Jack rushed to the spot, followed more slowly by the old shepherd; and as he reached the bush, he burst into uncontrollable laughter. There was the fat priest of the little church at Holford rolling over and over down the slippery grass slope, clutching vainly at the short herbage, and uttering at intervals cries and interjections, some of them not exactly of a clerical character.
"He will tumble into the brook," said the shepherd hastily. "Run down by the path, Jack, and be ready to help him out."
Down by the path Jack ran like a deer, but another was beforehand with him. Bevis, the big sheep-dog, was first at the spot, and as the poor priest plunged into the somewhat deep pool at the foot of the slope, Bevis jumped after him and dragged him out with as little ceremony as if he had been one of his own wethers. Jack came to the help of the dog, and between them they got the unlucky father on dry land, and seated him on a sunny bank.
"How do you find yourself, father?" said Jack, speaking gravely, though he was choking with laughter.
"Oh—ah—ugh!" spluttered the priest. "Alack! I have broken my bones, I sink in deep waters! And that accursed brute hath torn my new gown."
"He meant no harm," said Jack. "He only wished to pull you out of the water and mud, which is deep enough to smother you."
"Eh—oh—the tender mercies of the wicked! I am wet through—I shall catch my death."
"You had best go home to my cottage and send for dry clothes, or go to bed while these are dried, good father," said the shepherd, who had just arrived at the scene of action.
"Jack, run and tell Margery to have the bed ready and warmed, and then come back, and bring with you the bottle of strong waters your father brought me. It will revive his spirit, and keep him from taking cold. How is it with you now, Sir John? I trust you have no bones broken by your fall."
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"Oh—ah—ugh!" spluttered the priest. "Alack!I have broken my bones."
With many a sigh and many a dolorous groan, the unlucky father raised himself on his feet and ascertained, by stretching himself, that he had sustained no serious injury.
"How did you fall?" asked the shepherd.
"Ah—eh! It was the clod of earth that unlucky lad threw at me."
"Were you behind the bush, then, father?" asked Jack, who had returned with the bottle and a cup, into which he was pouring a goodly portion of strong waters, alias brandy. "I humbly crave your pardon, but I took you for an owl."
"An owl, indeed! An owl in the desert, a sparrow on the housetop," said the priest, quoting at random. "Do I look like an owl?"
"Verily, I think you do, and a drowned owl at that," said Jack to himself. "I crave your pardon once more, father," said he aloud. "Pray you, drink this. It is good of its kind, for my father gets it of one of his cousins who trades with the Low Countries."
The priest drank off the contents of the cup with a readiness and gusto which seemed to show that he was not altogether unaccustomed to such medicines.
"Verily, thy father knows what is good," said he in a mollified tone, returning the cup and smacking his lips. "I would I could have to do with that same merchant, for the trader in Bridgewater sells villainous stuff, and wofully dear. Ah, alt that warms one's heart, certainly."
"Take another portion, an't please you," said Jack, replenishing the cup once more. "When I return home, or have a chance of sending, I will ask my father to send your reverence a bottle, and I am sure he will do so with pleasure."
"Thou art a good lad after all," said the priest, whom the second cup of spirits put into high good humor. "Only beware thou meddle not with things too high for thee, lest thou fall into the snare of the wicked; and the next time you throw a stone, see where it is going to light. Oh, I am marvellously restored. I think with the help of your arm, I could walk to the tree yonder where I left my mule."
"Shall I not go home with you to your own house?" asked Jack, who saw that the priest's head was beginning to be affected by the liquor he had drank. "You may be attacked with giddiness by the way, and perhaps have another fall."
"Do so, do so, my dear son," replied Sir John. "Why, you are a good lad after all, as I said but now, and surely no heretic as that pestilent conceited clerk of mine pretends. 'Twas he got me into this scrape, a plague upon him! I should have never thought of listening but for him."
"Oh ho! Then you were listening," thought Jack, "and I dare say Master Sacristan has been listening too. I will cut down that thorn tomorrow, and set old Bevis to watch."
"If folk would only mind their own business, there would be none of this trouble," continued Sir John, whose tongue was thoroughly loosed. "Here is Father Barnaby now has been lecturing me about seeking out heretics in my parish and watching who comes to mass. I am sure, if the heretics will let me alone, I am willing to let them alone; and as to the people coming to mass, let them come or go as it pleases them, so long as they pay their dues and live in peace. Say you not so, my son?"
"Indeed I do, father," replied Jack; "and besides, it stands to reason, that if people pay their dues they can be no heretics; does it not?"
"Right, right!" exclaimed Father John. "You reason as well as an Oxford scholar. If they pay, they are no heretics, because if they were heretics, they would not pay; 'tis clear as Aristotle. All my parishioners pay their dues, therefore there are no heretics in the parish, and Father Barnaby may go hang! Say you not so?"
"That I do with all my heart," replied Jack, gravely. "But here we are at your door. If I might venture to advise, your reverence will go at once to bed, and take a hot posset to keep off any farther effects of cold. I will bring the strong waters the first time I go to Bridgewater."
All the way back to the hill Jack laughed over the adventure, but the shepherd looked very grave on hearing the poor priest's words.
"I do not like the look of it," said he. "There may be no harm in poor Father John, who is, with all reverence, fonder of his table and his comfortable cup of spiced ale, than of anything else in life; but I know something of Father Barnaby. He has a keen scent for heresy, and he will be none the sweeter in temper for this suppression of the convent. We must be very careful."
The next day, Jack cut down the thornbushes and levelled the ground.
"I hope I am not shutting the door when the steed is stolen," he thought. "How could I be so careless as not to think of the thornbushes?"
FATHER JOHN AT HOME.
TWO or three days after the descent of Father John into the brook, Jack had an opportunity of sending home, by one of the knight's servants who was going to Bridgewater market. He wrote a note to his father stating that he had had the ill-luck to offend the parish priest, and begging for a bottle of strong waters as a peace-offering. He received more than he asked, for Master Lucas not only sent the bottle, but also a mighty and well-seasoned pasty on which he had expended all his skill, and a basket of sweet cakes and confections such as were in fashion, with a small parcel of sugar candy, then a great luxury, and some rare spices.
Armed with these provisions, Jack presented himself at the parsonage. He was received by the priest at first with a certain conscious stiffness and formality, which, however, gave way at once as Jack spread the contents of the basket before him and gave his father's message.
"Truly, truly, I said thou wert a good lad, though thou dost throw stones inconsiderately. But boys will be boys, and we were all young once; all, at least, but Brother Barnaby, who I do verily believe was born with a shaven head and fifty years old at the least. Truly your father is a man of taste and good sense, and no doubt has brought you up well. You can say your catechism now, I dare say?" asked Sir John, as though suddenly remembering his priestly character.
"Oh yes, your reverence," replied Jack promptly, determined to conciliate the old man if possible. "I know my catechism well, and the Penitential Psalms both in Latin and English. Shall I say them, your reverence?"
