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"Uncle Thomas, did you ever see a Bible?"
The old man started and turned round with a look of surprise, somewhat as if his own thoughts had found an echo in the boy's words.
"A Bible, lad! And what set thee to thinking of a Bible?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly. I should so like to see one. There must be such fine tales in the Bible," replied Jack, feeling his way, as it were. "Tales of St. George and St. Patrick and such like."
The old man smiled and shook his head shrewdly. "I am not so sure of that, my son. I never saw or heard any such. I doubt whether St. George and St. Patrick are in the Bible at all, though they may be there for all that."
It was now Jack's turn to start. "Then you have seen a Bible!" he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking earnestly at the shepherd. And as Thomas did not answer, he repeated again, "Then you have really seen a Bible?"
"Ay, lad," replied the shepherd. "I have both seen a Bible, and held it in my hands, and read it too."
"But where? But how?" asked Jack.
"Raise yourself up and look about you," said the old man. "Do you see any one near?"
Jack started to his feet and gazed around him in every direction. "I see nobody," he said at last, "nobody but the falconer from the Hall, exercising his hawks in the waste half a mile away, and old Margery bringing water from the Lady-well. Nobody can come upon us here without being seen."
"Sit down here by me, then, and I will tell you the tale. I cannot think it will harm you. I had thought to carry the secret to my grave, since I have no son to whom I may leave it. But I have learned to love you as my own son, and all I have will be yours when I am gone. It will not be much; only the old cottage, and what little gold I have saved; but, if you have the cottage, you must have the secret of the cottage as well. So sit you down, and you will, and hear the old man's tale."
Jack obeyed, and prepared to listen with breathless attention. The old man once more glanced warily round him, and then began his narration.
"You asked me, dear boy, if I had ever seen a Bible. Yes, I have both seen and handled the Word of God in the vulgar tongue. It was not a printed book such as we have now; it was written by hand on parchment, and bound in leather with heavy iron clasps, like the enchanter's book in your legend of Merlin. But it was no enchanter's book. It was the real, true, living Word of God, done into English by good Master Wickliffe of Lutterworth."
"It happened first in this wise. I was a young boy of nine or ten years old, and sharp for my age as any lad in these parts. I had learned to read from my father, who was a substantial yeoman, and could both read and write. But there was little to read in those days, only a ballad now and then or some such folly, which my father did not greatly favor."
"About this time, I began to notice that though I was always sent to bed with the chickens, yet my father and mother and my elder brother, a boy of sixteen or thereabouts, sat up much later. I used to lie awake and listen after a while, and I could hear a low murmur of voices, as though some one were reading aloud. I dared not ask any questions, for I stood much in awe of my father and mother, more than is the fashion in these days," added the old man with a sigh.
"Well!" said Jack, fearful lest the shepherd should fall to moralizing on the degeneracy of the times, an exercise of mind as common then as now and quite as reasonable.
"Well," said the shepherd, "as I told you, I listened thus for several nights, now and then catching a word which roused my curiosity still more, till at last I could bear it no longer. One night (it was Easter-even of all the nights in the year), I rose softly from my bed, and putting on my clothes, I slipped carefully down the stairs, till I could peep through the door at the bottom. There sat my father and mother, surrounded by three or four neighbors. You have seen the little footstool which always stands by my great chair in the chimney corner?"
"Yes," replied Jack, wondering what the stool could have to do with the matter.
"My father had this stool turned upside down on his lap, and upon it lay a great book from which he was reading in low, reverent tones, the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. I noticed in one glance, as children do notice everything, that the door was barred and the window carefully darkened so that no gleam of light should appear without, and also that my brother seemed to be on the watch. I stood still in my hiding-place and listened to that wonderful tale, not losing one word, till my father came to that place where he that was dead came forth bound hand and foot with grave-clothes. Then I could no longer bear the excitement, and I cried out aloud. In another moment, my mother had drawn me out of my hiding-place, and I stood in the midst of the company."
"I was terribly frightened. I thought when I saw my father's grave face that I had done something dreadful; and I fell down on my knees at his feet and prayed him to pardon me. I shall never forget his look and tone as he raised me and placed me between his knees. It was seventy years ago and more, yet I seem to see and hear him now as he kissed me—a rare thing for him to do—and said to me—"
"'My dear son, I am not angry with you. You have unwittingly intruded into a great and dangerous secret, a secret which concerns men's lives, and you must now show that you are able to keep it.'"
"I was none the less frightened for this address. My head was as full of tales of enchantment as ever yours was, and I could think of nothing but that my father and his friends were engaged in some unlawful art, and I glanced fearfully around me, expecting to see I knew not what frightful appearance. My father seemed to perceive that I was frightened, for he passed his arm round me and bade me not be afraid."
"'This book,' said he, laying his hand on the volume, 'this book, my son, is no other than the Word of God, done into English by that good priest, Master Wickliffe of Lutterworth, in the days of my father, thy grandfather, for whom thou art named. My father held this book as his most precious treasure, albeit he suffered both persecution and loss of goods for its sake; and when he died, he bequeathed it to me. If I were known to possess it, the book would be taken and destroyed, and not only thy father and mother, but these neighbors, might be burned at the stake. So you see, my child, into what a perilous secret you have intruded yourself.'"
"'But, father,' I ventured to ask timidly, 'are you sure that this is really and truly the Word of God?'"
"'Yes, my son,' he replied, 'I am well assured of it.'"
"'How then?' I asked. 'I thought that only heretics were burned, and how should a man be accounted a heretic for reading the Word, of God?'"
"My father and his friends smiled, and one of them said, 'Truly, my dear lad, that is a question which has been asked by older heads than yours.'"
"'Tis indeed a grave question, and I will strive to explain the matter to you another day. Meantime, my son, attend to me. As I tell you, the lives of your father and mother depend upon your discretion. If you speak of what you have found out to any one, you may expect to see us burned alive at the stake. Do you know what that means?'"
"I did know, only too well. Only a year before, I had played the truant to see some great sight, I knew not what, which had drawn together a crowd of people over there on the border of the waste. I had slipped between them till I reached the front rank, and I had never forgotten the sight which met my eyes—the body of an aged woman consuming in the flames. The sight and the smell had haunted my dreams at times ever since."
"'I never will betray you, dear father; never,' I cried passionately. 'I will never breathe one word, if only you will let me hear God's Word.'"
"From that time, I was a regular attendant at the evening readings, nor would I have missed them for any reward which could have been promised me. My mother could repeat whole chapters of the Scripture, especially of the New Testament, and she caused me to learn them also; for she said—"
"'You may not always have the book. It may be destroyed, or you may have to leave home, but what is stored in your memory no man can take from you.'"
"Accordingly, she caused me to learn by heart large part of the sayings of our Lord, with the account of his miracles."
