AN EXPLANATION.
Sir William Leavett caught with avidity at the proposition of Madam Barbara, as she came presently to be called, to teach a girls' school in Bridge Street. A room was found in a house belonging to Master Lucas and suitably arranged; and here did Madam Barbara set up her sceptre over her kingdom of about twenty little maids of all ages from three to twelve, to whom she taught the arts of sewing, knitting, spinning, and reading, promising to advance the best scholars as far as white seam, cut-work, and carpet-work, and possibly even to writing.
Her school soon became very popular, as well with pupils as with parents. The mothers rejoiced in the manifest improvement in the manners and appearance of their little girls and their advancement in all useful arts, and were flattered that their children should be taught by a "born lady." The children themselves learned to love their teacher and to feel themselves exceedingly comfortable under her gentle but decided sway. It was certainly true, as Master Lucas had said, that Madam Barbara had a natural talent for managing children. She knew how to combine the most absolute authority with great indulgence and kindness. She knew that the youthful human heart has many avenues of approach, and that as much might be done by praises and rewards as by reproof and punishment. She possessed the inestimable art of prevention—she knew that it was a great deal better if possible to keep children from being naughty, than to punish them afterwards. Her sway was so gentle, as compared with that of Master Crabtree over the boys, as to arouse some murmurings among the latter, that the girls should be so much better off than they were.
"Yes, Peggy may well like to go to school," said Mary Brent's boy Peter, in reply to his mother, who had been holding up his sister to him as an example. "It is a very different thing. Madam Barbara is always kind and gentle. She hardly ever punishes the girls, and when they do well she gives them cakes and comfits; and praises them beside. Master Crabtree hardly ever says a good word to a boy, no matter how much pains he may take; and if he does the least thing out of the way, whack comes the strap across his back or hand. If Peggy went to Master Crabtree, she wouldn't be in such a hurry to get to school, I can tell you."
"No, that I shouldn't," agreed little Peggy, heartily sympathizing with her brother. "I wish Peter could go to Madam Barbara, only she doesn't take boys."
"As though I would go to school with a parcel of little maids," growled Peter; but in his heart he wished so too.
Jack meantime fell very much into his old ways, helping his father with his accounts, playing with his old schoolmates, and going to Sir William Leavett for a Greek lesson twice a week; for, to his own disappointment as well as to that of Master Crabtree, his father firmly refused to let him go into school at present.
"He will lose all he has gained if he once gets back into that close room, and with Master Crabtree to drive him with whip and spur," said Master Lucas. "I am willing to have him learn what he can at home, since Sir William is so kind as to help him; but to school he shall not go for a year."
And as Master Lucas, with all his kindness and gentleness, was an absolute monarch in his family, Jack was fain to submit, especially as he found upon making the trial that he could not bear the confinement for any length of time. So he gave up the thought of going to school this year and to Oxford the next, and contented himself with what he could do at home. He was especially anxious to get on with Greek, as Master Fleming promised him a copy of Erasmus' Greek Testament as soon as he was able to read it intelligently; and with the help of Sir William Leavett, he made great progress.
Master Fleming still remained in Bridgewater at the house of his cousin, now and then making an excursion into the country, especially to the houses of Lord Harland and the knight of Holford, with whom he seemed to be on terms of great intimacy. He had been invited to the tables of most of the substantial citizens of Bridgewater; but while he was always ready for a friendly chat upon London matters, trade in general, or any other topic, he was anything but a boon companion and frowned most decidedly upon any light or loose conversation. He visited much among the poor of Father William's congregation, especially among the sailors' families down by the waterside, and gave a large present in money to the fund of the almshouses for the widows of mariners, which had been endowed by the will of a wealthy ship-owner some years before.
He was often to be found in Master Lucas' shop, sometimes under the pretext of storing his pockets with cakes and sweets for the school-children, sometimes merely to have an hour's talk with the kind genial old man; and he and Jack took long walks into the country on pleasant evenings, talking of everything in heaven and earth; Jack asking endless questions, and Master Fleming listening and answering with that patient kindness and sympathy which often produces in an intelligent young person of either sex, a sort of adoring reverence for an older companion. In short, Master Fleming won golden opinions from all sorts of people, from the prior of the convent, whom he informed as to the best way of supplying his house with almonds and figs, wax candles and fine cloth, to Mary Brent and her little children, to whom he gave cakes and toys and more substantial comforts.