"Another time, another time," said the old man hastily. "But now tell me, of what were you and your uncle talking that unlucky day, eh?"
"Of my sister, sir, who is out of health, and the causes of her illness."
"And of what else do you talk?"
"Nothing wrong, I trust, sir," replied Jack. "My uncle often tells me of his travels and adventures in foreign parts when he was abroad with his master; and sometimes we talk of things I have read in my books."
"Well, well, I dare say there is no harm. I trust not, for look you, my boy, you are a scholar and quick for your years, and like to be taken with novelties; and I would ill like to have any harm come to you, though you did take me for an owl," said the father chuckling. "I have no notion myself of peeping and spying into other men's matters. If they be heretics, why so much the worse for them; but there is no need to blaze abroad the matter, and so make two where was one before. You don't know any heretics in this parish, I dare say?" said the old man, looking wistfully at Jack.
"No, your reverence, that I do not," replied Jack, glad that the question was put in such an answerable shape. "You know I have been here but a little time, and seen very few, scarce any one but my uncle and the knight's household."
"True, true, your uncle is no ale-bench haunter, and you are more likely to be taken with some tale of chivalry than with the talk of country clowns, or with volumes of divinity either, I should say. Tell me now, can you construe Latin?"
"Oh, yes, your reverence," replied. Jack. "I have read Caesar his Commentaries, and Virgil, and a little of Horace, and I am to read more so soon as I can find a book."
The old man rose and went to his cupboard, from whence, after some shuffling of papers, he brought forth a letter sealed with a gorgeous coat-of-arms.
"See here," said he. "The Abbot of Glastonbury has sent me this epistle all in Latin. As far as I can make out, it is about certain lands which the abbey possesses in this parish. But, our Lady help me, I never was the brightest scholar in the world at my Latin, and I have forgotten all I ever knew, save so much as may serve me for mass. Do you think now you could construe this letter for me, and say nothing about it?"
Greatly delighted with the turn things had taken, Jack promised secrecy, and proceeded to translate and expound the letter, not without sharply criticising in his own mind the Latinity of the reverend writer.
"He writes like a booby of the fourth form," said he to himself. "Wouldn't Master Crabtree give it him for his concords?"
"And you are sure now that you have the right sense?" asked Father John.
"Oh, yes, sir. That is the whole of it."
"And now he will be expecting an answer in Latin," groaned the poor father. "And how I am to compass that, I cannot guess. I might ask Brother Barnaby, but then—he is a good man, and learned, but he hath short patience with the mortal infirmities of other folks, seeing that he hath none of his own. He would be sure to deliver me a lecture and—"
"So please your reverence, if you will give me in English the substance of your answer, I will put it into Latin for you," said Jack, who began to feel a great kindness for the poor, good-natured old man.
"Oh, my dear son, but are you sure you can do it to the Abbot's satisfaction? He is a great man, you know, is the Abbot of Glastonbury."
"I think I can, your reverence; I was accounted a good scholar in Bridgewater grammar school, where I took the gold medal last term," said Jack, adding to himself, "I am sure I never should have got it if I had not written better Latin than the abbot's secretary."
"Well, well, I will think of it, and inquire about the land, and tell you what to say. And now see here."
Father John opened once more the cupboard where he kept his papers, and brought forth a book beautifully bound and clasped.
"You say you want a Horace. Well, here is one which was left me by an old college friend. I cannot use it, and you can, and it were better in your hands than mouldering away in this old nook. Take it then, my son, and the saints bless you. Surely I never thought to like you so well when you tumbled me into the brook the other day."
Jack could hardly believe in his good luck. Such a beautiful Horace, with illuminated letters and title. Sir William himself had nothing like it among his treasures.
"There, there," said the priest, interrupting his thanks. "Say no more, say no more. Who is this stopping at the door?"
"It is Father Barnaby as I think," said Jack, looking from the window. "I have seen him in Bridgewater. Yes, it is he."
"Alack! What has brought him here just now?" groaned Father John. "He will see the pasty and spices, and there will come a lecture on fleshly appetites. Do you take the pasty into the next room; or stay! Let it remain, but hide the abbot's letter there in the cupboard. And oh, dear son, mind what you say to him. He is a hard man."
Jack hastily arranged the table in order, put away the letter, picked up the priest's breviary which had fallen on the ground, and laid it open before him, and then assumed a respectful position behind Father John's chair, keeping his beloved Horace in his hand. Presently Father Barnaby entered. He was a tall, dark, thin man, who looked indeed as though good eating had little charms for him. He returned Father John's meek, flustered greeting with a certain air of condescension and authority, and Jack's scarcely at all.
"Will you not take some refreshment, brother, after your ride?" asked the elder priest. "I am better provided than usual, thanks to the liberality of this good lad's father, Master Lucas of Bridgewater."
"Nothing for me, thank you, brother," replied Father Barnaby. "I eat nothing between meals. To you, who lead a life so much more laborious than mine, the case is different."
Jack saw the old man wince at the sarcasm, and resented it for him.
"Whatever you know," thought he, "you have not learned one thing, and that is to respect your elders."
"So you are Master Lucas's son of Bridgewater," said Father Barnaby, turning his dark eyes on Jack with no very friendly expression. "I have heard of you, young sir, and am glad to meet you. I must have some conversation with you before we part. But I must send my attendant brother with a message to the Hall."
"Hark ye, dear son, don't anger him," whispered Father John, as Father Barnaby left the room. "Don't contradict him or give him a handle against you. He is a devil when his temper is up, the saints forgive me for saying so! And he is as keen after heresy as a terrier after a fox. Be on your guard, there's a good lad."
"I will, your reverence," said Jack, and, wondering whether the trial Richard Fleming spoke of had arrived already, he lifted up his heart in prayer for strength and wisdom. But the trial was not to come just yet.
Father Barnaby came back in a moment, and seating himself in the hardest chair in the room, he called Jack to stand before him, and bent his eyes upon him as though he would look him through.
Jack sustained the glance with modest confidence, and waited to be spoken to.
"They tell me you are a scholar," said Father Barnaby, "and I hear of you that you have an appetite for novelties and would fair pry into high and sacred matters."
"Who told you as much as that, I wonder?" thought Jack, but he held his peace.
"I do assure you, brother, the boy is a good boy," said Father John, timidly and anxiously. "He can say his creed and questions, and is regular in his duties."
"Say you so? Then you have examined him?"
"Oh, yes," replied Father John hastily, "and he can say the seven Penitential Psalms."
"That was a bit of a fib," thought Jack, "but after all, I dare say he thought he had."
"I am glad to hear as much," said Father Barnaby, though he did not look so. "But I propose to examine him myself, always with your leave, good brother. I would not for the world trespass upon your rights and duties, especially the latter which you are so careful to fulfil."