"Did our Lord work miracles like the holy image at Glastonbury, or like those we read of in the lives of the saints?" asked Jack. "Was he seen gliding along over the treetops, or kneeling a little way up in the air at his devotions, like St. Catherine; or did he live a whole week on five orange seeds, like St. Rose; or—"
"Nay, our Lord's miracles were very different from most of those related in the lives of the saints," replied the shepherd. "They were mostly performed to heal the sick, or to help those who were in some strait for want of food, or the like. But at last, the time came when I must go forth to seek my own living. My father was not rich, and had suffered, like almost every one else, by the long civil wars. So I was sent to keep sheep on the Stonehill farm, across the waste yonder, and quite on the other side of the parish. I did not come home for a year, and then it was upon a mournful occasion. My father had been arrested and thrown into jail for a heretic, and though my good master, Sir John Brydges, interceded for him, he could not save him. My brother was obliged to flee for his life, and what became of him I cannot say. I never saw or heard of him again."
"I was permitted to see my father and receive his blessing, but only in presence of witnesses. His enemies would gladly have pushed matters to extremity, and have turned my mother and me out into the world to wander as beggars, if indeed they had left us that resource, but again Sir John stood our friend. May God bless him for it, and give him his portion among the saints! He was a man of weight and power, and he used his power well. The cottage where my father and grandfather lived was assured to my mother for her life, and I was taken into the good knight's service, he thinking, I suppose, that I should be safer attending upon him."
"I followed his fortunes faithfully for more than forty years, and I supported his head when he died. His son, the present knight, has ever been kind to me. He would have given me a home in his own hall had I desired it, but I was ever a lover of solitude, and found more pleasure in following the sheep on the hillside than in sitting among the servants in the great hall. Besides, I have always cherished a secret hope that I might find my father's great book hidden somewhere about the old cottage."
"Then it was not destroyed?" said Jack.
"Not that I know of. It was never found. My father, fearing for its safety, had bestowed it in some new hiding-place the day that he was arrested, and he had no time to tell my mother where he had placed it."
"Then it may be in being now," said Jack. "Oh, uncle, if we could but find it!"
"Would to God I might!" replied the old man, looking upward and clasping his hands. "I would depart in peace, could I but once more hold the Word of God in my hands. And, son Jack—for dear you are to me as my own son—I know not if it may not be a fond fancy, but by times something tells me that I shall see it again before I die."
SEED BY THE WAYSIDE.
From this day forward Jack had a new interest and a new object in life—to find the old Bible. Day by day, he explored every possible hiding-place, turning things upside down in all directions, and rummaging, old Margery declared, worse than a rat or than the goblin which haunted her father's barn. Over and over again, did he take the false bottom out of the little footstool, where the book had once been concealed, and gaze into the empty space, as if he thought he might somehow have overlooked the cumbrous volume, and might perhaps find it by more careful search.
The book haunted his very slumbers. Often did he dream of finding it, and once the dream was so vivid, that he went before sunrise to the little dell where he had seemed to discover it under a flat stone. But, alas! There was no such stone to be seen, and he came sadly back a little ashamed of his own credulity, and having gained nothing but a prodigious appetite for his breakfast.
Jack had but one consolation, and that indeed was a great one. He made the shepherd repeat to him all that he could remember of Holy Scripture. The old man's memory, though somewhat impaired as to late occurrences, was as vivid as ever for all those things which had happened in his youth, and he was able to repeat whole chapters of Wickliffe's version of the Bible, which, rude and imperfect as it was, had been as a savor of life unto life to many hungry souls.
Jack was astonished at the things he heard, and still more at those he did not hear; and not a little grieved to find that some of his favorite legends of saints had no place in the Scripture at all.
"Tell me of St. Anne, our Lady's mother," he said one day.
"There is only one place about St. Anne," replied the shepherd, and he repeated the story of our Lord's presentation in the temple.
"Is that all?" asked Jack in a disappointed one. "I do not see that it says a word about her being our Lady's mother."
"Nothing at all," answered the shepherd.
"Perhaps the story is in some other place," Jack suggested.
But the old man shook his head.
"I have read the New Testament all through," he said. "There is not a word said about our Lady's mother, and very little about our Lady herself."
Jack looked startled. "But do you think it could have been the true and right Gospel, Uncle Thomas?" he said. "The priests tell us more about our Lady than about our Lord himself; and I am sure that Anne says ten prayers to her for one that she says to our Lord."
The old man did not answer immediately, and Jack repeated his question, "Do you think it could have been the true Gospel after all?"
"I have been thinking, Jack—" said the shepherd, after a little silence, and without answering or seeming to hear the question, "I have been thinking that I have perhaps done wrong in this matter."
"How?" asked Jack.
"Because the knowledge I have given you, may bring you into danger. Because the questions I have raised in your young mind will not be lightly laid again. And how shall I answer it to your father, if anything happen to you?"
"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, after a little silence, "your father did not fear to expose you to the danger."
"No, because my father was fully persuaded in his own mind. He esteemed the true knowledge of God and his truth worth every danger which could befall. I well remember his words to me, whispered in my ear as he gave me his last embrace, 'My son, remember the words of our Lord: Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but fear him who is able to cast body and soul into hell!'"
"I cannot but think he was right," said Jack, with decision, after a little pause. "I cannot but think the truth must be worth any danger that can come upon us for its sake. Nor can I yet understand why reading God's Word should make men heretics. The priest at the convent says it is because ignorant men know not how to use it, and that it is like a poisonous drug which can be safely touched only by a physician."
"Ay, I have heard that story often enough," said the old man; "and how that the giving the Scripture to the common folk is a casting of holy things to the dogs and pearls before swine. A pretty saying indeed, to call those for whom Christ died, dogs and swine!"
"Do they then christen little whelps and pigs?" asked Jack, shrewdly. "Methinks that were as great an abuse of holy things as reading the Bible to the vulgar people."
The shepherd smiled. "Thou art a shrewd lad. Take care that thou make thy wit keep thy head instead of losing it."
"I will take care," replied Jack, with all the confidence of fifteen. "But, uncle, according to all that you tell me, the holy apostles were but common men like ourselves. St. Peter and St. John were fishermen and worked for their bread; and yet our Lord's sayings were spoken to them."
"Yes, I have often thought of that," replied Thomas Sprat. "Those they called the Pharisees were learned men, it would seem, and yet our Lord did not call His apostles from among them. He even told them that the publicans and the harlots should go into the kingdom before them. Strange how the words come back to me more and more!" continued the old man, in a musing tone. "I would not have thought I could repeat so many: 'But the Holy Ghost shall teach you, and shall bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you.' I well remember how my mother repeated to me those words when I first went from home to the Stonehill farm. I was deploring my fate in being obliged to go away where I could no longer hear and read the Word of God, and saying that I feared that I should forget all that I had learned."
"'My son,' said she, 'remember that you carry with you a teacher who is able to make you wise, even without the words of this book, and without whom even the book itself can teach you nothing. I mean the Holy Spirit of God. Our Lord promised this Spirit of truth to His disciples, and said:'"
"'"He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you."'"
