“christ is my readiness: who lives in him
can scarcely be unready.”
s.w. partridge.
a little way out of dorchester, surrounded by pollard willow trees, and on a narrow slip of ground which sloped down towards the river, stood a tiny mud hut, the inhabitants of which lived in great misery even for that time. one small chamber, with a smaller lean-to, constituted the whole dwelling. as to furniture, a modern eye, glancing round, would have said there was none. there was a bundle of rags, covering a heap of straw, in one corner; and in another was a broken bench, which with a little contrivance might have seated three persons of accommodating tempers. a hole in the roof let out the smoke—when it chose to go; and let in the rain and snow, which generally chose to come. on a niche in the wall stood a single pan, an axe, and a battered tin bowl, which comprised all the family riches. the axe was the tool which obtained bread—and very little of it; the pan did all the cooking; the bowl served for pail, jug, and drinking-vessel. an iron socket let into the wall held a piece of half-burnt pinewood, which was lamp and candle to the whole house. a handful of chips of wood, branches, and dried leaves, in one corner, represented the fuel; and a heap of snow underneath the hole showed that its influence was not potent.
on the heap of rags, five persons were lying, huddled close together for warmth’s sake—father, mother, and three children. how had they come into such a condition as this? ah, they had not always lived thus. only a few years ago, this man had been a prosperous silversmith at reading; his wife had been well dressed, his children well fed, his acquaintance large, and himself generally respected. how had it come about that they were now in this pitiable condition? had the man been idle and neglectful of his business? by no means; he had been diligent and hard-working. was he a drunken profligate? not at all; he was, for the age, unusually sober. had he committed some terrible crime which had brought him to ruin?
the only true answer seems scarcely possible: and yet the only answer possible is awfully true. the man was born a jew, and had become a christian. it was only natural that this should turn the jewish community against him; and all his acquaintances deserted him as a matter of course. but surely this very fact should have made the christian community more friendly and helpful! alas, the christian community, in bondage to the iron yoke of rome, hated him more as a jew than they welcomed him as a christian. rome has always been the hater and opponent of israel. the law of england at that time was actually this: that if a jew became converted to christianity, he forfeited everything he possessed to the crown, and had to begin the world again. this had been the lot of poor david ben mossi, and his wife ruth, whose conversion had taken place under gerhardt’s preaching. they were too honest to hide the change in their convictions, though to reveal it meant worldly ruin. they applied for baptism, and by so doing literally gave up all for christ—home, goods, gain, and occupation, not to speak of friends. david obtained work as a woodcutter, which brought them in just enough to keep life in them and rags about them; and he built with his own hands, aided by his faithful ruth, the mud hovel, wherein they found the only shelter that this cold world had for them. they had left reading, preferring solitude to averted looks and abusive tongues; and not a creature in dorchester came near them. alike as jews and as poor people, they were not worth cultivating.
david had retained his name, being one used also by christians; but ruth had been required to change hers. she had chosen the name of christian, as the most truthful and expressive that she could take.
“and i like to feel,” she said to david, “that i have something of our blessed lord in my name.”
“let us keep him in our hearts, wife,” was the answer: “then it will not much matter whether or no we have him any where else.”
it was bitterly cold in the hovel that snowy night. the children had cried themselves to sleep, and the parents felt as if they could easily have done the same. the lights were out at dorchester, and all nature had settled down to rest, when christian, who could not sleep for the cold, fancied she heard a voice outside the hut.
“david!” it seemed to say.
but the voice, if voice there were, was faint, and christian did not like to rouse the husband who had lost his suffering in sleep, for what might have been a mere fancy. the voice spoke again.
“ruth!” it said this time.
christian hesitated no longer.
“david! there is one without, calling on us. and it must be one we knew of old, for it calls me by my old name. pray thee, get up, and let the poor soul in; ’tis not a night for a dog to tarry without, never speak of a human creature, who must be in some trouble.”
david sat up and listened.
“i hear nothing, wife. i think thou must have been dreaming.”
“nay, i have been wide awake this hour gone. i am sure some one spoke.”