Jack was trying hard to keep his mind in a calm and proper frame for the trial which he supposed was coming; but he could not help thinking that he should like to break the monk's head for his insolence to his old friend. He felt that Father Barnaby meant to intimidate and confuse him; and he was determined to be neither confused nor scared. After another interval of silence, the younger priest began again—
"I have heard something of an ill report of you, young man; and I desire to discover whether there is any foundation therefor. So answer my questions plainly and directly, and let me have no evasions."
"So please your reverence, I will do my best to satisfy you," replied Jack, modestly. "I trust I have been well taught both at home and at school, as well as by our parish priest."
"Umph!" returned the priest. "It takes more than good teaching to make a sound Christian. Now tell me—but what book is that you are hugging so closely under your arm?"
"My Horace, an't please you," replied Jack, producing the volume.
Father John had declared that Father Barnaby had no infirmities, but in this he was mistaken. Father Barnaby did possess one unregulated affection, and that was love for the Latin poets, above all, for Horace. If anything could draw his attention from a controversy or make him forget his canonical hours, it was a new edition or a disputed passage of his favorite author. He had read all that had ever been written on the subject, and had himself written a treatise on the question as to whether Leucothoe in the eleventh ode was a real person or a figment of the poet's imagination, and also upon the Babylonian numbers in the same ode.
"So you read Horace, do you?" he asked, in quite another tone of voice.
"But a little, your reverence," returned Jack. "I had but just begun it when I left school; and I fear I shall find it too hard without some help."
"How far had you gone?" was the next question.
"I am just at the eleventh ode, but I do not understand it very well," said Jack, not less pleased than surprised at his catechiser's change of tone and manner.
"Find your place, and I will explain it to you," said Father Barnaby. "I have bestowed much study upon it—too much, some might say, for a churchman; and I can, no doubt, help you."
For more than two hours, till the lay brother he had sent to the Hall returned with his message, did Father Barnaby expound to his willing and attentive pupil, divers different and disputed passages in his favorite author, delighted to find that Jack understood and appreciated him. Then bestowing his blessing, and promising to send Jack a copy of his own treatise, he rode away in high good humor, and was half way back to the convent where he lived before he remembered that he had forgotten after all to question Jack as to his theology.
"But I can do it another time," he said to himself. "I dare say the lad is sound enough. How cleverly he understood the points in dispute between myself and Brother Thomas of Glastonbury, and how clearly he perceived that I was right. I will certainly send him the treatise."
"Well, the saints be praised!" said Father John, when his visitor was out of hearing. "He has for once gone away in a good humor. How glad I am that I thought of the book! I am sure I never cared so much for a book before. He was a heathen, I doubt, this Horace," he added, looking dubiously at Jack.
"Yes, your reverence," replied Jack, suppressing a smile. "He lived before our Lord was born into the world."
"Ah, well, then he could not be blamed, poor man. He has done us a good turn this day, at any rate."
"Will you give me the notes for the answer to the bishop's letter?" asked Jack.
"Not to-day, not to-day, my son. My poor old pate buzzes like a beehive with all this learning. Go, lad, and come again; let me see, ah, come on Saturday. Be a good lad, and above all meddle not with heresy. My blessing be upon this Horace whoever he was," he murmured, when Jack had taken his departure. "I will certainly say some masses for him when I have time. And it does no good, it can do no harm."
JACK GOES HOME FOR A VISIT.
Jack described his visit to his uncle with considerable glee, but the old man shook his head and looked grave.
"I am glad Father Barnaby was diverted for once," said he; "but I fear he will not be so easily turned aside. From whence could he have gotten the notion that you were curious about heretical books?"
"I cannot guess," replied Jack. "I have never spoken a word to any one but you and Master Fleming. Surely he could not have played us false!"
"I think not. Did you not tell me once that you had talked with Anne, and said to her that you would like to read the Scriptures? And is not Father Barnaby her confessor?"
Jack started and turned pale. "Surely, surely, Anne would never betray me!" he said. "And yet—"
"If she were questioned, she might not be able to help answering," replied the shepherd. "Such minds and consciences as hers are as wax in the hands of a confessor like Father Barnaby. Many a time hath the brother betrayed the brother to death, and the father the son, without thinking they were doing any harm, or that their confession would be used against them. However, all may yet be well, and we will not borrow trouble. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same selfe day,' our Gospel tells us. You have gotten the right side of Sir John, and that is something."
"I cannot help liking the poor man, in spite of his laziness and love of eating," said Jack. "He seems so good-natured, and he was so anxious that I should get on well with Father Barnaby, who by the way treated him with scant civility. I thought he might reverence the old man's age at any rate, for Sir John is old enough to be Father Barnaby's father. I wonder what in the world brought him up there behind the thornbush the other day."
"Not his own good will, I dare say," replied the shepherd. "I should not care if he had been the only listener, but I shrewdly suspect that sacristan of his has been before him. He is a sharp fellow, that same sacristan, and I have heard he was placed here by Father Barnaby to keep a lookout upon matters in the parish. It has been whispered—take good heed you whisper it not again—that our good knight is a favorer of the Gospel, like his father and grandfather before him; and I suspect Father Barnaby may have put this Brother Jacob about Sir John as a spy not only on him, but upon the family at the Hall. He had better not let our knight catch him at any spy work!" added the old man, smiling somewhat grimly, "Or he will get a worse fall than poor Father John's."
For two or three weeks all went on quietly with our friends at Holford. Mindful of another probable encounter with Father Barnaby, Jack studied his Horace with diligence, and stored his mind with hosts of queries to be answered and difficulties to be solved, should he meet the father again. He was a good deal startled and shocked by some things he encountered in his studies, and could not but wonder how two churchmen like Father Barnaby and Father Thomas of Glastonbury could bestow so much time and thought upon ladies of such at the least dubious character as some of those celebrated by their favorite author.
"Yes, I have often thought of that same thing," said Father John, when Jack remarked as much to him one day. "Here is Brother Barnaby ready to condemn one to I know not what, if one so much as looks at a pretty girl in the parish or gives her in all innocence a red apple or a flower, and yet he can pore for hours over all sorts of love stories, and those none of the nicest, as far as I can understand, and it is all right because they are in Latin. For my part I could wish there had never been any such language as Latin, unless just enough for the mass perhaps. I don't know what it is good for, except to puzzle men's brains and procure whippings for little boys, who when they grow up remember the whippings and mostly forget the Latin."
"And now about the abbot's letter, your reverence," said Jack. "If you had the notes ready, I would write it for you."
"Oh, dear, my son! You are as bad as Father Barnaby himself—no, not as bad, because you are good-natured and don't lecture me."
"I should hope I knew my duty far better than to lecture my elders and betters," said Jack. "I would not hurry you for the world, only you know great men like the abbot are sometimes offended at delay in their business, and he might speak about it to Father Barnaby—"
"Yes, that is true indeed," said the priest with alacrity. "That would be worse than setting the dogs on me. Well, I will make the necessary inquiries this very day, and you shall begin the letter tomorrow. It is a fine thing to be a scholar, though it sometimes brings people into trouble, as you see. If you did not know Latin, you would not be burdened with writing letters for me."