"'Ask constantly for this Spirit, my son, and it shall be given you.'"
"And so verily have I found it. I have been exposed to many dangers and temptations in my long and wandering life, and, woe is me! I have sinned often and grievously; but in times of the greatest trial, there have been brought to my remembrance words of my father's book which have kept me back from sinning, or encouraged me to return when I had wandered away."
"And do you think," asked Jack, in a tone of awe, "that it was the Holy Ghost which brought these words to your mind?"
"I cannot but think so, my son."
"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "is it not—"
"I believe I know what you would say, my son," said the old man, as Jack paused. "You would ask if it is not presumption to suppose that God Himself teaches and governs us. I cannot think so. It would be so, doubtless, if He had not given us warrant for it in His Word; but so long as He says, He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children, I think we are bound to believe Him."
"'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"
"Jack," added the old man with energy, "I thank God that I have been led to open my heart to you, for the repeating of the Scriptures to you has so refreshed my memory of them, as I could not have believed possible."
"And I am thankful too," said Jack. He sat musing for some minutes, and then added, "Yes, I am thankful, and shall always be thankful, even though the words of Scripture should bring me to such a fate as they did poor Agnes Harland."
"Who is Agnes Harland?" asked the shepherd.
Jack started.
"I am wrong," said he. "I promised Anne I would never tell the tale again. It was something which happened in the convent."
The shepherd nodded sagaciously. "Ay, ay. I can guess," said he, "but say no more, dear boy. Remember that a promise broken without great necessity is a lie told, and beware, of all things, of lying. But this is the conclusion of the matter: God is always ready to hear the prayers of His children, and to help them at their need."
"But, Uncle Thomas, suppose one should wish to pray for something, and should not know any prayer which said what he wanted."
"Then I suppose he must make a prayer for himself, as David did, and as other saints have done. I know no other way."
That night when Jack went to bed, he prayed that God would show him where the old Bible was hidden, or send him another.
A few days after this conversation, Master Lucas made his appearance at the shepherd's cottage, mounted on his easy ambling mule, and followed by his man Simon.
"Well, well," he exclaimed, with his usual jolly laugh, as Jack ran to help his father dismount. "Why, this is fine, to be sure! This is a sight for sore eyes. Uncle Thomas, you are worth all the doctors and wise women in Bridgewater. Bless thee, boy, thy father's heart is glad to see thee again."
"It is but little that I have done," said Thomas Sprat. "The credit of Jack's cure belongs to the fresh air of the hill far more than to me. But come in, come in, cousin Lucas. You must be in need of refreshment. You do not often ride so far from home."
"Why, no, not of late years," replied the baker, bowing his head to enter the low door of the cottage. "I do grow too stout for journeying. Ho! Dame Margery, how goes all with you? Why, you look so young and well-favored, we shall have you fitted with a gay bridegroom next."
"Fie, fie! Master Lucas!" replied the old woman, chuckling nevertheless at the compliment. "Well-favored is far past my time of life. But you yourself are looking purely, Master Lucas, and your voice is like the knight's hunting horn. 'Tis not often I hear any one so plainly."
"Come now, I cannot have you young folks bandying fine speeches," said the shepherd. "Bestir yourself, Margery, and provide refreshment for Master Lucas and his man and for the beasts."
"Don't trouble yourself about the beasts," said Master Lucas. "The fine fresh grass will be a treat to the poor things. I have brought thee some linen and such like, my lad, and Cicely has packed a whole pannier of good things. Bid Simon bring them into the house."
"And Anne, dear father?" asked Jack. "How is Anne?"
Master Lucas's face clouded at mention of his daughter. "Why, well in health—that is, think she would be well if she would let herself alone and live like the rest of us; but she is wearing herself into her grave with her penances. 'Twas but the other day, I found out that she slept on the hard boards every night, and, not content with that, she must needs strew ashes on them. I know not what to do with her, and that is the truth. But there is great news about the gray nuns' convent where she learned all these ways. It is to be put down by order of my lord cardinal, along with many others—some forty, they say—all small ones like this."
"For what reason?" asked Jack.
"I do not understand, exactly. For the founding of some college or other. Anyhow he has the order from his Holiness the Pope, and so the nuns must budge, will they nill they. Poor old girls! I wonder much what will become of them all. I don't love them too well, but it pities me to think of them turned out all among strangers, and I have told Anne if she has any special friend among them she may ask her to stay with us till she can have time to turn herself."
"You are the very best man in the world, father!" said Jack. "I do believe there never was such another."
"Tut, tut, lad! I trust there are many better in our good town. I will say for Anne, she was very grateful, and thanked me prettily enough, poor child. But you and I have lived to see many changes, Uncle Thomas. 'Tis but a little while since folks were wondering over hearing the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Commandments said in English in the churches. Who knows what may come next? We may live to hear the whole Bible read, as they say the Lutherans do."
"Not in my time, I fear," replied the shepherd. "But is not this a strange move of my lord cardinal's? There is much discontent already with the religious houses, and the monks complain everywhere of the disrespect with which they are treated. To my mind, this measure is a little like showing the cat the way to the cream."
"Maybe so! Maybe so! I fear me the cat will find her way to that cream-pot without showing, some of these days," said the baker. "But anyhow, the gray nuns must troop, bag and baggage, and there is talk of my Lord Harland buying the house and lands. They say he brought home much treasure from the Low Countries, and some pretend to affirm that he is a favorer of the new doctrine. Anne, poor maid, went off into a fit of weeping when she heard the story. I suppose it is but natural she should be grieved at seeing the place go into secular hands."
Jack thought he understood better the cause of his sister's grief. He remembered the sad tale of Agnes Harland, and could not help wondering whether she were still alive and whether the suppression of the convent might prove her release.
"But even if she be living, they will doubtless make sure work with her before that day comes," he thought. "She will have secured her martyr's crown before this time."
Meantime Dame Margery's exertions had spread the board with a hearty and substantial meal, to which the travellers did full justice. Master Lucas praised everything, declared that such milk and butter were well worth the ride, and shouted compliments to Margery till the old woman fairly blushed. He was one of those happy people who are always disposed to see the bright side of everything, and who come like a broad beam of sunshine into every house they enter.
"Well, we must even be jogging homewards," he said, at last. "My mule is not swift at best, as how could she be, poor creature, with such a load on her back? We must not be late, or the women will imagine all sorts of dangers and horrors."
"And indeed, I would not have you out after dark," said Thomas Sprat. "The waste here harbors many vagrants—gypsies and the like, who bear none too good characters."
"I will go with you a part of the way, father," said Jack. "I suppose Simon can foot it a mile or so, and I will ride his beast and walk back."
"That can I, indeed, and will do so with a right good will," said Simon the journeyman, who, truth to say, was something the worse for his unusual equestrian exercise, if so it could be called, and who looked forward with no great pleasure to mounting his mule again. "I would gladly walk half the way back to Bridgewater."