Mary Brent's condition had considerably improved since we first met her in Master Lucas's shop at the beginning of this tale. She had recovered from her injury, and thanks to the long rest enforced by her sprained ankle, and to the generous diet provided by Dame Cicely, she found herself in better health than she had been since the death of her husband. She was thus enabled to take in the fine washing and ironing in which she excelled, and which was then a profitable business, owing to the great quantity of laces worn by both sexes.
Mary Brent was judged to be the neatest hand at a lace or cut-work falling band, or a lady's stiffened coif and pinners, of any one in Bridgewater; and thanks partly to Cicely's active patronage and recommendation, she found plenty to do. She was able to put in order her house, which had once been a good one, and to help pay her way by letting lodgings now and then to the better sort of sea-faring men. Peter and Peggy both went to school, and Master Lucas promised to take Peter for an apprentice so soon as he should be a little older, while Peggy was learning under Madam Barbara to do the fine sorts of needlework which would insure her a superior place whenever she should wish to go to service.
Moreover Mary had received letters and money from her son in foreign parts more than once—not a great deal, to be sure, but enough to be a help to her and (what she valued still more) to show that her Davy was not the scapegrace that his former masters would have made him out. In short, as Master Lucas had once prophesied, the sun was beginning to shine on her side of the hedge, and she could well afford to dispense with the charity which had been so grudgingly dealt out to her at the convent gate.
There was one person with whom Jack did not "get on" at all, and that was his sister Anne. Jack had always loved his sister dearly, it must be confessed on slight encouragement, for Anne's system of religious belief led her to look on all natural family affection with suspicion, as a thing savoring of "the world," and a hindrance to that ascetic sanctity to which she aspired. For a time during Jack's long and severe illness she had seemed to thaw toward him, and to be disposed to give him her confidence, especially after the conversation relating to Agnes Harland; and Jack had looked forward with affectionate impatience to seeing her again. But he found her, to his great disappointment, frozen up ten times stiffer and colder than ever.
At first he was unwilling to accept this state of things, and accused himself of jealousy and unkindness, but he soon came to see that it was no fancy of his own. Anne avoided him as much as possible: she would not sit down in the room alone with him, and seemed actually afraid of him.
Jack felt very much distressed, for aside from his strong natural affection toward his sister, his heart was full of the first love and joy of a genuine religious experience; and he would fain have been on good terms with all the world. He made many attempts to put matters on a better footing; but without success. Anne seemed to shrink into her shell more and more as Jack tried to draw her out of it.
At last, one day finding her alone in her room, he entered it and closed the door behind him.
"Now, Anne dear, let us have it out," said he. "Do not let us go on in this uncomfortable way any longer. Tell me at once and plainly, what have I done to offend you and make you so cold to me?"
Anne, looked round like a frightened hare for a chance to escape, but seeing none, she seemed to control herself and resume her usual icy composure with a great effort. "You have done nothing to offend me," replied she coldly. "What makes you think so?"
"Your whole air and manner," replied Jack frankly. "You avoid me at all times as though my presence carried the plague with it. You never speak to me if you can help it, and I tell you freely, sister Anne, I cannot think it right. Even if I have displeased you, it is not the part of a Christian to bear malice. The Scripture rule is, 'If thy brother trespass against thee, tell him his fault between him and thee alone.'"
"The Scripture!" said Anne, starting. "What do you know of Scripture?"
"I know that much at all events, and so do you, because Father William preached from it only last Sunday."
"I did not hear the sermon," replied Anne. "I was praying in our Lady's Chapel. It would be well, brother, if you prayed more and minded sermons less."
"And I cannot but think, sister, that it would be well for you, not perhaps to pray less, but to seek instruction more."
"I seek instruction where sound teaching is to be found," said Anne, coloring. "I do not run after novelties and novelty-mongers like Father William."
"You have no right to speak in that way of Father William," said Jack, coloring in his turn. "But we will let that pass. One of two things I am sure of," he added, fixing his eyes upon Anne; "either you think I have wronged you or that you have wronged me. Which is it?"
Anne's color grew yet deeper and then faded to paleness. She dropped her eyes, but did not speak.
"Anne, did you tell Father Barnaby that I was curious about heretical books?" asked Jack.
"That is no affair of yours," replied Anne, trying to speak in her usual tone, though she trembled visibly. "My confessions are between my confessor and myself."