"I am sure I am very glad to do as much and more for you," said Jack, honestly. "You have been very kind to me, besides giving me that beautiful book, and I owe you amends for that unlucky mistake of mine on the hillside the other day."
"As to that, the mistake was mine, for I had no business there," replied Father John frankly. "I never should have thought of such a thing if I had not been worried into it by that pestilent sacristan of mine, who I wish was in Rome or farther away. He hath somehow—Just open that door, will you?"
Rather startled by the priest's tone, Jack threw open the door so quickly that the sacristan, who was close behind it, had no time to get out of the way. The heavy door opening outward and coming upon him unexpectedly gave him a smart blow on the head, and caused him, after staggering a few paces backward, to assume a sitting posture with more haste than was either dignified or convenient. As the poor clerk sat rubbing his forehead with a dazed expression, Father John burst out laughing.
"Truly, eavesdropping is a business which does not flourish in these parts," said he, as soon as he could recover breath. "Tut, never mind it, good brother. I dare say you meant no harm, but you should be careful not to stand so near the door."
"I was but coming with a message to your reverence," said Brother Jacob, recovering his feet, and repulsing Jack who ran to his help. "Old Dame Higgins is near her end, and desires the sacraments of the Church. I did not know you had company with you," he added, casting a venomous glance at Jack.
"Your excuse is received, Brother Jacob," said the old priest, with more dignity than Jack had thought he could assume. "I shall thank you to give orders concerning my mule, and have all things in readiness. I will visit the good woman at once, and would have you lose no time in making preparations."
Brother Jacob left the room without more words, and Father John watched him till he was out of hearing. Then, closing the door, he turned to Jack once more. "Now, dearest son, listen to me," said he, laying his hand on Jack's arm, and speaking with great earnestness. "This same sacristan of mine has whispered to me, that your uncle is, and hath long been, suspected of heresy, and that he has been teaching you the same. I trust it is not so, for your own sake and his. I ask no questions. I would willingly live in peace with all men, as you know. But, since they have put Father Barnaby over my head, I am but a cipher in mine own parish; and if you or your uncle were to be attainted of heresy, I could do nothing to save you. I pray you, therefore, be careful to whom and of what you speak. Make friends with Brother Jacob if you can, though I doubt he will be harder to conciliate than I was, although he did not fall so far. And oh, dear son, for your soul's sake, as well as your body's, beware of new-fangled doctrines. Surely, what was good enough for our fathers, may well do for us. I have learned already to love you; you are like a young brother I had once, and I do not have many to love nowadays," said the old man, with a break in his voice and tears in his eyes. "It would wring my heart, if evil should befall you."
Much affected, Jack kissed his old friend's hand, and assured him that he would be careful. On his way out he met the sacristan, and stopped to apologize for his share in the accident. Brother Jacob received his apology meekly, and said it was his duty to forgive injuries.
"But I meant no injury to you," said Jack, a little vexed. "The good father bade me open the door, and I could not see through the oak plank to know who was behind it, you know."
"True, and yet—however, we will say no more about it," returned the sacristan. "I trust I am too good a Christian to bear malice or to revenge any injury done to myself, above all when it is, as you say, unintentional."
"You may be as good a Christian as you like, but I would not trust you farther than I could see you, for all that," muttered Jack to himself. "I might have guessed, when Father John bade me open the door, that some one was behind it. I think it is my luck to make enemies. I wonder whether I had better tell my uncle what the good father told me."
Jack thought on this point all the way home, and at last concluded it best to tell the story.
Thomas Sprat heard it without surprise.
"I have been expecting as much," said he "A bird of the air is always ready to carry such matters. For myself, I care little. I am an old man, far past the age of ordinary men, and my summons will soon come. It matters little to me whether I go to my Father's house from a dungeon, or a stake, or my own bed. But I am troubled for you, my son, lest I have put your young life in jeopardy."
"As to that," said Jack thoughtfully, "I do not see that it matters so much whether one's life be long or short, so it be used in the best way and spent in God's service. I wish you would not be troubled about me, dear Uncle Thomas. I tell you truly that if I should be thrown into jail tomorrow, with no chance of escaping fagot and stake, I do believe I should still thank you for all you have done for me, and should think what I have learned here worth the price ay, a thousand times over. Besides, we may after all be in no danger; I have a dozen hard places in Horace, ready for Father Barnaby, if I encounter him again," he added, smiling.
The old man smiled also, but somewhat sadly, and shook his head.
"I doubt that bait will hardly take a second time," said he. "He is an hard man—so every one says—and I heard it whispered also among the servants at the Hall, that he was set over Father John's head expressly that he might keep a lookout for heresy."
"There is no love lost between him and Father John, I know that," remarked Jack. "I can clearly see that Father Barnaby tyrannizes over the old man, and that Father John is afraid of him. I do not believe that Father John himself would hurt a fly."
"Not unless the fly were very troublesome indeed," said the shepherd. "I would not be the fly that should keep him from his nap after dinner. These very easy-going people are sometimes hard enough on them that interfere with their beloved laziness. Well, my son, after all that has happened, I see not that we can do better than to put our trust in God and be doing good. We may be sure that what He sends or permits will be for the best in the end, since we have His word that all things work together for good to them that love Him. I wish our good knight would come home."
"I heard he was expected before many days," said Jack. "I made bold to ask my lady, the day I carried her the snails and birds' eggs for the making of her medicine, and she told me Sir John would not be away much longer. She seems a kind lady, though she is so proud and stately in her manners."
"She is a good lady, though as you say she is proud and stately, far more so than the knight himself," said Thomas. "She is more so than she used to be before the death of her son, about whom I told you the other day. I have often wished she had a daughter to comfort her. But poor Master Arthur was the only one of all her children who lived to man's estate. She did not seem to be as much bound up in the young gentleman as his father, while he lived; but she has mourned sorely for him since his death, and expended great sums for masses for him."
A JOURNEY.
"THERE is somebody coming up the hillside from the cottage," said Jack to his uncle, as they were sitting on the hillside a week or so after Jack's affair with the sacristan. "It is Master Fleming, I do believe."
"You are welcome, dear sir," said the shepherd, rising to greet the merchant. "Why did you not send for us to come to you, and spare yourself the trouble of climbing the hill?"
"The trouble is a pleasure, my old friend," said Master Fleming, shaking the old man's hand cordially. "I have lived in London many years, but I was bred in the north country where the hills are higher than here, and I have followed my father's flock on the mountain side many a day when I was a lad."
"I almost wonder you could endure life in London streets," said Jack. "I am beginning to marvel how I shall ever live in Bridge Street again after breathing the free country air all summer."
"I had little voice in the matter," said Richard Fleming. "My good father was killed, and our little property wholly destroyed by the marauding Scots (for we lived near the border), and my mother was left destitute with three young children. So when my mother's cousin in London offered to adopt me and bring me up as his own, she had little choice but to accept his offer. I well remember the exultation I felt, and the wonder and envy of my playfellows when it was announced that I was to go away to London and become a merchant; and my pining homesickness for the first few months of my sojourn in my cousin's house. But I grew used to the confinement and interested in my work after a time, and my cousin's family were very kind to me."