“i think it’s fancy, christian. however—”
“there’s no harm in making sure.”
“there’s the harm of letting in a lot of snow,” said david, not suiting the action to the word, for he had risen and was pulling on his hose. they required careful pulling, as they were so nearly in pieces that very little rough handling would have damaged them past repair. he was fastening the last clasp when the voice spoke again. it was nearer now, close at the door, and it was low and trembling, as if the applicant had hard work to speak at all.
“for the love of the crucified,” it said, “take in a christian child!”
david’s response was to open the door instantly.
something at once staggered in, and sank down on the bench:—something which looked at first sight more like a statue of white marble than a human being, so thick lay the snow over the wrappers which enfolded it. but when david had succeeded in unfolding the wrappers, and brushing off the snow, they discovered that their visitor was a woman, and that in her arms a child lay clasped, either dead or sleeping.
the moment that christian perceived so much as this, she hastily rose, throwing her poor mantle over her, and drew near to the stranger.
“poor soul, you’re heartily welcome,” she said, “whoever you are. we have little beside a roof to offer you, for we have scarcely food or raiment ourselves, nor money to buy either; but such as we have we will give you with all our hearts.”
“may the blessed bless you!” was the faint answer. “don’t you know me, ruth?”
“know you!” christian studied the face of her unexpected guest. “nay, i do almost believe—countess! is it you?”
“ay.”
“whatever has brought you to this? the richest jewess in reading! have you, too, become a christian like us?”
countess did not give a direct answer to that direct question.
“i am not poor now,” she said. “i can find you money for food for us all, if you will suffer me to stay here till the storm has abated, and the roads can be travelled again.”
“that won’t be this s’ennight,” interjected david.
“but how—what?” queried christian helplessly.
“this brought me,” said countess, touching the child. “i was under vow to save him. and—well, i could not do it otherwise.”
“is he alive?” asked christian pityingly.
“yes, only very fast asleep. lay him down with your little ones, and wrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in our journey.”
it was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. christian’s fingers touched it as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity—as a handling of something long unfelt, but well-known years ago.
“i have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread,” she said hesitatingly. “i am sorry for it, but it is really all i have.”
“then,” said countess with a smile, “play the widow of zarephath. give me thy ‘little cake,’ and when the light dawns, you shall have a new cruse and barrel in reward.”
“nay, we look for no reward,” answered christian heartily. “i am only grieved that it should be so little. you are spent with your journey.”
“i am most spent with the weight. i had to carry the child, and this,” she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchief round her waist. “it is the child’s property—all he has in the world. may the blessed one be praised that i have saved them both!”
“‘to them that have no might, he increaseth strength,’” quoted christian softly. “then—is not this your child?”
“yes—now.”
“but not—?”
“by gift, not by birth. and it is the holy one who has given him. now, good friends, let me not keep you from sleeping. perhaps i shall sleep myself. we will talk more in the morning.”
it was evident when the morning arrived, that the saved child had suffered less than she who had saved him. both needed care, nourishment, and rest; but countess wanted it far more than rudolph. a few days sufficed to restore him to his usual lively good health; but it was weeks ere she recovered the physical strain and mental suffering of that terrible night. but countess was one of those people who never either “give in” or “give up.” before any one but herself thought her half fit for it, she went out, not mentioning her destination, on an expedition which occupied the greater part of a day, and returned at night with a satisfied expression on her face.
“i have settled every thing,” she said. “and now i will tell you something. perhaps you were puzzled to know why i sought shelter with you, instead of going to some of my wealthy acquaintances in the town?”
“i was, very much,” answered christian hesitatingly.
“i supposed you had some reason for it,” said david.
“right. i had a reason—a strong one. that i shall not tell you at present. but i will tell you what perhaps you have already guessed—that i have been divorced from leo.”
“well, i fancied you must have had a quarrel with him, or something of that kind,” replied christian.
“oh, we are on excellent terms,” said countess in a rather sarcastic tone. “so excellent, that he even proposed himself to lend me an escort of armed retainers to convey me to london.”
“to london!” exclaimed christian, in some surprise. “i thought you would be going back to your father’s house at oxford.”