"In faith, it is my affair, and is like to be an affair of moment, if your confessions are such as may bring me to the stake," returned Jack. "Father Barnaby may be your confessor, but he is not mine; and you have no right to talk of my affairs to him."
Anne grew paler and paler. She sat silent for a moment, and then whispered, "I could not help it."
"Could not help it," repeated Jack. "Could you not tell him the truth, at least? When did I ever say to you that I would like to read heretical books?"
"You said you would like to read the Bible," said Anne.
"And is the Bible an heretical book? Is not the Bible the Word of God? And how then can it be heretical?"
"There is no use in going over all that again," returned Anne. "You know as well as I that it is wrong and presumptuous for lay and common people to desire to read the Scripture. You know what comes of it."
"I know what will come of it one day, and that will be the downfall and ruin of those who so presumptuously keep it from them to whom it rightfully belongs," said Jack, forgetting his prudence. He might have said more had not Anne herself checked him.
"Jack, if you have any mercy on me or yourself, hush, and say no more such things. You will not only destroy your own soul, but mine, if you go on. If you knew all that I have borne and am bearing for your sake, you would be more pitiful to me."
"But why should you bear anything on my account, dear Anne?" asked Jack, softened at once by his sister's look and tone of distress.
"Because I would save you if it were possible," returned Anne, weeping; "because I would—but oh, it is of no use!" she sobbed, bursting into a flood of bitter tears. "I would have saved the other. I would have saved Agnes, if a whole life spent in prayer and penance would have done it—if it would have availed for her even after ages spent in purgatory; but all is of no use. Father Barnaby says she was an incurable heretic, and as such doomed to hell without remedy; and he says my love for one like her is a sin for which all my penances will hardly atone. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Oh, if I could see any way of escape, any ray of hope; but no, there is, there can be none!"
Jack hesitated a moment, and then came to his sister's side. He felt that he must speak, that to keep silence would be that denial of which Master Fleming had warned him to beware at all hazards.
"Anne, believe me, there is another way, an easy and safe way to mind and spirit, whatever it may be to the body in these evil times," said he. "God is far, far more merciful than you think. All these labors which are wearing out your life are none of His appointing. They are but the cunning devices of men. He hath provided a way by which we may be saved, even by simple faith in His mercy through the blood of His Son."
"Dear Anne, our Lord hath done all for us already. He hath borne our sins in His own body on the tree; it is by His stripes we are healed, and not by those we lay on ourselves; the Scripture says so. They are the words of St. Peter himself. He came into the world not to condemn, but to save it, and whosoever believeth in Him hath everlasting life and shall never come into condemnation. He is ready to save, His ear is always open. Oh, dear Anne, come to Him—see and know Him. Leave all these devices of men which are separating you from your family, and driving you into your grave, and be at peace."
Anne looked at her brother for a moment with wide-open eyes as if she had seen a ghost. Then she said in a husky whisper—
"What do you mean? Who has been saying these things to you?"
"It is the Lord Himself who says them, Anne," replied Jack. "He tells us so in His Word, that very word which supported Agnes Harland when she was despitefully used for reading and believing it. Anne, I am putting my life in your hands by telling you these things; but I cannot see you suffering as you are without trying to help you. Oh, sister, only read for yourself—only hear—"
In his eagerness, he had thrown himself on his knees at his sister's side and seized her hand.
Anne pushed him away.
"How dare you speak so to me?" she said angrily. "Is it not enough then that you should destroy yourself without trying to destroy me?"
"It is because I would save you that I speak. Only look for yourself. Anne, I tell you, as sure as you are alive, there is no other way of salvation but through faith in Christ. If your merits were as great as those of St. Peter himself, they could avail nothing so far as that is concerned. Our Lord has Himself paid all the price of our redemption, and we have but to accept it as a free gift at His hands. Oh, sister, the way is so easy!"
"Easy! Yes, the way to hell is always easy," said Anne, with bitterness. "It is the other way that is hard. How dare you come bringing your heresies into this room where our mother died? How dare you speak them to me who am the promised bride of Christ? How dare you tell me that all my prayers and penances are worth nothing in God's sight, after all these years that I have striven to earn His favor and love?"
Jack was silent for a moment, startled by Anne's burst of passion so unlike her usual self-restraint.
Then he said gently, "His favor and love are yours already, Anne, if you will but take them. They are a free gift. The gift of God is eternal life through His dear Son."