"Then I made acquaintance with a young kinsman of my own age, William Leavett, whom you, my son, know right well. We soon became sworn friends, and have always continued so, though we took different paths in life, and of late meet but seldom. I am now on my way to Bridgewater to see him, and one part of my errand here is to ask for the favor of your company on the road. I think you told me when I left you last that you were thinking of going home for a visit before long."
Jack looked somewhat doubtfully at his uncle. The prospect of riding all the way to Bridgewater in company with Master Fleming was a delightful one; but he thought of the old priest's warning, and of the sacristan, and he did not like the idea of abandoning his uncle when he might be in danger.
"I think, son Jack, you will do well to ride with Master Fleming, since you must go soon at any rate," said Thomas Sprat. "It will be both pleasanter and safer for you to travel with him than to travel alone. Nay, look not so grave upon it, dear lad. If your father think it best, you can return again by and by, and I shall come and see you in Bridgewater before long."
"But there is the Latin I was writing for Father John," said Jack, hesitating. "The poor old man will be sadly disappointed if I do not finish it, for I am sure he cannot do it himself. Good man, he did not know whether Horace were a Christian or a heathen."
"Ah, well," said the stranger, "many a man lives out his days in great comfort and usefulness who never heard of Horace. But as to that matter, it is my purpose to tarry a day or two at the Hall with Sir John Brydges, who, as I hear in the hamlet yonder, is last night returned from London."
"Is he returned? I am glad to hear it," said Thomas Sprat.
"He is then a good man," remarked Master Fleming.
"He is indeed, sir. I would all our country knights were like him; and his lady is worthy of her husband. Their household is a school of good manners and godly living to both men and maids."
"I have heard as much before, and am glad to hear it confirmed," said Master Fleming. "I have never met Sir John, but I have letters to him from mutual friends in London. I shall sojourn with him for two or three days, so you, Master Secretary, will have time to finish Father John's letter."
"I shall feel easier at leaving you, now that the knight is at home," said Jack to his uncle, after Master Fleming had taken his departure.
"Have no fears for me," replied the shepherd. "I have none for myself. My dependence for aid must be upon no arm of flesh, dear son, but on One who can as easily save by one as by many, and who will let no harm happen to me."
The next day Jack finished writing his Latin letter and copied it out fairly in his best hand, wishing in his soul that Master Crabtree could only see it. Then he carried it down to the little hamlet of Holford and called at the priest's house.
Father John welcomed him warmly, as usual, and admired the appearance of the letter, which, though he could not understand a word in ten, he insisted on Jack's reading aloud to him.
"It sounds all right, I am sure," said he. "And it is much better written than that of the abbot's secretary. It has come just in time too, for I shall have a chance to send it this afternoon by one of the brethren from the Abbey who has come to see the knight on some business. And now, son, what shall I pay you for your labor?"
"Nothing at all, dear father," replied Jack. "I should be ashamed to take a penny from you after all your kindness to me. I only wish I could do more for you before I go home. Shall I not set your reverence's books in order?"
"Nay, they are hardly worth the trouble, my son," replied Father John. "And so you are going home. Well, I shall be sorry to miss you, that is the truth. Your fresh young face comes upon me like sunshine. I fear I shall never see you again, for I am an old man, an old man, my dear, and between ourselves," he added, carefully looking round him, "this talk about heresy and the new doctrines, and all, is wearing me into my grave. Here has been Father Barnaby talking to me again about my duty—my duty, forsooth, who was in orders before he had left off his long coats, if indeed he ever wore them, which is doubtful—and the suspected spread of heresy in this part of the world; it was a good world before he came in to spoil it. I would he had been born in Germany or some of those outlandish parts where the Lutherans began, he would have enough to do there. And talking of the spread of heretical books, as if there was any danger from books where not one person in ten knows great A from little b. And to say I want discretion; I that might be his grandfather almost—what think you of that, my son?"
In his own mind, Jack was by no means sure that Father Barnaby was mistaken in this last named article; he did not say so, however, but applied himself to comforting the poor old man.
"I am sure, father, all the people of the parish love you. I know my uncle does, and so do all the knight's household. I heard them talking of it only a little time ago. I suppose Father Barnaby means to do his duty—"
"Oh, duty!" exclaimed Father John, interrupting him. "Whenever I hear folk talking about their duty, I always know they are going to say or do something disagreeable. But what have you there?" as Jack brought forward a basket.
"Fresh eggs, sir, ducks' and hens' eggs, and a pair of young fowls which my uncle sends you with his duty to your reverence. You will find them well fatted."
"Many thanks, many thanks, my son. And there now, that is the third pair of fowls I have had given me in a week. Does that look as if the parish were given to heresy? Do heretics send chickens and fresh eggs to their priest? Answer me that, now."
"I should say not, decidedly," answered Jack, suppressing a smile.
"The parish is a good parish if it were let alone," continued Father John, "but there, I must not keep you. I would you were not going, and yet mayhap it is best. Here, take this medal and hang it round your neck. It hath an image of your patron saint, and is of sovereign virtue to keep off the ague, so mayhap it may keep off heresies as well. Go, go, my son, and all the saints bless you!"
Jack kissed the old man's hand, promised to wear the medal faithfully, and went away rather wondering that he should feel sad at parting from one with whom his acquaintance had commenced so inauspiciously.
After leaving Father John, Jack took his way to the Hall to learn the hour at which Master Fleming intended to set out in the morning. He found the merchant and the knight walking together upon the terrace; and, standing quietly at one side, waited to be spoken to. Sir John was the first to notice him, and bade him good-day with his usual kindness.
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked. "Is my old friend, your uncle, in want of anything?"
"No, Sir John," replied Jack. "I came but to speak with Master Fleming, and they told me he was walking upon the terrace. I thought he was alone, or I should not have intruded."
"Nay, there is no intrusion in the case, my lad. I am glad to see you. Master Fleming tells me you are to be his travelling companion as far as Bridgewater. I am sorry you are going away. Your uncle will be lonely without you."
"I may perhaps come back and stay till school begins again," replied Jack, feeling much honored. "I have been very happy here, but my father misses me and wants me at home for a visit."
"I could find it in my heart to envy him the possession of such a son," replied Sir John, sighing as he spoke. "Dutiful and good children are a great blessing. See, my lad, that you never give your father cause to rue the day that God gave him a son."
"Remember the place of Scripture we read together this morning, brother," said the merchant in a low tone. "The prodigal son may yet come to himself and return to his father's house."
"I fear not, I fear not," replied the knight, shaking his head. "I fear he hath gone whence there is no returning. But should he come back, oh how gladly would I meet him—even a great way off!"