In a short time the mules were saddled, the last good-bys said, and Jack and his father were riding soberly side by side on the road to Bridgewater, while Simon trudged after them on foot, keeping at such a distance as not to overhear their conversation, yet as near as was consistent with "manners." Their talk was of home matters and of the news of the town.
Jack begged his father to send him some of his books. This the old man at first flatly refused to do, saying that if Jack had his books he would spend his time poring over them and would soon be as bad as ever again; but upon farther entreaty, and on Jack's representation that he should have to be out of doors with the sheep all day, at any rate, and that he should forget all he had learned, his father so far gave way as to say he would consult Sir William about the matter, and if he thought best, the books should be sent; and with this promise Jack was fain to be content.
Presently they met and passed a man mounted on a serviceable riding hack, and followed by a mule loaded, as it seemed, with merchandise. The traveller was dressed like a merchant, and Jack did not fail to notice that he held a small book in his hand, which at their approach, he put into his pocket.
"There's a man after your own heart, son Jack," said the baker. "He reads as he travels along the highway. Good-day to you, sir!" he added, addressing the traveller as they came within speaking distance. "Methinks your horse must be a steady one, since he allows you to study upon his back."
The stranger smiled and bowed courteously. "My horse and I are old companions and well acquainted," he replied. "Nevertheless, I do not often make a reading chair of my saddle. I did but refresh my memory as to a passage on which my mind was running. May I crave to know if this is the road to Holford and the house of Sir John Brydges?"
"You are just in the road," said Jack, "but the knight is not at home. He went up to London the day before yesterday."
A shade of disappointment passed over the stranger's grave face. "Then we have passed each other on the road. I am very sorry, for my business is somewhat pressing. Do you know, my young sir, how long he will be gone?"
"About a month, I heard them say at the Hall."
"Well, I must needs go on my way, nevertheless," said the stranger. "Doubtless there is some house of entertainment in the village where I can abide for the night."
"There is indeed, sir, and a very decent place, too, the Appletree Inn kept by Widow Higgins. But if you go up to the Hall they will care for you hospitably," said Jack. "They turn no one away, gentle or simple, who comes before eight of the clock. Men say the knight's house is as open as his heart and hand."
"Jack, Jack, how your tongue runs!" said his father. "I pray you pardon the lad's forwardness," he added, addressing the stranger. "The knight hath been kind enough to notice him, and he is one who thinks much of a small favor."
"'Tis a small defect if it be one at all," replied the stranger kindly. "And I am not disposed to find fault with the tongue which runs only with good words. Good-day to you, sir, and the peace of God go with you!"
"A grave and godly man, no doubt," said the baker, as they parted company. "I wonder if he is really a merchant after all. He rode a fine horse, and I noticed his gown was of superfine cloth, and trimmed with costly fur; but these London merchants, many of them, are as rich as the great lords, and live in far greater comfort and luxury than our country knights and squires."
"I wonder what book he was reading," said Jack. "He must be a learned man to carry a book in his pocket."
"I am not so sure of that," said his father laughing. "A man may not certainly be a good baker because his coat is covered with flour."
"But he spoke like a scholar, father," said Jack. "Did you not think so?"
"There was something uncommon about him, for certain," replied Master Lucas. "He had the look of a man who is always thinking of great and grave subjects. To my mind, his face had something the look of our Sir William."
"Sir William had a cousin in London, I know," said Jack, struck by a sudden thought. "Perhaps this might be the same."
"Like enough! Like enough. But, my son, you have gone far enough seeing that you are to walk back. My blessing on thee, dearest lad. Take care of thy health, be dutiful and obedient to Uncle Thomas, and learn all that thou canst from him. Learning is light to carry about, and no kind ever comes amiss. Remember thy duty to God and thy father; say thy prayers every day, and thou wilt never go far astray."
Jack loaded his father with love and messages to all at home, from the good priest and his sister down to the old cat, whose infirmities of now and then helping himself out of the pantry and shop, he besought his father to pardon.
"Never fear; never fear!" said his father, laughing. "The poor beast shall live out his days in peace, I promise thee, for all me. He does but act after his cattish nature, and we must keep temptation out of his way. Once more, my blessing be upon thee."
Jack had begun to feel very manly of late, but all his manliness did not prevent his shedding a few tears at parting with his father, nor was Master Lucas free from a similar weakness, which, however, disguised itself under a sharp criticism of the style of riding of poor Simon, who, he averred, sat his mule like one of his own meal-sacks.
Jack had wiped the drops from his eyes, and was walking briskly on when his foot stumbled on something at the edge of the footpath. He looked down, and quickly picked up the object which had arrested him. It was a small but thick book, bound in parchment and with brazen clasps, and he had no difficulty in recognizing the book he had seen the stranger reading.
He debated for a moment as to whether he ought to open it, but a new book was a rare sight in those parts, and curiosity got the better of his scruples, and he unclasped the volume. The first words he saw arrested his attention, and he walked on reading till he was aroused by some one speaking to him.
"So you have found my book, my fair son. I was coming back to look for it, and am right glad to see it safe. But you seem greatly interested."
Jack looked up with wide-open eyes full of eager interest and a kind of reverential awe.
"Oh, sir, please tell me—forgive me if I am forward—but do please tell me, is not this book a Bible?"
THE CHRISTIAN BROTHER.
The stranger paused a moment before answering Jack's question, and scrutinized his face.
"Why do you think it a Bible?" he asked.
"Because, sir, I find words here like those I have heard before, and which I was told were in the Bible. Here is the very tale of that son who left his father and his home, and went away to waste his goods in a far country, which Uncle Thomas told me. And here are those other words, 'Fear ye not them which kill the body and be not able to kill the soul.' Oh, sir, is it not really a Bible?"
The stranger dismounted from his horse and walked slowly along by Jack's side.
"My dear boy," said he gravely but kindly, "will you tell me from whom you have learned so much of Holy Scripture? Nay, I will not ask, if it is a secret," he added, seeing Jack hesitate. "I am a stranger, and cannot reasonably ask you to trust me at sight. Nevertheless, I will trust you, and answer your questions. This book is a part of Holy Scripture, that part which contains the life and sayings of our Lord, and the letters of His Apostles, lately translated, and done into English, that plain men may read that which it concerneth their salvation to know. It is to be hoped, in time, that we shall have the whole Bible in English, but the New Testament is put forth first as being the most important to Christian men."
Jack walked on in silence, still looking at the precious volume. "I would give all I have," said he at last, "for such a book as this."
"Would you, indeed?" asked the stranger. "That is verily in accordance with Holy Writ, which saith, 'The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hid in the field, the which a man found and hid it; and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.'"
"But, dear lad, you are but young and tender, and the possession of this book hath its dangers. There be many who look upon it as the work of the devil and his servants. Sir Thomas More, himself—albeit in many respects a good and wise man—would gladly burn both the books and their authors and readers. Such risks are not for children like you."