“oh, no!—that would not do at all. i did think of it for a moment; not now. london will be much better.”
“may i take the liberty to ask how you mean to live?” said david. “of course it is no business of mine, but—”
“go on,” said countess, when he hesitated.
“well, i don’t quite see what you can do, without either husband or father. perhaps your brother rubi is coming with you? you can’t live alone, surely.”
“i could, and get along very well, too; but i suppose one must not defy the world, foolish thing as it is. no, my brother rubi is not coming, and i don’t want him either. but i want you—david and ruth.”
david and ruth—as countess persisted in calling her—looked at each other in surprise and perplexity.
“you can take a week to think about it,” resumed countess, in her coolest manner, which was very cool indeed. “i shall not set forth until the sabbath is over. but i do not suppose you are so deeply in love with this hovel that you could not bring yourselves to leave it behind.”
“what do you mean us to do or be?”
“i intend to set up a silversmith’s and jeweller’s shop, and i mean david to be the silversmith, and to train rudolph to the business.”
this sounded practical. david’s heart leaped within him, at the thought of returning to his old status and occupation.
“i could do that,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes.
“i know you could,” replied countess.
“and i?” suggested christian wistfully.
“you may see to the house, and keep the children out of mischief. we shall want some cooking and cleaning, i suppose; and i hate it.”
“do you take no servants with you?” asked christian, in an astonished tone. for a rich lady like countess to travel without a full establishment, both of servants and furniture, was amazing to her.
“i take the child with me,” said countess.
christian wondered why the one should hinder the other; but she said no more.
“but—” david began, and stopped.
“i would rather hear all the objections before i set forth,” responded countess calmly.
“countess, you must clearly understand that we cannot deny our faith.”
“who asked you to do so?”
“nor can we hide it.”
“that is your own affair. do christians clean silver worse than jews?”
“they should not, if they are real christians and not mere pretenders.”
“shams—i hate shams. don’t be a sham anything. please yourself whether you are a jew or a christian, but for goodness’ sake don’t be a sham.”
“i hope i am not that,” said david. “if you are content with us, countess, my wife and i will be only too happy to go with you. the children—”
“oh, you don’t fancy leaving them behind? very well—they can play with rudolph, and pull the cat’s tail.”
“i shall whip them if they do,” said christian, referring not to rudolph, but to the cat.
“countess, do you mean to cut yourself off from all your friends?” asked david, with a mixed feeling of perplexity and pity. “i cannot understand why you should do so.”
“‘friends!’” she replied, with an indescribable intonation. “i fancy i shall take them all with me. do as i bid thee, david, and trouble not thyself to understand me.”
david felt silenced, and asked no more questions.
“rudolph must have an english name,” said countess abruptly. “let him be called ralph henceforth. that is the english version of his own name, and he will soon grow accustomed to it.”
“what is he to call you?” asked christian.
“what he pleases,” was the answer.
what it pleased rudolph to do was to copy the other children, and say “mother;” but he applied the term impartially alike to countess and to christian, till the latter took him aside, and suggested that it would be more convenient if he were to restrict the term to one of them.
“you see,” she said, “if you call us both by one name, we shall never know which of us you mean.”
“oh, it does not matter,” answered master rudolph with imperial unconcern. “either of you could button me up and tie my shoes. but if you like, i’ll call you christie.”
“i think it would be better if you did,” responded christian with praiseworthy gravity.
from the time that this matter was settled until the journey was fairly begun, countess showed an amount of impatience and uneasiness which it sometimes took all christian’s meekness to bear. she spent the whole day, while the light lasted, at the little lattice, silently studying a large square volume, which she carefully wrapped every evening in silk brocade, and then in a woollen handkerchief, placing it under the pillow on which she slept, and which had come from leo’s house for her use. beyond that one day’s expedition, she never quitted the hut till they left dorchester. of the hardships inseparable from her temporary position she did not once complain; all her impatience was connected with some inner uncertainty or apprehension which she did not choose to reveal. rudolph looked far more disdainfully than she on the rye-crusts and ragged garments of his companions.
at last, on the sunday morning—for nobody dreamed in those days of not travelling on sunday after mass—a small party of armed servants arrived at the hut, leading three palfreys and four baggage-mules, beside their own horses. three of the mules were already loaded. countess issued her orders, having evidently considered and settled every thing beforehand. christian was to ride one palfrey, countess the other, and david the third, with rudolph in front of him. his children were to be disposed of, in panniers, on the back of the unloaded mule, with a lad of about fifteen years, who was one of the escort, behind them.