Jack stood by in reverent silence. He well knew to what the good knight alluded. Sir John Brydges had had but one son, and he had proved anything but a comfort to his parents. He had brought well-merited expulsion and disgrace upon himself at college, had gone first to London, and then abroad, and had been last heard of as fighting under the banner of one of the German princes. His mother believed him dead, and had caused many masses to be said for him; but his father could not wholly give him up for lost.
"You have come, I suppose, to see about our arrangements for tomorrow," said Master Fleming to Jack, after a little silence.
"Yes, an't please you," replied Jack. "I would now at what time we set out, so as to be ready."
"I propose to leave the Hall at an early hour, that we may avoid the heat of the day," said Master Fleming. "Can you be here by six?"
"By five, sir, if you desire it."
"Six will be early enough," said Master Fleming, smiling. "I suppose your luggage will not be large?"
"Oh, no, sir," returned Jack, blushing. "Only a change or two of clothes and two or three books—if you do not think that too much."
The knight smiled kindly. "They tell me you are fond of books," said he, "and that you are thinking of going to college. Do you then mean to be a priest or monk?"
"No, sir!" said Jack, with so much emphasis and decision that both gentlemen smiled. "I do not think I have any vocation for such a life. I had thought I should like to be a physician."
"'Tis a noble calling, and you do well to choose it, though it is not by any means so easy a life as the other; or so I should guess," said the knight. "Well, my lad, I doubt not you will do well. I have some interest at Oxford, and shall be glad to give you any help in my power. Now go, and be here betimes in the morning."
The next morning Jack was at the Hall even before the hour specified. He found his friend waiting for him, and a well-appointed pony prepared for his riding, while a man-servant attended to lead the sumpter mule, whose burden was considerably diminished. The knight gave Jack a fair rose-noble as a parting gift, and the lady bestowed upon him a plum bun and a handful of sweetmeats; and, fortified by a good breakfast of ale and cold beef, he set out on his journey in high spirits.
"Well, good luck go with 'em wherever they go, and the blessing of our Lady and all the saints attend them," said old Margery, sighing.
Their road passing by the cottage door, the travellers had stopped for a parting word, and Margery had done her best to insure their good fortune by throwing an old shoe after them.
"A better boy than Master Jack never breathed the breath of life; and as for Master Fleming, he is a godly, quiet gentleman as ever I saw, none of your swearing, ruffling gallants, and knows what belongs to good manners," added Margery, contemplating with much satisfaction the kerchiefs and hood the merchant had bestowed upon her. "Do you not think, Thomas Sprat, that we shall be lonesome without Jack?"
Thomas Sprat nodded a reply; and, having looked after the travellers as long as he could see them, he put his Testament into his pouch, and hastened away to the thicket in the little valley which was wont to serve him as a place of retirement.
HOME GOSSIP.
TO our young friend, the journey to Bridgewater in company with Master Fleming was one long pleasure. It was a great comfort to pour out his heart to one who understood him fully, to bring forward all the questions which the reading of Scripture had raised in his mind, and to listen to Master Fleming's explanations and remarks.
To his extreme delight, he found that Master Fleming had been in Rome and even in Jerusalem, as well as in Germany, and the Low Countries, as Holland was usually called. Jack could have wished the road to Bridgewater a hundred miles long, he had so much to say and so much to hear.
"Oh, how I wish I could travel abroad and see foreign lands!" he exclaimed. "It seems to me as if I were just beginning to find out how large the world is."
"It is a large place, no doubt, and we have as yet seen but a small portion thereof," replied the merchant. "There are the far-off parts of India and China, and those lands over the sea which have been discovered of late by the Spaniards, and which are described as a kind of earthly paradise by those who have seen them. But here we are, as I think, at our destination. Are not those the roofs of Bridgewater?"
"They are so, and that tall steeple is that of the Church of St. Mary. I will guide you to the house of Sir William Leavett, which is by the waterside. I could wish our journey were to be longer."
"I shall remain with my cousin for a month or more, and hope to see you many times," said the merchant, "as well as to make the acquaintance of your good father. And is this my cousin's house? Truly it is a modest one."
"That large house farther up the street should be by right," said Jack, "but the old priest of St. Mary's lives in it, and hath done for forty years. He is very old and infirm, and our Father William will not let the old man be disturbed. He never thinks of himself or his own comfort."
"He was always self-sacrificing, sometimes almost recklessly so," replied the merchant. "Well, my young friend, I must bid you farewell for a time, but I will see you again. Remember what I have said to you, and be careful, for your own sake and that of others; yet let not your care lead you to the baseness of denying your Lord, be the risk what it may. Better a hundred deaths in one than that. May the Lord have you in His keeping."
Arrived in Bridgewater, Jack could almost have thought his absence a dream, everything looked so entirely unchanged. On entering the shop, however, he noticed two or three alterations. A great bowpot of sweet flowers and herbs stood on one end of the counter. The cakes and other matters in which Master Lucas dealt were arranged with more than usual neatness and taste, and an elderly kind-faced woman, dressed in black, whom Jack had never seen before, was arranging on a tray in the window some confections of a more delicious and choice description than Jack had ever seen there before. She started as he entered, and nearly let fall her tray.
"Lady! How you startled me, lad!" she exclaimed in a brisk, cheery voice. "You will be wanting Master Lucas now?"
"Is my father well, madam?" asked Jack, using unconsciously the title he would have employed in addressing a lady of rank, for there was something superior in the stranger's whole appearance.
"Good lack! You are then young Master Jack come home again. Your father will be right glad to see you. Here, Anne! Dame Cicely! Here is Master Jack come home."
Jack's wonder as to who the stranger could be was cut short by the entrance of Cicely and Anne from the dwelling-house and of his father from the bakery; and now he really felt himself at home again. Cicely kissed and hugged him, held him off at arm's length to see how well he looked, and then kissed him again. His father was not one whit behind, and even Anne warmed up for once and was almost genial. Jack thought her looking much worse than when he left home. She was paler and thinner than ever, and her eyes had a frightened, almost a guilty, expression. As soon as he was alone with Cicely, he began to question her about his sister.
"Well, she is much as usual, poor thing," said Cicely. "No great comfort to any one, nor yet to herself, poor dear. I doubt Sister Barbara was a great disappointment to her as it turned out, though she built much on her coming."
"Who is Sister Barbara?" asked Jack.
"Why, the lady that came to us when the gray nuns' house was broken up," replied Cicely. "She is going to some convent in the north, when she can do so safely; but meantime your father gave Anne leave to ask her to stay with us. You saw her in the shop when you came."
"Was that Sister Barbara?" asked Jack, surprised. "I never thought of that. I am sure she looks like a nice lady."
"And so she is indeed, and yet she was in a way a great disappointment to your sister. You see, Anne thought that when Sister Barbara came she would have someone to help her in her penances and prayers. So she fitted up the room next her own with a rood, and an image of our Lady, and I don't know what all, and there Sister Barbara was to live secluded, and Anne was to fetch her meals, and they were to have another little convent all to themselves. Your father never interfered with her, but let her arrange matters in her own fashion; only he smiled when Anne talked about Sister Barbara's living secluded, and about her having lived in the convent ever since she was three years old, and knowing nothing of earthly vanities; and he said the gentlewoman should have her way, whatever it was."
