The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ to Giles that he must begin his duties at table as an apprentice, under the tuition of the senior, a tall young fellow of nineteen, by name Edmund Burgess.  He looked greatly injured and discomfited, above all when he saw his two travelling companions seated at the table—though far lower than the night before; nor would he stir from where he was standing against the wall to do the slightest service, although Edmund admonished him sharply that unless he bestirred himself it would be the worse for him.

      When the meal was over, and grace had been said, the boards were removed from their trestles, and the elders drew round the small table in the window with a flagon of sack and a plate of wastel bread in their midst to continue their discussion of weighty Town Council matters.  Every one was free to make holiday, and Edmund Burgess good-naturedly invited the strangers to come to Mile End, where there was to be shooting at the butts, and a match at singlestick was to come off between Kit Smallbones and another giant, who was regarded as the champion of the brewer’s craft.

      Stephen was nothing loth, especially if he might take his own crossbow; but Ambrose never had much turn for these pastimes and was in no mood for them.  The familiar associations of the mass had brought the grief of orphanhood, homelessness, and uncertainty upon him with the more force.  His spirit yearned after his father, and his heart was sick for his forest home.  Moreover, there was the duty incumbent on a good son of saying his prayers for the repose of his father’s soul.  He hinted as much to Stephen, who, boy-like, answered, “Oh, we’ll see to that when we get into my Lord of York’s house.  Masses must be plenty there.  And I must see Smallbones floor the brewer.”

      Ambrose could trust his brother under the care of Edmund Burgess, and resolved on a double amount of repetitions of the appointed intercessions for the departed.

      He was watching the party of youths set off, all except Giles Headley, who sulkily refused the invitations, betook himself to a window and sat drumming on the glass, while Ambrose stood leaning on the dragon balustrade, with his eyes dreamily following the merry lads out at the gateway.

      “You are not for such gear, sir,” said a voice at his ear, and he saw the scathed face of Tibble Steelman beside him.

      “Never greatly so, Tibble,” answered Ambrose.  “And my heart is too heavy for it now.”

      “Ay, ay, sir.  So I thought when I saw you in St. Faith’s.  I have known what it was to lose a good father in my time.”

      Ambrose held out his hand.  It was the first really sympathetic word he had heard since he had left Nurse Joan.

      “’Tis the week’s mind of his burial,” he said, half choked with tears.  “Where shall I find a quiet church where I may say his De profundis in peace?”

      “Mayhap,” returned Tibble, “the chapel in the Pardon churchyard would serve your turn.  ’Tis not greatly resorted to when mass time is over, when there’s no funeral in hand, and I oft go there to read my book in quiet on a Sunday afternoon.  And then, if ’tis your will, I will take you to what to my mind is the best healing for a sore heart.”

      “Nurse Joan was wont to say the best for that was a sight of the true Cross, as she once beheld it at Holy Rood church at Southampton,” said Ambrose.

      “And so it is, lad, so it is,” said Tibble, with a strange light on his distorted features.

      So they went forth together, while Giles again hugged himself in his doleful conceit, marvelling how a youth of birth and nurture could walk the streets on a Sunday with a scarecrow such as that!

      The hour was still early, there was a whole summer afternoon before them; and Tibble, seeing how much his young companion was struck with the grand vista of church towers and spires, gave him their names as they stood, though coupling them with short dry comments on the way in which their priests too often perverted them.

      The Cheap was then still in great part an open space, where boys were playing, and a tumbler was attracting many spectators; while the ballad-singer of yesterday had again a large audience, who laughed loudly at every coarse jest broken upon mass-priests and friars.

      Ambrose was horrified at the stave that met his ears, and asked how such profanity could be allowed.  Tibble shrugged his shoulders, and cited the old saying, “The nearer the church”—adding, “Truth hath a voice, and will out.”

      “But surely this is not the truth?”

      “’Tis mighty like it, sir, though it might be spoken in a more seemly fashion.”

      “What’s this?” demanded Ambrose.  “’Tis a noble house.”

      “That’s the Bishop’s palace, sir—a man that hath much to answer for.”

      “Liveth he so ill a life then?”

      “Not so.  He is no scandalous liver, but he would fain stifle all the voices that call for better things.  Ay, you look back at yon ballad-monger!  Great folk despise the like of him, never guessing at the power there may be in such ribald stuff; while they would fain silence that which might turn men from their evil ways while yet there is time.”

      Tibble muttered this to himself, unheeded by Ambrose, and then presently crossing the church-yard, where a grave was being filled up, with numerous idle children around it, he conducted the youth into a curious little chapel, empty now, but with the Host enthroned above the altar, and the trestles on which the bier had rested still standing in the narrow nave.

      It was intensely still and cool, a fit place indeed for Ambrose’s filial devotions, while Tibble settled himself on the step, took out a little black book, and became absorbed.  Ambrose’s Latin scholarship enabled him to comprehend the language of the round of devotions he was rehearsing for the benefit of his father’s soul; but there was much repetition in them, and he had been so trained as to believe their correct recital was much more important than attention to their spirit, and thus, while his hands held his rosary, his eyes were fixed upon the walls where was depicted the Dance of Death.  In terrible repetition, the artist had aimed at depicting every rank or class in life as alike the prey of the grisly phantom.  Triple-crowned pope, scarlet-hatted cardinal, mitred prelate, priests, monks, and friars of every degree; emperors, kings, princes, nobles, knights, squires, yeomen, every sort of trade, soldiers of all kinds, beggars, even thieves and murderers, and, in like manner, ladies of every degree, from the queen and the abbess, down to the starving beggar, were each represented as grappled with, and carried off by the crowned skeleton.  There was no truckling to greatness.  The bishop and abbot writhed and struggled in the grasp of Death, while the miser clutched at his gold, and if there were some nuns, and some poor ploughmen who willingly clasped his bony fingers and obeyed his summons joyfully, there were countesses and prioresses who tried to beat him off, or implored him to wait.  The infant smiled in his arms, but the middle-aged fought against his scythe.

      The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose heart was still sore for his father.  After the sudden shock of such a loss, the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all alike, in the midst of their characteristic worldly employments, and the anguish and hopeless resistance of most of them, struck him to the heart.  He moved between each bead to a fresh group; staring at it with fixed gaze, while his lips moved in the unconscious hope of something consoling; till at last, hearing some uncontrollable sobs, Tibble Steelman rose and found him crouching rather than kneeling before the figure of an emaciated hermit, who was greeting the summons of the King of Terrors, with crucifix pressed to his breast, rapt countenance and outstretched arms, seeing only the Angel who hovered above.  After some minutes of bitter weeping, which choked his utterance, Ambrose, feeling a friendly hand on his shoulder, exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, “Oh, tell me, where may I go to become an СКАЧАТЬ