation from Heaven, direct to herself.

  The preacher at the Cross that day was a Black Friar--a tall spare man,whom some might call gaunt and ungainly; a man of quick intelligence andradiant eyes, of earnest gesture and burning words. No idle monasticreveller this, but a man of one object, of one idea, full of zeal anddetermination. His years were a little over forty, and his name wasJohn Laurence. But of himself Agnes thought very little; her whole soulwas concentrated upon the message which he had brought her from God.God loved her! Since her mother died, she had been unloved. God lovedher! And she had never asked Him for His love--she had never loved Him.

  It was just the blessed fact itself which filled the heart, and mind,and soul of Agnes Stone. As to how it had come about, she had verylittle idea. She had not heard enough of the Friar's sermon to win anyclear notion on that point; it was enough for her that it was so.

  It never occurred to her to doubt the fact, and demand vouchers. Itnever occurred to her to suppose that her own hard lot was anycontradiction to the theory. And it never occurred to her to imagine,as some do, that God's love led to no result; that He could love, andnot care; that He could love, and not be ready to save. Human love wasbetter than that. The mother who, alone of all creatures, so far as sheknew, had ever loved Agnes Stone, had shown her love by always caring,by always shielding from danger where it lay in her power. And surelythe Fountain could be no weaker than the stream; the love of a weak,fallen, fallible human creature must be less, not more, than the love ofHim who is, and who was, and who is to come; who is the same yesterday,and to-day, and for ever.

  "Hie thee down this minute, thou good-for-nothing hussy!" thundered thevoice of Mistress Winter up the garret stairs, as Agnes was hastilyresuming her working garb. "I'll warrant thou didst ne'er set the foulclothes a-soaking as I bade thee ere thou wentest forth to take thypleasure, and left me a-slaving hither! Get thee to thy work, baggage!Thou art worth but one half as many pence as there be shillings in agroat! [A fourpenny-piece.] I'll learn thee to gad hearing ofsermons!"

  "I set the clothes a-soaking ere I went forth, Mistress," said Agnes,coming quickly down stairs, and setting to work on the first thing shesaw to need doing.

  "Marry come up!" ejaculated Mistress Winter, looking at her. "Goodlack! hast met with a fortune dropped from the clouds, that thou art allof a grin o' mirth?"

  "I met with nought save that I went for," replied the girl quietly. Butit struck her that the comparison of "a fortune dropped from the clouds"was a singularly happy one.

  "Lack-a-daisy!" cried Dorothy. "The Friar must have told some merrytale belike. Prithee, give us the same, Agnes."

  "Methinks it were scantly so merry for you, Mistress Doll," answeredAgnes rather keenly. The stranger must not intermeddle with her joy.She held her new treasure with a tight, jealous grasp. Not yet had shelearned that the living water flows the fuller for every streamlet thatit fills; that the true riches are heaped the higher, the more lavish isthe hand that transmits them.

  "Hold thy silly tongue!" cried Mistress Winter, turning sharply roundupon her daughter. "It were jolly work to fall of idle tale-telling,when all the work in the house gapeth for to be done!--Thou weary,dreary jade! what art thou after now? (Agnes was hastily mending a rentin the curtain.) To fall to dainty stitchery, like a gentlewoman born,when every one of the trenchers lacketh scraping, and not the touch of amop have the walls felt this morrow! Who dost look to, to slave forthee, prithee, my delicate-fingered damsel? Thou shouldst like well, Ireckon, to have a serving-maid o' thy heels, for to 'tend to all matterthat was not sweet enough for thy high degree! _I_ go not about tosweep up the dirt off thy shoes, and so I tell thee plainly!"

  Certainly there was not often any want of perspicuity in MistressWinter's admonitions, though there might occasionally be a little lackof elegance and gentleness. But plainly told or not, Agnes remainedsilent, scraped the wooden trenchers, a process which answered to thewashing of earthenware, and duly mopped the walls, and to the best ofher power fulfilled the hard pleasure of her superior.

  And here let us leave her for a moment, while we take a glance at theouter world, to discover where we are in the stream of time, and whatsort of an England it is into which we have entered.