"He is certainly the best-natured man that ever lived," said Jack. "But please go on, Cousin Cicely, I want to know how it turned out."
"Well, it turned out differently and much more pleasantly than anybody expected," continued Cicely. "Sister Barbara came at the time appointed, and Anne took her up to her room where she was to be secluded. But, bless you, she did not stay there, not she. The second day, she came down into the kitchen where I was busy cooking, and overseeing the maids. She was as much interested as could be in everything, and it being a fast-day, she proposed to me that she should make some almond pottage, such as they used to have in the convent at such times, for your father's dinner. Well, my dear, I thought I was a pretty good cook—"
"And so you are," said Jack.
"But, bless you, I cannot hold a candle to her! I never saw anywhere such nice things as she makes. Well, she was a bit shy of your father at first, but pretty soon she got to dining with the family, and bringing her work down in the sitting-room, and there was an end of all the seclusion. By and by she came to me, and says she:
"'Dame Cicely, I am tired of idleness, and I want to do something to pay for my keeping.'"
"'Laws me, madam!' says I, 'Don't you think of such a thing. You are a born lady,' says I, 'and I am sure Master Lucas thinks it a pleasure and an honor to have you for a guest.'"
"'You are all very good people,' says Sister Barbara. 'I never guessed before how lovely a thing family life could be. For you see, dame, my mother died when I was but a babe in arms,' says she, 'and I was put into the convent, and have never known anything else. But now I am here with you,' says she, 'life seems so much brighter and worth so much more than it has ever done before.'"
"'Laws, madam,' says I, 'I am glad you like our homely ways, I am sure.'"
"Well, the long and the short of it was, that she said she knew how to make many kinds of sweetmeats and cakes, and she did not see why she should not make them for your father to sell in the shop; and she prayed me to mention the matter to him. Well, I did so, and says he:"
"'Let the gentlewoman have her way and please herself. Mayhap she will feel more at home and contented, if she thinks she is doing something for her own support.'"
"And so she fell to work in good earnest, and filled the shop window with her pretty dainties; and your father says she makes him a great deal of profit. And she has left off wearing her nun's robe and veil, for she says she does not want to be stared at."
"But what does Anne say to all this?" asked Jack.
"Why, she was terribly shocked at first, especially at Sister Barbara's leaving off her nun's dress; but then Father William upholds her in it, and even Father Barnaby says it may be just as well so long as she is out of her convent, and so long as she is such an old woman. Sister Barbara laughed well at that, and so did your father, for you see she is a fine lady even now and as graceful and comely as a willow tree. Many an older and plainer woman has been married. But I must say she is far pleasanter in the house than poor, dear Anne."
"You must not find fault with Anne, dear Cicely," said Jack. "She hath a great deal to trouble her, and I dare say it vexes her to see her friend so different from what she expected. But does not Sister Barbara go to church with Anne?"
"Ay, that she does, and says her beads at home as well, and works for the poor folk. And do you know, I heard her talking with Anne one day about that very matter. Says Anne:"
"'I don't see how you can find any relish in prayer and meditation, and yet be so much occupied with worldly matters.'"
"'My dear child,' answers Sister Barbara, 'I never enjoyed prayer and meditation so much in all my life as I do now, when I come to them from helping Dame Cicely in the kitchen, or making tarts and sweetmeats for the shop, or doing some little good turn for neighbor Benton.'"
"For I forgot to tell you, Dame Benton is brought to bed of twins, after so long a time, and you never did see anything so delighted as Sister Barbara was with the babies. I don't suppose she ever saw one before in all her life."
"Well," said Jack, very much interested and desirous to bring Cicely back to the point.
"Oh! 'Well,' says Sister Barbara, 'I never took so much comfort in prayer and meditation in all my life before, not when I had hardly anything else to do.'"
"Anne didn't seem very much pleased at this, and says she, 'I always thought a religious life was one thing and a secular life another.'"
"'Ah, my dear daughter,' replies Sister Barbara, 'I have been thinking that perhaps we have been mistaken in that very thing, and that all lives may be religious lives—that of the family as well as that of the cloister.'"
"I believe she is right," said Jack with decision. "Certainly God set people in families long before there were any such things as convents, as far as I can find out, and I suppose He knew what was good for them."
"Well, well, my dear lad, these are matters too high for us," replied Cousin Cicely. "Anyhow I am glad Sister Barbara is so content, and I wish she might abide with us, for she is like sunshine in the house, so she is; and as kind and pleasant with me as an own sister, for all she is a born lady and we only simple folk. I only wish Anne would take pattern by her, for she is a kind of thorn in your father's side—that is the truth."
"I think Anne looks worse than ever," remarked Jack. "She has such a scared look. Does she continue her penances?"
"Oh, yes, and increases them every day. I never saw her so strict; and now she has taken to visiting the poor folk, she just wears herself to a shadow."
"Does she visit the poor folk?" asked Jack. "I should think that might cheer her up a little."
"So it would, I think, if she went about it in a different way," replied Cicely, "but you see she makes a penance of that as she does of everything else, and somehow the poor folk seem to feel that she does, and that spoils it all. Now when I run about among them, I just do it in a neighborly way; and I gossip a bit with this one about her baby, and with that one about the new gown and kirtle she is making for her little maid, or her old mother maybe; and I hear the old folk tell their old tales about the times that were so much better than these, you know; and really I think I enjoy it as much as they do, and I come home feeling better, and disposed to be thankful for all the good things about me. But Anne, she takes no interest in all their little plans, and unless she can do something directly for them, she will not stay. She sometimes talks to them about their religious duties, and blames them for not going oftener to church, but she never sits down for a bit of neighborly talk. So they don't like her and don't feel at ease with her, and she feels that, and it makes her colder than ever."
"I understand," said Jack. "She does it like task work, and not because she loves God and her neighbor. She seems to think God is a hard master and a harsh judge, and not a kind loving Father. I wish she could see things differently."
NEW PROJECTS.
Jack and Sister Barbara were soon on the best of terms, and he learned to love the kind genial lady as well as if he had known her all his life. He was both amused and touched to see how she enjoyed the ease and freedom of her present life, and with what a zest she entered into all the family plans. She was very particular in observing all the canonical hours, and she fasted on Fridays, as indeed they all did, but her fasts were very different matters from poor Anne's, who ate hardly enough at any time to keep soul and body together. Sister Barbara seemed to think it quite enough to abstain from flesh, like the rest of the family, and she cooked many nice little messes for fast-days, telling Anne when she objected that they were just such as they always had in the convent. She took a deep interest in all the children in the neighborhood, especially in the babies, and showed a remarkable skill in tending the latter, which certainly must have come by nature.