"But, sir, does not this very book say we are not to fear them which kill the body?" asked Jack. "Did not the man in the parable you have just spoken sell all he had to buy the treasure hid in a field?"
"Even so, my son."
"My uncle's father was burned for having in his house and reading an English Bible," pursued Jack, "and he went to his death with joy. Oh, sir, I have so longed and prayed to see an English or Latin Bible!"
"Ay, so! You can read your Latin Bible," said the stranger, "You are, then, a scholar?"
"No great scholar as yet, though I can read Latin well enough," said Jack, with not unjustifiable pride. "I took the gold medal at Bridgewater grammar school, and Sir William Leavett says I can go to Oxford in another year, if my health fail not. I came to keep sheep with my uncle in Holford because I was sickly with too much study, but I am quite well now."
"And was it your uncle or your father from whom you parted but now?"
"My father, sir, and, I do think, the best man in all the world. My uncle lives in a cottage just under the hill yonder."
"And you are of Bridgewater, and know my cousin, Sir William Leavett?" continued the stranger. "I purpose to visit him before my return. Is the good man well?"
"Quite well, sir, my father says. He is indeed a good man, and beloved by gentle and simple among his own flock. He has promised to come and see me one day, but his hands are always full of business, what with the school, and the poor and sick, and the Greek studies which he greatly affects."
"Ay, does he so? And you, do you know any Greek?"
"But very little, sir: only the letters and a few rules. My father is somewhat afraid of it, because one of the monks—Father Francis, the sacristan, who sometimes comes to see us—told him that Greek was a heathen language, not fit for Christians to learn. He said he was cast into a deep sleep only by trying to make out the forms of the letters, and so forgot to ring the bell for evensong," added Jack gravely, but with a certain spark of fun in his eyes. "But Father Francis is fat, and likes a humming cup of ale, and mayhap it was something else which put him to sleep."
"Very like, very like," said the stranger smiling. "My counsel to you is to learn all the Greek you can, and then you may read the New Testament in the original tongue. But that is a knowledge to which common men cannot well attain, and for that reason certain well-learned persons are advised to put forth this translation which you are now reading." (For Jack still held the book in his hand). "But if you will raise your eyes to the clouds, you will see that we are threatened with a storm of some violence, and that before many minutes are past. Can I reach the village or Hall, think you, before it breaks?"
"I fear not," replied Jack. "Your best way will be to come at once to my uncle's cottage, which is close at hand, and where, I am sure, you will be heartily welcome, if you can put up with so plain a place."
"I thank you, and will accept your offer," said the stranger, "if I shall not put your uncle's household to inconvenience."
"I am sure he will be glad to see you," said Jack. "But make haste, for the storm will quickly be upon us."
In effect, the traveller had hardly entered the door of Thomas Sprat's cottage, before the rain fell in torrents. Old Thomas was in the house, and made his guest courteously welcome.
"You were best bring your merchandise into the house, sir," said he. "We have no locks upon our stable door."
"Have you, then, dishonest neighbors?" asked the merchant.
"As to that, the place is much like other places," replied Thomas Sprat. "We have both good and bad neighbors, but the waste yonder harbors a sort of vagrants and masterless men, of whom our good knight has not been able altogether to rid us. I would ill like to have my guest robbed under my roof."
"And I would ill like to be robbed," said the merchant; "therefore, though the contents of my packs are not such as to tempt common thieves, I will, with the help of my young friend here, bestow them in the house. It will not be the first service he has rendered me, short as our acquaintance has been. He has restored to me a precious treasure, which my carelessness suffered to fall by the wayside; and not only so, but he has shown an acquaintance with its value which has much surprised me."
The shepherd looked surprised in his turn, but he said nothing till the packages of the traveller were safely placed in a corner, and the table spread with such food as could be provided from the resources of the cottage, aided by the stores of Cicely's hamper. The stranger said grace, and sat down to his meal, which he discussed with a good appetite.
"I find your grandson—or nephew I think he called himself—a good scholar," said the stranger, addressing the old shepherd. "He tells me that he can read Latin and has begun to learn Greek."
"Yes, the lad has profited at his book," replied the shepherd. "I am no scholar myself, beyond reading and writing, but they tell me Jack is a good one for his years and has won high honors at the school in Bridgewater. But I fear, Jack, the stranger will think you over-forward, if you are so ready to boast your own learning."
"It was through no boasting of his, but through my own questioning, that I learned as much," said the stranger. "He picked up a book which I let fall, and coming back to seek it, and finding him engaged in reading it, we naturally fell into conversation. I was much surprised and pleased to find him already acquainted with its contents."
"Indeed! It will be some of his school Latin books, doubtless."
Jack looked at the stranger with a gesture and glance of entreaty.
"Oh, sir, may I not show my uncle the book?" he asked. "Old Margery is deaf. She will not hear a word or notice anything. May I not show him the book?"
"You may do so, if you will," replied the stranger, with a benevolent smile. "I see no harm it can do, since it is to your uncle you tell me you owe all your knowledge of its contents."
The shepherd looked wonderingly from one to the other. Jack opened the volume haphazard, and put it into his uncle's hand. As the old man examined the page his expression changed from one of surprise and uneasiness, to a look of joyful awe and thankfulness. Clasping his hands and raising them to heaven, while his eyes filled with tears, he exclaimed, "I thank thee, O Lord! Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation. May the blessing of God rest upon you, sir, whoever you are, since you have brought to my eyes what they hardly expected to see again—the Word of God in the vulgar tongue. Sir, I know not who you are, you are a rich man belike, and I am but a poor shepherd; but if any treasure I possess can purchase this book—"
"Say no more, my good brother," replied the stranger. "With this book I cannot part, seeing it was the gift of a dear friend; but another copy of the Scriptures, in better print and more easy to your eyes, you shall have and welcome, and right glad am I to put it in such hands. I am, as you have said, a rich man, and I know not how I can spend my wealth better than by helping to spread the Gospel in this land which longs for it as a thirsty land for the rain of heaven."
So saying, the merchant undid one of his mails, and from under the rich silks and stuffs with which it was apparently filled, he drew forth a large copy of the New Testament and put it into his host's hands.
"To this book, as I said, you are freely welcome," said he. "It is the New Testament newly done into English by that learned clerk and godly man, Sir William Tyndale. I need not tell you that it is a treasure to be kept and used with caution, since many of the bishops and priests, not less than the King himself, are bitterly opposed to the reading of this translation."
"It is then a service of some danger you undertake in carrying these books about with you, Master—"
"My name is Richard Fleming, at your service, a merchant of London," said the stranger, as Thomas Sprat paused. "It is indeed a service of danger as you say. Yet it is not my own danger which at times appalls me and makes me almost ready to give up that which I have undertaken. It is the thought that these books, precious as they are, bring danger of persecution and even death to those who receive and read them. Even now, for aught I know, I may have thrust a firebrand into the thatch of your peaceful dwelling, or have, as it were, lighted a death-pile for this fair boy. When I think of these things I am ready to say: 'It is enough, Lord! Take away my life!' And yet the burden is laid upon me, yea, woe is me if I help not to spread the Gospel."