“hast thou found us any convoy, josce?” asked countess of the man who took direction of the escort.
josce doffed his cap to answer his mistress, to whom he showed considerable deference.
“deuslesalt journeys to-day as far as wallingford,” he said, “and simeon the usurer, who has a strong guard, will go thence to-morrow to windsor.”
“good. set forth!” said countess.
so they set out from the mud hovel. the snow was still deep in many parts, but it had been trodden down in the well-worn tracks, such as was the high road from oxford to london. countess rode first of the party, ordering david to ride beside her; christian came next, by the mule which bore her children; the armed escort was behind. a mile away from the hut they joined the imposing retinue of deuslesalt, who was a wealthy silk-merchant, and in their company the journey to wallingford was accomplished. there countess and rudolph found shelter with deuslesalt in the house of a rich jew, while david, christian, and the children were received as travellers in a neighbouring hospital; for an hospital, in those days, was not necessarily a place where the sick were treated, but was more of the nature of a large almshouse, where all the inmates lived and fared in common.
on the second day they joined the usurer’s party, which was larger and stronger than that of the silk-merchant. at windsor they found an inn where they were all lodged; and the following day they entered london. it now appeared that countess had in some mysterious manner made preparation for her coming; for they rode straight to a small house at the corner of mark lane, which they found plainly but comfortably furnished to receive them. countess paid liberally and dismissed her escort, bade david unpack the goods she had brought, and dispose of the jewels in the strong safes built into the walls, desired christian to let her know if anything necessary for the house were not provided, and established herself comfortably at the window with her big book, and rudolph on a hassock at her feet.
“david!” she said, looking up, when the unpacking was about half done.
david touched his forelock in answer.
“i wish thou wouldst buy a dog and cat.”
“both?” demanded david, rather surprised. “they will fight.”
“oh, the cat is for the children,” said countess coolly; “i don’t want one. but let the dog be the biggest thou canst get.”
“i think i’d have the dog by himself,” said david. “the children will be quite as well pleased. and if you want a big one, he is pretty sure to be good-tempered.”
so david and rudolph went to buy a dog, and returned with an amiable shaggy monster quite as tall as the latter—white and tan, with a smile upon his lips, and a fine feathery tail, which little helwis fell at once to stroking. this eligible member of the family received the name of olaf, and was clearly made to understand that he must tolerate anything from the children, and nothing from a burglar.
things were settling down, and custom already beginning to come into the little shop, when one evening, as they sat round the fire, countess surprised david with a question—
“david, what did the priest to thee when thou wert baptised?”
david looked up in some astonishment.
“why, he baptised me,” said he simply.
“i want to know all he did,” said countess.
“don’t think i could tell you if i tried. he put some oil on me, and some spittle,—and water, of course,—and said ever so many prayers.”
“what did he say in his prayers?”
“eh, how can i tell you? they were all in latin.”
“the lord does not speak french or english, then?” demanded countess satirically.
“well!” said david, scratching his head, “when you put it that way—”
“i don’t see what other way to put it. but i thought they baptised with water?”
“oh, yes, the real baptism is with water.”
“then what is the good of the unreal baptism, with oil and other rubbish?”
“i cry you mercy, but you must needs ask the priest. i’m only an ignorant man.”
“dost thou think he knows?”
“the priest? oh, of course.”
“i should like to be as sure as thou art. can any body baptise?—or must it be done by a priest only?”
“oh, only—well—” david corrected himself. “of course the proper person is a priest. but in case of necessity, it can be done by a layman. a woman, even, may do it, if a child be in danger of death. but then, there is no exorcism nor anointing; only just the baptising with water.”