"Oh, it is too hard—too hard," cried Anne, bursting into a fresh passion of tears. "I have heard all these things before. They rang in my ears for weeks and months after Agnes was taken from me; and now, just as they had ceased to haunt me day and night, you awaken the memory of them again. I will go far away. I will to the nunnery again—to the strictest order that I can find, and there in the darkest cell I will—" Anne's words were choked by her sobs.
Jack, much distressed, would have taken her hand to soothe her, but she repulsed him violently, and then as if her strength were exhausted by the effort, she fell back fainting in her chair.
At that moment, Sister Barbara opened the inner door which communicated with her room.
"Hush, dear lad," said she, gently and quietly. "Help me to lay your sister on the bed, and then leave her to me. She will be better presently, poor thing."
"I fear I have been to blame," said Jack, as he lifted Anne in his arms and felt shocked to discover how emaciated she was. "I have distressed when I meant to help her."
"I know, I know," whispered the good nun. "Say no more, but go and pray for her and all of us. I will bring her to herself, and she will be better."
"THEY THAT SOW IN TEARS."
Jack left the house and went out to walk, feeling the need of solitude to compose his thoughts. He was distressed at his sister's condition, and a little frightened when he thought of the way in which he had put himself in her power; and yet, in considering the matter, he did not see how he could have done otherwise. He was so deep in thought that he started on being spoken to, as if a bolt had fallen from the sky.
"A fair evening, my young brother," said Master Fleming. "Yet you do not seem to be enjoying it greatly. Your eyes are on the ground as if your thoughts were heavy."
"They are so in truth," said Jack. "I am right glad to meet you, Master Fleming, and would willingly have your advice and opinion on a grave matter."
"Both are at your service," said Master Fleming. "I trust nothing unpleasant has chanced."
In reply Jack told him the whole story, to which Master Fleming listened with grave attention.
"I cannot see that you have done wrong," said he at last. "You might perhaps have used more caution, and yet caution is not always best. You say no one heard you but your sister?"
"Nobody unless Madam Barbara might have caught a few words," replied Jack. "Her room is next my sister's. I hardly think she could have done so, or she would not have spoken so kindly and gently to me."
"What did she say?" asked Master Fleming.
"She bade me go pray for Anne and myself—pray for us all, were her words, I think. She is always a kind lady; but, methinks, as I remember it, there was an unusual tenderness in her voice and glance."
"That is strange, if she did really overhear you," said the merchant. "You do not think your sister would betray you?"
"Never, if she were left to herself," said Jack, warmly; "but you see, there is just the rub. She will not be left to herself. I have good reason to think that she has told tales of me already, from what Father Barnaby said to me at Father John's house in Holford."
"How was that?" asked Master Fleming.
Jack repeated the story, to which the merchant listened with attention, laughing heartily as Jack recounted with considerable humor his encounter with Father Barnaby, and the way in which he had been thrown off the scent by means of Horace and the Babylonian numbers.
"Well, my brother, you certainly owe Horace a debt of gratitude," said he, when Jack had finished the story. "You say you have not seen the priest since that time?"
Jack replied in the negative.
"I see nothing that you can do but to wait in hope and trust for the result," said Master Fleming. "It may be that your words will be blessed to your sister after all, and that she may have grace to turn to the only source of comfort and light. Poor young maid, my heart is sad for her. Meantime I need not tell you to treat her with all kindness and forbearance, and to pray earnestly for her."
"I never mean to be out of patience with her," said Jack, "and yet she does anger me sometimes so that I can hardly forbear speaking sharply to her—not for my own sake, but for that of my father and my Cousin Cicely. She is such a continual grief to them."
"There is nothing gained, but a good deal lost by that, my young brother," said the merchant kindly. "I dare say your good father does not lose patience with his unhappy daughter."
"Not often," replied Jack. "He treats her always with the greatest forbearance and kindness, puts up with all her ways, and indulges her in everything; and yet she does not seem to have the least notion of it."
"I dare say not; few people have," said the merchant dryly. "But do you take pattern by your father, and remember that you have a double call to exercise kindness and love. Let me tell you what to do. When your patience seems like to fail, do not dwell upon and aggravate in your own heart the offence of your sister (as I know by my own experience one is apt to do), but lift up your heart in prayer for her, and then recall to mind your own offences against God, and His gracious and free forgiveness, and remember our Lord's saying, 'not till seven times, but till seventy times seven.' Above all pray that your heart may be filled with love to God and man, for therein lies the great remedy for sin in every form."