"I understand your feeling," said Thomas Sprat, as the stranger paused. "I have myself felt the same toward my young kinsman here, whom yet I have instructed so far as I was able in the words and meaning of Holy Scripture. Our blessed Lord knew it also doubtless when He said to His followers: 'they shall lay their hands on you, and persecute you, delivering you up to the synagogues and into prison, and bring you before kings and rulers, for my name's sake.' Yet I cannot but think that the boon is worth all it costs twice told. Shall we refuse to suffer for Him who died for us? Methinks you are a man to be envied, since you are permitted to spend your time and substance in thus spreading abroad the Word of God. I had thought the merchants of London too busy with their goods and merchandise, with the care of their gold, and the enjoyment of luxury in their fine houses, to care for aught else."
"It is alas! the case with too many of them," replied the stranger. "Yet are there many among them who are of my mind, and esteem the riches of God more than all the treasures of Egypt, who spend their time and their substance freely for the spread of His Word. An association has been formed among them called the Christian Brothers, of which I am a member; and we are pledged to devote ourselves and our goods to spreading a knowledge of pure Gospel truth in this land. I trust we have already sowed seed which shall spring up and bear fruit unto everlasting life, though we may not be spared to see its full fruition."
"It was a blessed hap which brought you here this day," said the old shepherd fervently. "Oh, how earnestly I have longed and prayed to see and read once more the Word of God which I knew and read in my youth. Son Jack, our prayers have been answered sooner than we hoped, though in a different way."
The Association of Christian Brothers, formed about the time of our story among the merchants of London, makes of itself a sufficient answer, if indeed an answer were needed, to those who sneer at trade and the pursuits of commerce as ignoble and unfitting the mind for great deeds. The object of these men was to disperse abroad among the people copies of the New Testament, and portions of the writings of the Reformers, as fast as they could be received from the printing-presses Antwerp and other Flemish and German cities.
For this end, the Christian Brothers and the agents travelled through the length and breadth the land, bearing their perilous yet precious commodities concealed among their goods, and disposing of them as they had opportunity. Of course the service was one of great danger. If any man were found circulating the Lutheran books, as they were called, public penance and disgrace and ruinous fines were the least he had to expect; and the flames and smoke of the stake were always in the background of the picture.
Nevertheless, those devoted men, the Christian Brothers, abated not a whit of their diligence; but availing themselves of their opportunities as merchants trading to Germany and the Low Countries, they brought over not only the New Testament in English, but other books and tracts in great numbers, which were carried throughout the whole of England, and eagerly caught up and read both by gentle and simple. Tyndale's prophecy, made years before in a dispute with a Romish priest, seemed in a fair way of being fulfilled: "Ere many years are past, the very plough-boys of this land shall know more of Holy Scripture than thou dost."
In our days, when the Bible lies on almost every shelf and may be had by every man, woman, and child in the land, when we can hardly remember our first acquaintance with the sacred text, it is difficult for us to enter into the feelings of those who read the Bible for the first time. To us, it has become as familiar, and it is to be feared often as tedious, as a twice told tale; and it requires all our reverence for the book as the written and authentic Word of God, to fix our attention upon our daily lesson.
To those who received the English New Testament from the hands of Tyndale and his followers, it possessed all the charm of novelty. They had heard at the best only short and garbled extracts from the Holy Book, and what little they knew was so overlaid and mixed up with legend and fable, that the whole gracious story was to them a new revelation, startling and arousing them alike from what it said and from what it did not say. The doctrine of purgatory, with all its tremendous consequences, fell at once to the ground. So did that of the invocation of saints; and especially the almost divine honors paid to the Blessed Virgin were seen to be wholly without foundation.
To many an overburdened soul painfully striving by prayers and penances to escape from the wrath to come, the knowledge of justification by means of faith in the Son of God, of free forgiveness through His own oblation of Himself once offered, came with an overwhelming sense of relief from an intolerable burden; while to another it brought a feeling of deep humiliation and mortification that all the self-made sanctity for which he had perhaps been celebrated and held up as an example to his fellows was of no avail or value in the eyes of God, not worth so much as a cup of cold water given in the name of Christ to one of His little ones.
Welcome or unwelcome, loved or hated, the Word of God went on its way. It was like the leaven which a woman took and hid in three measures of meal. No man who received it could hide it wholly within his heart. Consciously or unconsciously, it affected his conduct and appeared in his conversation; and thus the new ideas spread from one to another, even among those who were the most bitterly opposed to them.
A FALL AND A NEW FRIEND.
Long after old Margery had retired to her chamber wondering at her master's unusual waste of candle-light, did the other two inmates of the cottage sit listening with rapt attention while Master Fleming read and expounded the Holy Book, or told them tales of the deeds and sufferings of the friends of the Gospel at home and abroad.
At last, in a pause of the conversation, Jack exclaimed—
"Oh, if I could but go with you and help you in this great work, how gladly would I give all my time and strength to the spread of God's Word among the people! I used to wish I had lived in the days of chivalry when the valiant knights went forth in search of adventure, and to succor the helpless and oppressed wherever they were to be found; but this is a greater work still, and better worth one's life and substance."
"You say well," replied Master Fleming. "It is indeed better worth the spending of life and substance than any of the often fantastic enterprises of your favorite knights; and neither is it without sufficient danger to life and goods, though there are no more dragons and enchanters to overcome. But the work of the Lord has this advantage, that it may be done by simple folk as well as gentle folk, and as worthily in the humblest vocation as in the highest. The lowliest life, the commonest task, if sanctified by an earnest and honest intention of doing God service, is as much accepted and blessed by Him as that which is highest in the sight of men. Our Lord Himself has said that a cup of cold water, given in His name and for his sake, is given to Him."
"But I would so like to devote myself to this work," said Jack. "It seems such a noble way of serving Him."
"I fear your motives are not altogether clear, son Jack," said the shepherd. "I fear a part of your zeal arises from love of adventure and novelty."
Jack blushed, and the merchant smiled.
"And if it were so, you have no cause to blush, my son," said he kindly. "The love of novelty and adventure is natural to youth, and is doubtless given by Heaven for some good purpose. But you must remember that, as the soldier does not choose his work or his place, but goes whither he is sent, and upon whatever service his commander orders, having no will of his own, so must it be with the soldier of Christ. He must be as ready to abide by the stuff as to go forward upon the stricken field; to keep the few sheep in the wilderness, as to fight the giant of the Philistines before the armies of Israel."
"Sir William told us that tale," said Jack, "and how King David overcame the giant with his sling and stone. But there are no giants in these days."