“i should have thought that was all there need be, at any time.”
with that remark countess dropped the subject. but a few days later she resumed the catechising, though this time she chose christian as her informant.
“what do christians mean by baptism?”
christian paused a moment. she had not hitherto reflected on the esoteric meaning of the ceremony to which she had been ordered to submit as the introductory rite of her new religion.
“i suppose,” she said slowly, “it must mean—confession.”
“confession of what?” inquired countess.
“of our faith in the lord jesus,” replied christian boldly.
to christian’s surprise, countess made no scornful answer. she sat in silence, looking from the window with eyes that saw neither the knight who was riding past, nor the fish-woman selling salt cod to the opposite neighbour.
“can faith not exist without confession?” she said in a low tone.
“would it not be poor faith?”
“why?” demanded countess, drawing her brows together, and in a tone that was almost fierce.
“i should think there would be no love in it. and faith which had no love in it would be a very mean, shabby, worthless sort of faith.”
“i don’t see that,” said countess stubbornly. “i believe that this book is lying on the window-seat. can’t i do that without loving either the window-seat or the book?”
“ah, yes, when you only believe things. but the faith which is shown in baptism is not believing a fact; it is trusting yourself, body and soul, with a person.”
“that makes a difference, i dare say,” replied countess, and relapsed into silence.
a week later she came into the shop, where david was busy polishing up the ornaments in stock.
“david,” she said abruptly, “what does a christian do when he is completely perplexed, and cannot tell how to act?”
“well, i don’t exactly know,” said david, looking perplexed himself. “never was like that, so far as i know. leastwise—no, i couldn’t just say i ever have been.”
“o happy man! some christians are, sometimes, i suppose?”
“i should think so. i don’t know.”
“what wouldst thou do, then, if thou wert in a slough from which thou sawest not the way out?”
“why, i think—i should pray the lord to show me the way out. i don’t see what else i could do.”
“and if no answer came?”
“then i should be a bit afraid it meant that i’d walked in myself, and hadn’t heeded his warnings. sometimes, i think, when folks do that, he leaves them to flounder awhile before he helps them out.”
“that won’t do this time.”
“well, if that’s not it, then maybe it would be because i wanted to get out on my own side, and wouldn’t see his hand held out on the other. the lord helps you out in his way, not yours: and that often means, up the steeper-looking bank of the two.”
countess was silent. david applied himself to bending the pin of a brooch, which he thought rather too straight.
“is it ever right to do wrong?” she said suddenly.
“why, no!—how could it be?” answered david, looking up.
“you put me deeper in the slough, every word you say. i will go no further to-day.”
and she turned and walked away.
“christie,” said david to his wife that evening, “thou and i must pray for our mistress.”
“why, what’s the matter with her?”
“i don’t know. she’s in some trouble; and i think it is not a little trouble. unless i mistake, it is trouble of a weary, wearing sort, that she goes round and round in, and can’t see the way out.”
“but what are we to ask for, if we know nothing?”
“dear heart! ask the lord to put it right. he knows the way out; he does not want us to tell him.”
a fortnight elapsed before any further conversation took place. at the end of that time ash wednesday came, and david and christian went to church as usual. the service was half over, when, to their unspeakable astonishment, they perceived countess standing at the western door, watching every item of the ceremonies, with an expression on her face which was half eager, half displeased, but wholly disturbed and wearied. she seemed desirous to avoid being seen, and slipped out the instant the mass was over.
“whatever brought her there?” asked christian.
david shook his head.
“i expect it was either the lord or the devil,” he said. “let us ask him more earnestly to bring her out of the slough on the right side.”
“did you see me in all hallows this morning?” asked countess abruptly, as they sat beside the fire that night. the children were in bed, and olaf lying on the hearth.
“ay, i did,” replied christian; and her tone added—“to my surprise.”
“what are those things for there?”
“what things?”
“a number of dolls, all painted and gilt.”
“do you mean the holy images?”
“i mean the images. i don’t believe in the holiness.”
“they are images of the blessed saints.”