"I will," said Jack, brushing the tears from his eyes. "Oh, what shall I do for a counsellor when you are gone? I wish you could abide with us always."
"That can hardly be," replied Master Fleming. "I must go back to London before long. But I trust some friend will be raised up to you."
"I wish I could go with you," said Jack. "It would be so much easier to be good with you."
"It is not the part of a good soldier to choose the easiest way," replied Master Fleming, smiling. "Besides, Jack, it is usually a mistake to think that you could serve God and do better in some other place than the one where He has put you. It is this very error which has driven so many into the cloister. Others it has led out into the dangers of the world, for which they were wholly unfit. Many a one is sick of home, and fancies he would do better in a wider sphere, while he is failing in every relation of life in the place assigned him by Providence. Be content where you are; few lads have a better or more cheerful home, though all may not be as you desire."
"I know that indeed," said Jack eagerly. "I should be a villain to cherish discontent, while I have my father and dear good Cousin Cicely to make much of me. I am rather afraid my way will be made too soft and easy."
"Never fear," said Master Fleming. "That is a misfortune which I venture to say never yet happened to one who was honestly trying to serve God with all his heart. Our Father loves to see His children happy, but He is sure to send them all the crosses they need. Enjoy your peaceful sunshiny home while it is yours, for these are threatening times, and we may not long be left in peace. The sun shines just now, you see," he added, looking toward the vest where was piled up a gorgeous mass of thunder-clouds, "but it will soon set, and I hear already the growling of the coming storm. The sun will rise again, we know, but before that time many a fair barque may be wrecked, and gallant sailor drowned. Let us pray that we may be able to endure all these things, and to stand at last before the Son of man."
Awed and yet comforted, Jack turned his steps homeward. He found nobody in the shop but Simon the journeyman.
"Where is my father, Simon?" he asked.
"Your father and Dame Cicely have gone to see poor Dame Higby in her trouble," replied Simon, "and they did talk of stopping to supper with your cousin Master Luttrell. Madam Barbara is in the other room, waiting supper for you, and Mistress Anne is above."
"I did not think it so late," said Jack. "I am sorry I have kept the lady waiting. I will be with her as soon as I wash my hands."
"Your sister is ill at ease and keeps her chamber," said Madam Barbara, in reply to Jack's somewhat timid question. "I did not like to leave her, but she begged me to do so, and I thought perhaps she would be best alone."
Jack felt himself somewhat ill at ease at the prospect of a tête-à-tête with Madam Barbara; but the lady chatted on as usual about all sorts of matters. Jack could not help thinking, however, that there was something peculiar in her tone, and once or twice fancied that her eyes rested on him with unusual tenderness.
When the meal was finished and cleared away, Sister Barbara went up to Anne, and Jack sat down to occupy himself with his books. He did not find Horace very congenial to his present feelings, and was just wishing that he dared take out his Bible, when Sister Barbara again entered the room, closing the door after her, and came toward him.
Jack rose, but she made him a sign to be seated, and sat down near him. Jack's heart beat, for he felt that something was coming; but he kept silence and waited to be spoken to.
"Jack," said Sister Barbara, in a low tone, "will you forgive me? I listened to what you said to your sister this afternoon. I came into my room while you were talking, and I could not help listening. Will you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive, dear lady," said Jack, recovering himself, for he was considerably startled. "I said nothing wrong to Anne, nothing I would take back. I know they were dangerous words, but they were true, and I am sure you will never betray me."
"I would not betray you unless I betrayed myself," said Dame Barbara, in a still lower tone. "Jack, I have so longed to hear words like those once more. I have heard them before from the lips of one who paid clearly for them."
Jack felt fairly giddy with astonishment. A new light seemed all at once to dawn upon him, which made clear a hundred little things which had puzzled him.
"Do you mean, from Agnes Harland?" he asked. "Did you hear them from her?"