"No, but there are dangers as terrible, ay, more terrible than any man meets in the stricken field. If it be true in all ages, as doubtless it is in some sense, that they who would live godly in Christ must suffer persecution, it is doubly so at this time when he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey, and men are condemned to the dungeon and the stake but for desiring to acquaint themselves with the Word of God. You say, my dear son, and doubtless with truth, that you would gladly help forward this work; but think of yourself as torn from all that you love and cast into a loathsome foul dungeon, without light or fire or fresh air, subject to the scourge and the rack at the will of your oppressors, daily tempted with all the rewards of this world, if you would abjure your faith, and threatened with the pangs of a horrible and shameful death, if you did not. Do you think you could hold fast the profession of your faith without wavering?"
Jack sat looking at the fire for a few moments without reply. Then he lifted his head, and a new light seemed to exalt and illuminate his somewhat plain features as he spoke.
"I would be far from boasting of my manhood, sir. I know well that it has never been tried, and that I am but a young and simple boy. Nevertheless, I have read in this book already, that our Lord said to one of His apostles who was in some strait: 'My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect through weakness,' and again 'God is faithful who will not suffer you to be tempted above your strength, but shall in the midst of temptation make a way to escape out.' I would be far from boasting of mine own strength or manhood, since I know how oft I have failed under very easy trials of temper and patience; neither would I run heedlessly into danger. But if God should call me to such works as those of which you speak, might I not think that He would be faithful in giving me strength to do them?"
"Verily, thou hast given me a good answer, and, as it were, out of mine own mouth," replied Master Fleming, with his grave smile. "You are, no doubt, in the right. I trust your faith will never be tried in such ways; and yet it is well to be prepared for whatever may come. I would advise you to read and ponder the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and to pray constantly and earnestly for grace to stand when the day of trial arrives."
"It may not come," said Jack.
The stranger shook his head. "The trial is sure to come in one way or other," said he. "It may not be in the way of persecution, perhaps it may come in the opposite direction from the temptation of this world. In these days the seed is perhaps as likely to be choked with care and riches and voluptuous living as in any other way. But in whatever way the temptation comes, we shall need all the strength which our Lord hath to give, to fight the battle of life withal. But the hour waxes late, and I must needs rise early and go on my way."
Jack gave up his own bed to the visitor, and slept on the great wooden settle by the fireside. His sleep was not sound, and toward morning awaking suddenly he heard, as he thought, some one speaking earnestly as though pleading for, some great boon, and willing to take no denial. He stole softly to the foot of the stairs and listened. The voice was that of the stranger guest, and Jack presently perceived that he was engaged in fervent prayer. A feeling of delicacy prevented him from listening; but, as he lingered for a moment, he caught the words:
"Not this one, Lord, not this one! If there must needs be a sacrifice take the old tree, broken and withered in thy service, but spare the young and tender plant."
Jack's reverence deepened into awe as he perceived that Master Fleming was praying for himself, pleading with God as a child with a tender parent, that he might be spared the horror and pain in which the "gospellers" too often ended their lives.
Jack stole back to his bed and sat thinking for a long time. He remembered how he had ventured to pray in somewhat the same way for sight of the Scriptures, and how his prayer had been answered in the sense and realization of God's presence at the time he was praying, as well as in the apparent chance which had brought the stranger to his uncle's house. Would Master Fleming's prayer be granted in the same way?
Or would he be called to witness for God at the stake and on the rack, like some of those confessors of whom he had lately heard? And if so, would strength be given him according to his needs?
And what would become of him afterward? Should he be taken to paradise or to purgatory? Was there any such place as purgatory? Was he fit for heaven? How could he make himself so?
Master Fleming had seemed to speak but slightingly of penances and pilgrimages and such like exercises, and had intimated that there was another way, sure and easy. What then was that way?
These were but a few of the questions which rose in the boy's mind as he sat in the chimney corner under the slowly dawning light. He was a grave and thoughtful lad at all times, sober beyond his years to a degree which had often troubled his father, and made old Cicely declare that her nursling was not long for this world. The religious teaching he had received had been mostly given him by Sir William Leavett and had been of a character unusually spiritual and pure for that time.
Then his uncle had taught him a great deal concerning the Bible during his residence at Holford; and altogether his soul was like a watered garden, ready to receive the seeds of eternal truth and to bring forth fruit to everlasting life.
Now, as he sat and thought, seeking in vain for satisfactory answer to the many questions which arose in his mind, he remembered what the shepherd had told him concerning the teachings of the Holy Spirit, that this Spirit could guide his mind into truth even without the written Word, and that unless he had such teaching from on high, all other instruction, yea, the Holy Book itself, would be of no avail. He took the volume from the safe place where it had been deposited, and opening it at haphazard, he read in the now quaint English of Tyndale's translation—
"Axe and it shalbe geven you. Seke and ye shall fynd. Knocke and it shalbe opened vnto you. For whosoever axeth receaveth; and he that seketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shalbe opened."
Jack read on to the end of the paragraph. Then it would seem that all he had to do in order to receive this wonderful teacher, was to ask for it. His heavenly Father was as ready to give it him as his own father would be to give him food when he desired it. Jack was happy in that he was able to reason from the goodness of an earthly to that of a heavenly Parent. He could not remember that his father had ever denied him any reasonable request, and the argument was thus a strong one.
"'If ye then being evil know how to give good gifts to your children—"
Why then should he not ask at once for what he felt he so much needed?
Jack restored the book to its place; and then, seeking the retirement of the little shed where Master Fleming's beasts were accommodated, he knelt in one corner and prayed long and earnestly and in simple faith that God would teach him all that it was needful to know. He was so absorbed as not to mark the passage of time, and he started to his feet and blushed deeply when the stranger gently opened the door and entered the hovel.
"Nay, never blush, my son," said Master Fleming kindly. "No man has cause to blush for being found on his knees. Rather let them be ashamed, who, pretending to be reasonable and immortal beings, live like the poor brutes that perish. But you have risen early."
"I have been up a long time," said Jack. "I could not sleep, and I have been reading in the book you gave us. Oh, sir, I would I might go with you, or that you would remain with us. I need so much instruction."
And thereupon, he poured out to his new-found friend some of the questions and thoughts which were seething in his brain.
Master Fleming listened patiently and with grave interest to Jack's confession and inquiries.
"Dear son, it would require more hours than I have minutes to spare, to answer all your questions. Nay, of many things you must be content to remain in ignorance, since they are beyond man's feeble understanding. I will leave with you certain treatises of Master Tyndale and, other good men from which you may gain much instruction, and you do right to ask for the illumination of the Spirit of God, which you will doubtless receive. But, my son, you must be prepared to learn from that teaching, many things which will be displeasing to you, ay, things against which your pride will rise up in rebellion. No man ever sees the wickedness and weakness of his own heart till the Spirit reveals it to him, and the sight is not a pleasant one. Yet it is necessary that we behold it, or we shall not feel our need of the remedy without which we must be lost indeed."
"And that remedy—" asked Jack.