“what are they for?” demanded countess, knitting her brows.
“the priest says they are to remind us, and are helps to prayer.”
“to whose prayers?” said countess disdainfully. “no woman in england prays more regularly than i; but i never wanted such rubbish as that to help me.”
“oh, they don’t help me,” said david. “i never pay any attention to them; i just pray straight up.”
“i don’t understand praying to god in the house of baal. ‘thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.’”
“but they say the church has loosed that command now. and of course we can’t set ourselves up above the church.”
“what on earth do you mean? art thou god, to kill and to make alive, that thou shouldst style the keeping of his command ‘setting one’s self above the church?’ the church shall never guide me, if she speak contrary to god.”
“but how can she, when god inspires her?”
“there is another question i want settled first. how can i believe that god inspires her, when i see that she contradicts his distinct commands?”
“i suppose the priest would say that was very wicked.”
“what do i care for that popinjay? how did you get over it? had you no sensation of horror, when you were required to bow down to those stocks and stones?”
“well, no,” said christian, speaking very slowly. “i believed what gerard had taught us, and—”
“when did gerhardt ever teach you that rubbish?”
“he never did,” answered david. “the priests taught us that. and i did find it main hard to swallow at first.”
“ah! i’m afraid i shall find it too hard to swallow at last. but there is nothing of all that in this book.”
“i know nought about books. but of course the church must know the truth,” responded david uneasily.
“this is the truth,” answered countess, laying her hand upon the book. “but if this be, that is not. david—ruth—i believe as you do in jesus christ of nazareth: but i believe in no gilded images nor priestly lies. i shall take my religion from his words, not from them. i should like to be baptised, if it mean to confess him before men; but if it only mean to swallow the priests’ fables, and to kneel before gods that cannot hear nor save, i will have none of it. as the lord liveth, before whom i stand, i will never bow down to the work of men’s hands!”
she had risen and stood before them, a grand figure, with hands clenched and eyes on fire. christian shrank as if alarmed. david spoke in a regretful tone.
“well! i thought that way myself for a while. but they said. i couldn’t be a christian if i did not go to church, and attend the holy mass. the church had the truth, and god had given it to her: so i thought i might be mistaken, and i gave in. i’ve wondered sometimes whether i did right.”
“if that be what baptism means—to put my soul into the hands of that thing they call the church, and let it mould me like wax—to defile myself with all the idols and all the follies that i see there—i will not be baptised. i will believe without it. and if he ask me at the day of doom why i did not obey his command given in galilee, i shall say, ‘lord, i could not do it without disobeying thy first command, given amid the thunders of sinai.’ if men drive me to do thus, it will not be my sin, but theirs.”
“well, i don’t know!” answered david, in evident perplexity. “i suppose you could be baptised, with nothing more—but i don’t know any priest that would do it.”
“would you do it?”
“oh, i daren’t!”
“david, your religion is very queer.”
“what’s the matter?” asked david in astonishment.
“the other day, when i told you i was in a great slough, you did not advise me to go and ask those gaudy images to help me out of it; you spoke of nobody but the lord. now that we come to talk about images, you flounder about as if you did not know what to say.”
“well, don’t you see, i know one o’ them two, but i’ve only been told the other.”
“oh yes, i see. you are not the first who has had one religion for sunshiny weather, and another for rainy days; only that with you—different from most people—you wear your best robe in the storm.”
david rubbed his face upon the sleeve of his jacket, as if he wished to rub some more discrimination into his brains.
“nay, i don’t know—i hope you’ve no call to say that.”
“i usually say what i think. but there’s no need to fret; you’ve time to mend.”
both the women noticed that for a few days after that, david was very silent and thoughtful. when the sunday came he excused himself from going to church, much to the surprise and perplexity of his wife. the day after he asks for a holiday, and did not return till late at night.
as they sat round the fire on the following evening, david said suddenly,—“i think i’ve found it out.”
“what?” asked his mistress.
“your puzzle—and my own too.”
“let me have the key, by all means, if you possess it.”