  The day, the festival of Corpus Christi, is the first of June, 1553.King Edward the Sixth is on the throne--a white-faced, grave, reservedboy of fifteen years, whose life is to close about five weeksthereafter. But beside the throne, and on it in all but name--his handfirmly grasping the reins of power, his voice the living law of theState--stands John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland; a man whosesteel-blue eyes are as cold as his heart, and whose one aim in everyaction of his life is the welfare and aggrandisement of John Dudley. Heprofesses himself a Lutheran: at heart, if he care at all for religionof any kind, he is a Papist. But it will not be of service to JohnDudley at the present moment to confess that little fact to the world.Grouped around these two are men of all types--Cranmer, Archbishop ofCanterbury, true Nature's gentleman, leal-hearted Gospeller, delicate inmind, clear in intellect, only not able, having done all, to stand;Ridley, Bishop of London, whose firm, intelligent, clear-cut featuresare an index to his character--perhaps a shade too severe, yet as severeto himself as any other; Hugh Latimer, blunt, warm-hearted old man, whocalls a spade a spade in the most uncompromising manner, and spares notvice, though it flaunt its satin robes in royal halls; William Herbert,Earl of Pembroke, the mean-spirited time-server who would cry long lifeto a dozen rival monarchs in as many minutes, so long as he thought itwould advance his own interests; Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, who spendshis life in a fog of uncertainty, wherein the most misty object is hisown mind; William Paulet, Marquis of Winchester, who always remembershis motto, "I bend, but break not;" Richard Lord Rich, thesensual-faced, comfortable-looking, stony-hearted man who pulled off hisgown the better to rack Anne Askew, of old time; and, behind them all,one of whom they all think but little--a young man of short stature,with good forehead, and small, wizened features--Mr Secretary Cecil,some day to be known as the great Earl of Burleigh, who holds in hisclever hands, as he sits in the background with his silent face, thestrings that move most of these puppets, and pulls them without thepuppets knowing it, until, on the accession of Mary, the Tower gateswill be opened, and Stephen Gardiner will walk forth, to take the reinsinto his hands, and to steep England in blood.

  Of public events, there have been few since the general confiscation ofchurch plate in the preceding month.

  The Londoners, of whom our friends at Mistress Winter's form a part, aredivided in opinion concerning this step; but neither party has been toomuch distressed to observe the usual dance round the Strand maypole, onthe site of which Saint Mary-le-Strand will presently be built. Atpresent, and for those five weeks yet to come, the march of events isdull and sleepy. It will be sufficiently lively and startling to pleasethe most sensational, before many days of July have run out.

  The Bible is now open in every parish church, chained to a desk, so thatany one who pleases may read. The entire service is conducted inEnglish. The roods and images have been pulled down; candles, ashes,and palms are laid aside; "the wolves are kept close" in Tower and Fleetand Marshalsea; masses, public and pr
ivate, are contraband articles; themarriage of priests is freely allowed; the altar has been replaced bythe table. It is still illegal to eat flesh in Lent; but this is ratherwith a view to encourage the fish trade than with any religious object.

  To turn to minor matters, such as costume and customs, we findGovernment does not disdain to occupy itself in the regulation of theformer, by making stringent sumptuary laws, and effectually securingtheir observance by heavy fines. The gentlemen dress in the Blue-Coatstyle, occasionally varying it by a short tunic-like coat instead of thelong gown, and surmounting it by a low flat cap, which the noblesornament by an ostrich feather. The ladies array themselves in longdresses, full of plaits, and often stiff as crinoline--plain for thecommonalty, but heavily laden with embroidery, and deeply edged withfur, in the case of the aristocracy. Both sexes, if aspiring tofashion, puff and slash their attire in all directions. The ruff,shortly to become so fashionable, is only just creeping into notice, andas yet contents itself with very modest dimensions.

  Needles are precious articles, of which she is a rich woman whopossesses more than two or three. Glass bottles are unknown, and theirplace is supplied by those of leather, wood, or stone. Wooden bowls andtrenchers for the poor, gold and silver plate for the rich, make up forthe want of china. The fuel is chiefly wood, coal being consideredunhealthy. Every now and then Government takes alarm at the prodigioussize to which the metropolis is growing, and an Act is passed torestrain further building within a given distance from the City walls.Country gentlemen receive peremptory orders to reside on their estates,and not to visit London except by licence; for the authorities areafraid lest the influx of visitors should cause famine and pestilence.There is no drainage; for every householder pours his slops into thestreet, with a warning shout, that the passengers below may run out ofthe way. There are few watches, and fewer carriages; no cabs, nopolice, no post-office; no potatoes, tea, coffee, newspapers, brownpaper, copper coinage, streetlamps, shawls, muslin or cotton goods. Butthere is at times the dreaded plague, which decimates wherever it comes;the terrible frequency of capital punishment for comparatively trivialoffences; the pleasant probability of meeting with a few highwaymen inevery country journey; the paucity of roads, and the extreme roughnessof such as do exist; a lamentable lack of education, even in the higherclasses, hardly atoned for by the exceptional learning of one here andthere; and (though the list might be greatly enlarged) last, not least,the constant presence of vermin of the most objectionable sort, fromwhich neither palace nor cottage is exempt. This, then, was the Englandof 1553.