"Is found alone in Christ Jesus, the way set forth by our Father for the forgiveness of sins. His blood, when we believe in Him and receive Him for our Saviour, cleanseth us from all sin which we have committed, so that for His sake we are freely pardoned and justified before God. Not as there were any merit in faith itself, but because it is only by faith that we accept Christ and receive Him into our hearts."
"See here, I must needs go on my way at present. I would gladly take you with me, and, as you say, let you help in this great work. But that would not be right. You are the only son of your father, and yet in your nonage, and your duty lies in obedience to him. Go on then doing your work in that place where God has put you, and remember that He will accept your service and make you His helper in building up His kingdom, whether he call you like the Jews of old to build on the walls of the spiritual Jerusalem with a sword in one hand and a trowel in the other, or in the quiet dells of the mountain to quarry out the stone for the temple, or even to carry food for them who are more actively engaged."
"It is the great blessing of work in our Divine Master's service, that nothing done for Him is ever thrown away, no, not even when the workman would appear in the eyes of men to have failed utterly. He will account nothing a failure which is done with a hearty and humble desire to serve him. Do you, therefore, watch and pray, read and meditate, strive for holiness of heart and purity of intention, and let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven."
"I will give you for your own, a copy of the New Testament containing Master Tyndale's glosses and notes, which will be a great help to you in understanding the Word. It may be that we shall meet again, for I purpose to remain some time in this country; but if not, I charge you, my son in the faith, if I may call you so, that you keep your loins girded about, and your light trimmed and burning, and you yourself as one who waiteth for the Bridegroom, that, when the day of account shall come, I may meet you at the right hand of the Throne."
For the whole of that and many succeeding days, Jack was like one in a dream. He seemed to have lost all taste for his usual pleasures, bird's-nesting and fishing, while he strove with punctilious accuracy to fulfil all his daily duties and to take every possible care from his uncle. In fact, a new world seemed to be opened to him.
His imagination, always a strong part of his mental constitution, revelled in the scenes to which he was introduced and made them real to him. He walked the streets of Jericho and Jerusalem, and sat with the apostles at the board with their Lord; he was among the crowd which stood around the sepulchre when Lazarus came forth, and entered with the chosen disciples into the inner chamber where the ruler's young daughter was raised from the dead.
Nor was it the narrative alone which interested him. As Richard Fleming had told him, he began to have some sense of his own real nature, to realize his own sinfulness, and to wonder whether it were possible he could ever attain to the inheritance of the saints in light. At times he felt a profound discouragement, and was ready to despair of himself; then he found help in such passages as these contained in Tyndale's notes:
"Ye shall not thynke that our dedes deserve ani thynge of God as a laborer deserueth his hyre. For all gode thynges come of the bounteousness, liberalitie, mercy, promyses and truth of God in the deseruing of Christes blood only.""The eye is single when a man in all hys dedes loketh not but on the will of God, and loketh not for laude, honor, or ein other rewardes in this worlde. Nother ascrybeth Heven or a hyer roume in Heaven unto hys dedes; but accepteth Heven as a thing purchased bi the blode of Christe, and worketh freely for loves' sake onlie.""As a natural sonne that is his father's heyre, doth his father's will not because he wolde be heyre, that he is already by birth—but of pure love doeth he that which he doth. And axe him why he doeth any thing that he doth, he answereth, 'my father bade, it is my father's will, it pleases my father.' Bonde servantes work for hire, children for love; for there father, with all he has, is there's already. So doth a Christen man freely all that he doeth, considering nothing but the will of God and his neighbour's wealth only. If I live chaste, I do hit not to obteyne heaven therby, for thus should y do wronge to the blode of Christe. Christes blood has obtayned me that." ¹
¹ This passage occurs in Tyndale's defence and not in his notes.
By such like instruction, by comparing one passage with another, and by help of the teaching of his uncle, Jack began at last to arrive at some clear notion of salvation by Jesus Christ, to cease to place any confidence in his own works or deservings, and to understand and feel somewhat of the blessedness of an accepted child of God.
"Oh, how I wish Anne could come to see this," he said one day, after a long conversation he had been holding with his uncle on the hillside. "She is killing herself, as my father says, with prayers and penances, that she may win forgiveness and heaven for herself and her friend. If she could only be brought to see this plain and easy way!"
"What was the story of her friend?" asked the shepherd. "Ay, I remember, there was some secret in the matter. I would, indeed, the poor child could be led to see that her Lord hath done all for her. Perhaps you may find some way of enlightening her when you return home."
"I should hardly know how to begin," said Jack, thoughtfully. "Anne has such a horror of heresy. She was distressed because I only said I should like to be a priest in order to read the Scripture; and she tried to make me promise that I would never look at any heretical books if they came in my way."
"I think Anne was convent bred, was she not?" asked the shepherd.
"Yes, at the gray nuns' convent, that my father spoke of, the one my Lord Harland is to buy. It was by no good will of my father, who never loved the religious houses; but my mother wished it, and he would not cross her. Anne would have taken the veil ere this, I doubt, but for the prioress herself. Anne's health failed, and the lady sent her home, saying she should have time to see more of the world before leaving it. But it is little she has seen of the world, poor child. She lives as closely as any cloistered nun and fares as hardly. It is a great trouble to my father, who would have none but cheerful faces about him. Anne thinks it is her duty to deny herself all pleasures, and so she will not taste any of the good things Cousin Cicely is so fond of making, nor sing to the lute as my mother used to do, though it is my father's greatest delight to hear her."
"I doubt there is some self-will at the bottom of her heart," said the shepherd, "else she would perceive that there is a truer and purer self-denial in giving up her own tastes and inclinations in indifferent things, and conforming herself to the will and wishes of those about her."
"I see," said Jack, thoughtfully. "Then it might be that eating a piece of Cousin Cicely's gingerbread when she did not really care for it, rather than mortify the poor woman by refusing her dainties, would be a more useful penance than going without anything."
"For Anne perhaps," replied old Thomas, smiling.
Jack laughed. "Truly I never found any mortification in Cicely's gingerbread myself, save when I had eaten too much of it. But, indeed, Uncle Thomas, Anne does mean to do her duty faithfully. She would not do anything wrong for the world, and if she happens to make any little slip she grieves over it for days, and redoubles her penances. But, oh! She is so unhappy. If it had not been for Sir William Leavett, I almost think that living with Anne would have made me hate all religion, because it seems to make her so miserable. I do wish she could be brought to read this book."
"Well, dear son, we can but pray for her, and perhaps a way may be opened. Jack," said the shepherd, lowering his voice to a whisper, "don't turn your head now, but in a minute look yonder. Is not someone in hiding behind you thornbush? I have seen it move two or three times, and I am sure I caught sight of a gown."
Jack waited a moment, plucking up a pretty good sized clod of earth and grass as he did so. Then, suddenly turning, he hurled the clod with a good aim at the bush, saying, "There is an owl abroad in the daylight."
A hasty exclamation, but not in the owl's language, was heard from the bush, which stood on the edge of a steep grassy declivity, and was followed by various gurgling sounds of distress.