“well, i have been to see the hermit of holywell. they say he is the holiest man within reach of london, go what way you will. and he has read me a bit out of a book that seems to settle the matter. at least i thought so. maybe you mightn’t see it so easy.”
“it takes more than fair words to convince me. however, let me hear what it is. what was the book? i should like to know that first.”
“he said it was an epistle written by paul the apostle to somebody—i can’t just remember whom.”
“who was he?”
“why, he was one of the saints, wasn’t he?”
“i don’t know. there’s no mention of him in my book.”
david looked like a man stopped unexpectedly in rapid career. “you always want to know so much about every thing!” he said, rubbing his face on his sleeve, as he had a habit of doing when puzzled. “now i never thought to ask that.”
“but before i can act on a message from my superior, i must surely satisfy myself as to the credentials of the messenger. however, let us hear the message. perhaps that may tell us something. some things bear on their faces the evidence of what they are—still more of what they are not.”
“well, what he read was this: ‘if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the lord jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that god hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’ and ‘look you,’ saith he, ‘there isn’t a word here of any body else.’ ‘if thou shalt confess’ him—not the saints, nor the images, nor the church, nor the priest. ‘baptism,’ saith he, ‘is confessing him.’ then he turned over some leaves, and read a bit from another place, how our lord said, ‘come unto me, all ye—’”
countess’s eyes lighted up suddenly. “that’s in my book. ‘all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and i will refresh you.’”
“that’s it. and says he, ‘he does not say, “come to the church or the priest,” but “come to me.”’ ‘well,’ says i, ‘but how can you do one without the other?’ ‘you may come to the priest easy enough, and never come to christ,’ saith he, ‘so it’s like to be as easy to come to christ without the priest.’ ‘well, but,’ says i, ‘priests doesn’t say so.’ ‘no,’ says he; ‘they don’t’—quite short like. ‘but for all i can see in this book,’ says he, ‘he does.’”
“go on!” said countess eagerly, when david paused.
“well, then—i hope you’ll excuse me if i said more than i should—says i to him, ‘now look here, father: suppose you had somebody coming to you for advice, that had been a jew like me, and was ready to believe in our lord, but could not put up with images and such, would you turn him away because he could not believe enough, or would you baptise him?’ ‘i would baptise him,’ saith he. then he turns over the book again, and reads: ‘“believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved.” that is what the apostles said to one man,’ says he: ‘and if it was enough then, it is enough now.’ ‘but, father,’ says i, ‘that sounds rather as if you thought the church might go wrong, or had gone wrong, in putting all these things beside our lord.’ ‘my son,’ saith he, ‘what meanest thou by the church? the holy ghost cannot teach error. men in the church may go wrong, and are continually wandering into error. what said our lord to the rulers of the jews, who were the priests of his day? “ye do err, not knowing the scriptures.” this book is truth: when men leave this book,’ saith he, ‘they go astray.’ ‘but not holy church?’ said i. ‘ah,’ saith he, ‘the elect may stray from the fold; how much more they that are strangers there? the only safe place for any one of us,’ he says, ‘is to keep close to the side of the good shepherd.’”
“david, where dwells that hermit?”
“by the holy well, away on the stronde, west of lud gate. any body you meet on that road will tell you where to find him. his hut stands a bit back from the high way, on the north.”
“very good. i’ll find him.”
the next day, until nearly the hour of curfew, nothing was seen of countess. she took olaf with her as guard, and they returned at the last moment, just in time to enter the city before the gates were closed. david and christian had finished their work, shut up the shop, and put the children to bed, when olaf made his stately entrance, with his mistress behind him.
“thy old hermit,” she said, addressing david, “is the first decent christian i have found—the first that goes by his master’s words, and does not worry me with nonsense.”
she drew off her hood, and sat down in the chimney-corner.
“you found him then?” answered david. “had you much trouble?”
“i found him. never mind the trouble.”
“has he settled the puzzle for you, then?”
“i think i settled it for him.”
“i ask your pardon, but i don’t understand you.”
“i don’t suppose you do.”
“countess,” said christian, coming down the ladder, “i bought the herrings as you bade me; but there is no salt salmon in the market to-day.”