"For, do you know," she said one day, "I never saw a little babe near at hand till I saw Dame Burton's?"
"Sure you never were meant for a nun, madam," said Master Lucas somewhat bluntly. "You should have married some gallant gentleman, and had a household of your own. You would have ruled it well, I warrant you."
Anne looked shocked, as she was apt to do at her father's blunt speeches and sallies; but Sister Barbara sighed and smiled as she answered—
"Maybe so, maybe so, Master Lucas. I had little voice in the matter, anyhow. I grew up in the convent, and never knew any other life, so I took the veil naturally when I came of age."
"I wish I had grown up in that way," said Anne. "I should then have known nothing else, and should have had no natural ties to keep me down and bind me to earth."
"Anne, who do you suppose did so arrange matters that you should be born in a family, and have these natural ties to bind you down to earth?" asked Jack abruptly. "Who is it that has made all these relations of parent and child, brother and sister, husband and wife?"
"God, I suppose," said Anne, after a little hesitation.
"I suppose He did without doubt, since the Psalm says that children are an heritage from the Lord, and the man is blest who hath his quiver full of them; and again, 'He maketh the barren woman to keep house and to be a joyful mother of children.' Do you not think He knew what He was about when He made all these family ties? Did He not know what was the life best fitted to promote holiness?"
"I suppose then you would have every one go on in earthly carnal courses," said Anne, somewhat tartly, and coloring deeply. "You would have nobody lead a religious consecrated life save those who have no friends or relations?"
"I would have all men and women lead religious lives, ay, and lives consecrated to God's service," replied Jack with emphasis. "I would have all they do consecrated to God, yea, even eating and drinking; but I would have them religious in the state where He hath placed them, and in the duties He hath marked out for them, instead of making fantastic duties of their own. I would have them serve Him in their own families and among their neighbors, and not selfishly shut themselves up in a cloister or hermitage. I do not believe God's Word ever gave warrant for any such conduct as that. Almost all the Bible saints that I can learn anything about were married, and had servants and horses and cattle, and overlooked them as gentlemen and farmers do nowadays."
"But it is so much easier to serve God in the cloister," said Anne, in a more subdued voice.
"I am not so sure of that, dear sister," remarked Sister Barbara, who had been listening attentively. "The temptations were of a different kind perhaps, but I am not sure but they were as trying. Think of all the little bickerings and heart-burnings we used to have among us; think how much jealousy there was of the favor of the prioress, and how many tales were told from one to another. And I am sure you can see that there were a good many hindrances even in the convent. Besides, to say truth," continued Sister Barbara, blushing a little, "I don't know how it is, but I seem to enjoy my prayers now a great deal more than I did when I had little or nothing else to do than to pray. I do believe one reason is that my health is so much better now that I run about so much in the open air, and have so many things to think about."
"I am sure you are looking better, madam," said Cicely. "You have such a fine color. I wish I could see our Anne's cheeks so red."
"I have been very happy in this house," said Sister Barbara, with tears in her bright gray eyes. "I am so thankful to Master Lucas for bringing me here, if only that I might see what a home is like. I never knew before. When I go back to the cloister, I shall take pleasure in thinking how many homes there are in the land, and how good and happy the people are in them; and I shall feel a great deal more hopeful about the world than ever I did before."
"Why should you ever go back to the cloister, madam?" asked Master Lucas. "Why should you not stay and make your home with us so long as you need one? One house is large enough and to spare, and one more makes no difference, even if you did not pay for your keeping, which you do and more too. We are but simple folk, 'tis true, and you a born lady, but yet—"
"Speak not of that, I pray you, Master Lucas, my good friend," interrupted the sister. "I will abide with you for the present, since you are so kind, and we will let the coming time take care for itself. Doubtless it will be ordered for the best. I would I could find more to make myself useful."
"Dear lady, don't fret about that," said Cicely. "I am sure you are a comfort to all of us. Why, the very little ones who come to the shop are ready to worship you, if you do but speak to them."
"Why should you not set up a school for little girls, madam, since you are so fond of children?" asked Jack.
"Hush, my son!" said his father.
"Pray let him speak," said Sister Barbara, eagerly. "What were you thinking of?"
"There are so many little maids about here," said Jack, "who are too young to be of much use at home, who yet are old enough to learn to read and work, ay, and to learn all kinds of mischief. Why should you not gather them into a school and teach them all the good you know?"
"That seems to me a good motion," said Sister Barbara. "I used to be thought good at teaching, you know, Anne."
"Yes, you were far better and more skilful than any one else in the convent, except—" Anne checked herself and turned pale.
And Sister Barbara sighed and was silent for a moment.
Jack guessed that they were speaking of Agnes Harland, and he sighed in his turn.
"I love children and young folks so well, I believe that is the secret of the matter," said Sister Barbara, recovering her cheerful tone. "I should love dearly to have a dozen or so of the little things together every day and teach them to knit and spin, and perhaps to do white seam and cut-work. It would be helping them to earn a living as well as to be useful at home, would it not?"
"It would indeed, madam; and you might teach them their religious duties at the same time."
"I will talk to the priest about it," said Sister Barbara.
"I am sure our Sir William will be pleased," remarked Cicely. "He has always wished for a girls' school. But it seems like a come down in life for you to be teaching a dame-school for children such as these, not young ladies, but daughters of tradesfolk and the like."
"I suppose our Lord died for tradesfolk and laborers as well as for gentlefolks," said Jack smiling.
"That is very true," said Sister Barbara; "and a religious person ought not to think any office too lowly which is done for the good of others. I have heard that our holy father the Pope washes the feet of twelve old men every Holy Thursday."
"Yes, with a gold basin and a damask cloth," said Jack dryly. "Master Fleming told me about that. He has seen the ceremony."
"I should like to meet this same Master Fleming," said the baker.
"He bade me say to you, father, that he desired to make your acquaintance," said Jack eagerly. "I had so much to think about, I had well-nigh forgotten the message. He is Sir William's cousin as I told you, and is to stay here a month or more. I am sure you will like him, for he has travelled a great deal, and you know you love travellers' tales."
"Ay, that I do. Well, we will go to see him, and have him and Sir William home to supper. He has been kind to you, and that is enough to make me love him."
"Then must you love all the world, and yourself most of all, for all the world is kind to me," said Jack; "but when will you go?"
"Directly, and you will go with me. I am right curious to see this friend of yours."
"Jack is graver than ever," said Cicely, when Jack had left the room.
"He seems a wondrous good lad," observed Sister Barbara. "I had thought all boys rough and cruel."
"They are so, too many of them," answered Cicely; "but our Jack was never like other boys, even before he took this last turn. And yet, though Jack is so grave and thoughtful ever since he came home, he seems happy too. I see him sometimes sit thinking by himself, and his face shines as if there were a light within."
"He is much changed," said Anne. "I cannot make him out. He is not like the same boy he was last winter."
Anne was right. In such circumstances and times as I have been describing, character develops fast, and Jack had grown from a schoolboy into a man.