"Hush!" whispered the lady. "Yes. However you heard the tale, it is true. It was from that poor child, that I learned to know the truth of what you said to Anne this afternoon. After she was secluded from the family, she was very ill and the heart of our prioress was moved with pity for her. She had always a pitiful heart, dear lady, and would fain have saved the poor girl, and got her away to her friends before the matter came out; but it could not be. However, she pitied her as I said, and at last got her moved from the prison cell to a more comfortable place where she could at least see the light of day. Father Barnaby consented on condition that she should see none of the family, and that I alone should attend upon her; for he thought I had grown up in the house, as indeed I had, and that I was too steadfast to be moved. Agnes did not live many weeks; but she lived long enough to tell me wonderful things, and to convince me that she was right; and when she died, she gave me this book, one of those which she had brought from home, and which, being small, she had managed to conceal about her person."
Madam Barbara drew from her bosom a small, thin, and much-worn book, and put it into Jack's hand. Feeling as if he were in a dream, Jack opened it and looked at the titlepage. It was an English translation of Luther's commentary on Galatians, with the text. On the margin was traced in trembling characters, "Fear not them which kill the body," and again, still fainter, "My peace I do give unto you."
"That is all of Scripture I have ever seen," continued Dame Barbara. "Agnes had the Gospels also, but they were discovered and taken from her when she was imprisoned. I have read and read this book again and again, and I prize it more than life; but I do so long to read the whole Gospel, the words of our Lord himself. When I heard your speech this afternoon, I was sure you had read them, and I determined at all hazards to ask you. Have I done wrong?"
"No, indeed, madam," replied Jack, recovering himself. "You have done well, and right thankful am I that I can bring you to a sight of the Gospel. I will lend you the book at once, and it may be that I can procure a Testament for you from the same friend who gave me mine. But you know it is a dangerous possession."
"I know that," said Sister Barbara. "Have I not jealously guarded this treasure of mine for two long years? But I am growing tired of secrecy, and I should like to speak out before I die."
"I am often troubled myself about this same secrecy," said Jack. "It seems a kind of denial of the Master; and yet, for the present I see no other way."
"Hush!" said Madam Barbara, "Here comes your father."
"So! I find you in good company, son," cried Master Lucas with his usual jolly laugh. "I have been thinking you would be lonely. But where is poor Anne? Not at the church or chapel in this storm, I trust?"
"Anne is not well, and is lying down, dear father, and Madam Barbara was kind enough to come and sit with me," said Jack. "How you find Dame Higby?"
"Why, poorly—but poorly," replied Master Lucas, his sunny face clouding at remembrance of the grief he had witnessed. "You see, her poor man died suddenly and without the sacrament—some say he refused them, but that I do not believe; and he hath left her but poorly off. I doubt when all the expenses of the funeral are paid, she will have little left to live upon. We must remember her, Cicely, and not let her want."
That night Jack put his Testament into Madam Barbara's hands, and the next day, he brought her a small copy from Master Fleming's store, now getting low.
ANNE AT HOME.
Jack had hoped his explanation with Anne would have cleared up matters between them; but to his sorrow, he found their intercourse was more constrained, and on a more uncomfortable footing, than ever. Anne's treatment of him had heretofore been rather negative than positive. She had avoided all private conversation with her brother, and had kept him at a distance; but that was all. Now, however, she was absolutely unkind and harsh, and that in a very vexatious way. She treated him with that sort of contempt so hard for young persons to bear.
Jack was naturally fond of talking about his life and experiences in the country, and his father and Cicely liked to hear him; but Anne took special pains to show that she felt no interest in the matter. She constantly contradicted him, put wrong constructions on all he said and did, and seemed to find special pleasure in speaking slightingly of his most revered friends, Master Fleming and Sir William Leavett.
Jack turned the tables on her one day by remarking on her inconsistency: "You are shocked at my father for finding fault with the pride and luxury of the prior, and the rapacity of Father Joseph, because, forsooth, you say we ought to reverence the clergy and not to criticise them; but I do not see why you are not just as bad yourself. Sir William is a priest, and an old priest as well; and one whom every one allows to be a man of most saintly life and conversation. Why is it not as irreverent in you to find fault with Sir William as it is in my father to laugh at the prior?"
Anne had no answer ready, but she was not the more amiable on that account. In general, it must be confessed that considering his naturally hasty temper, Jack bore his sister's treatment with wonderful patience. Sometimes, indeed, he would show a flash of the old fire, and turn on Anne sharply enough: but he was always sorry when he was tempted to do so, for it did Anne no good and only burdened his own conscience. Both Master Fleming and Madam Barbara counselled him to patience and forbearance.
"You cannot tell what is working in Anne's mind," said Madam Barbara. "The poor girl is very unhappy, of that I am sure; and it is her unhappiness which makes her so fretful."