“to whom are you speaking?” inquired countess, with an expression of fun about the corners of her lips.
“you,” replied christian in surprise.
“then, perhaps you will have the goodness to call me by my christian name, which is sarah.”
“o countess! have you been baptised?”
“i have.”
“by the hermit?”
“by the hermit.”
“but how?”
“how? with water. what did you expect?”
“but—all at once, without any preparation?”
“what preparation was needed? i made my confession of christ, and he baptised me in his name. the preparation was only to draw the water.”
“what on earth did you do for sponsors?”
“had none.”
“did he let you?”
a little smothered laugh came from countess. “he had not much choice,” she said. “he did try it on. but i told him plainly, i was not going to give in to that nonsense: that if he chose to baptise me at once, i was there ready, and would answer any questions and make any confession that he chose. but if not—not. i was not coming again.”
“and he accepted it!” said david, with a dozen notes of exclamation in his voice.
“did i not tell you he was the most sensible christian i ever found? he said, ‘well!—after all, truly, any thing save the simple baptism with water was a man-made ordinance. the ethiopian eunuch had no sponsors’—i don’t know who he was, but i suppose the hermit did—‘and he probably made as true a christian for all that’ ‘in truth,’ said i, ‘the institution of sponsors seems good for little children—friends who promise to see that they shall be brought up good christians if their parents die early; but for a woman of my age, it is simply absurd, and i won’t have it. let me confess christ as my messiah and lord, and baptise me with water in his name, and i am sure he will be satisfied with it. and if any of the saints and angels are not satisfied, they can come down and say so, if they think it worth while.’ so—as he saw, i suppose, that i was not going to do it—he gave in.”
“i hope it’s all right,” said david, rather uneasily.
“david, i wish i could put a little sense into you. you are a good man, but you are a very foolish one. ‘all right!’ of course it is all right. it is man, and not god, who starts at trifles like a frightened horse, and makes men offenders for a word. the lord looketh on the heart.”
“ay, but moses (on whom be peace!) was particular enough about some details which look very trifling to us.”
“he was particular enough where they concerned the honour of god, or where they formed a part of some symbolism which the alteration would cause to be wrongly interpreted so as to teach untruth. but for all else, he let them go, and so did our lord. when aaron explained why he had not eaten the goat of the sin-offering, moses was content. nor did christ condemn david the king, but excused him, for eating the shewbread. i am sure moses would have baptised me this morning, without waiting for sponsors or lucca oil. this is a very silly world; i should have thought the church might have been a trifle wiser, and really it seems to have less common sense of the two. how could i have found sponsors, i should like to know? i know nobody but you and christian.”
“they told us, when we were baptised, that the church did not allow a husband and wife to be sponsors to the same person. so we could not both have stood for you. it would have had to be christian and rudolph, and some other woman.”
“rudolph! that baby! (note 1.) would they have let him stand?”
“yes—if you could not find any one else.”
“and promise to bring me up in the catholic faith? well, if that is not rich!—when i have got to bring him up! i will tell you what, david—if some benevolent saint would put a little common sense into the church, it would be a blessing to somebody. ‘the church!’ i am weary of that ceaseless parrot scream. the church stands in the way to jesus of nazareth, not as a door to go in, but as a wall to bar out. i wish we had lived in earlier days, before all that rubbish had had time to grow. now, mind you,” concluded countess, as she rose to go to bed, “david and christian, i don’t mean to be bothered about this. don’t talk to me, nor to rudolph, nor to any body else. i shall read the book, and teach him to do it; but i shall not pray to those gilded things; and he shall not. what gerhardt taught is enough for him and me. and remember, if too much be said, the king’s officers may come and take every thing away. i do not see that it is my duty to go and tell them. if they come, let them come, and god be my aid and provider! otherwise, we had better keep quiet.”
note 1. that little children were at times allowed to be sponsors in the middle ages, is proved by the instance of john earl of kent in 1330, whose brother and sister, the former probably under ten years of age, and the latter aged only eighteen months, stood sponsors for him. (prob. aet. johannis com. kant., 23 edward third, 76.)