"She need not visit her unhappiness on my poor father," said Jack. "That does not make her feel any better."
"No, it is the last way in which to find comfort," replied Madam Barbara; "but it is very common conduct nevertheless."
In truth Anne was very unhappy, and that for more reasons than one. She would have repudiated the charge with indignation, if any one had told her she was jealous and envious of her brother; but such was nevertheless the case. Anne had, in fact, a great conceit of herself. Whether consciously or not, she cherished the idea that she was altogether superior to the other members of her family.
The childish fancy for playing at nun, had been considered as a wonderful instance of a vocation for a religious life in so young a child, and she was praised and petted for it accordingly, not only by her mother and her gossips, but by the nuns in the convent where she was sent to be educated at her mother's express desire. Anne found her convent life exactly suited to her taste. She had a good voice and a fine taste in music. She was naturally religious and had an especial bent toward ceremonial observances; and she was constantly held up as an example to the other pupils in the convent. Her opinion was already appealed to and considered of weight in the matters of decorations and music for festival occasions, and she was always put forward to sing at public services. She was constantly spoken of in her own hearing, as a young person of singular piety and talent, and one likely to rise to a high place in the sisterhood; for her taking the veil was considered by herself and others as a settled matter.
At home, she was only little Anne Lucas, petted, indeed, by her father and Cicely (who came to rule the house after Dame Lucas' death), and indulged in all reasonable matters; but not considered as of any great weight in the family, and now and then set down very gently indeed, but decidedly, by her father, when she transgressed the rules considered proper for the guidance of young women at home. It was no great wonder that with her disposition, she liked the convent best, and quite decided to make a profession when she was old enough.
Then came the death of the old confessor, who loved ease and comfort himself and had no disposition to deny it to other people, and the advent of Father Barnaby, who never spared himself, nor anybody else. The old nuns grumbled, and the prioress now and then rebelled, and successfully too, for she was a woman of spirit and ability and had no notion of being made a cipher in her own house; but the younger sisters, with only few exceptions, were enthusiastic partisans of Father Barnaby, and none more so than Anne. No service was too long for her, no penance too severe. She was bent upon becoming a saint on Father Barnaby's pattern, and the confessor encouraged her in the idea. All this helped to keep alive in her mind the idea of her own superiority. She was a good deal shaken indeed by the incident of her friend's disgrace and disappearance, and for a little time she was thoroughly humbled in her own eyes; but the penances she enjoined upon herself with a view of expiating her own offence and that of her friend, seemed to build her up once more in her own self-esteem. These penances she continued, as we have seen, in her father's house when she was sent home to remain for a year before taking the veil.
Her father with his bustling business habits, his love of moderate good cheer, and his perhaps too outspoken contempt and dislike for the monks and the religious houses generally, was a mere worldly-minded scoffer in her eyes; Cousin Cicely, whose whole life had been one long self-abnegation, but who could hardly read, and write not at all, was a mere housewife fit for nothing but her kitchen and her store-rooms; and Jack was but an insignificant chit of a boy, to be patronized and brought into the right way by his sister's influence. Jack was to become a priest, and perhaps be a bishop, while she was abbess of some great religious house (for already her ambitions soared far beyond the little sisterhood at Nunwood), and he was to owe all to her influence and direction.
It was a great shock to this fine castle in the air, when Jack utterly refused to leave Sir William Leavett's church and teachings for the spiritual guide she had selected for him. Jack declared that Sir William was a good man and kind to him; that he loved him dearly, and would not leave him for any of the fathers at the convent; and his father sustained him in his refusal, adding that in his opinion, Anne would do well to consult Sir William herself.
Anne had performed many "humbling" penances to perfect her in humility, but, strange to say, when it came to a real contradiction, these penances did not seem to help her in the least. She was as angry at Jack for presuming to have an opinion of his own, as if she had never kissed the feet of the sisters or knelt on the floor while they were at dinner.
But the vexation she had felt at Jack for refusing to be governed by her in the matter of a confessor was nothing to the anger which she felt against him at present. Jack presuming to read and decide for himself; pretending to have a higher standard than her own, and above all attempting to instruct her; Jack telling her that all her penances, her enforced works of charity, her bed of boards and ashes, her fasts and vigils, were all worthless and worse than worthless, and that he—he, a schoolboy, and three years younger than herself—had discovered a better and safer way! Anne had always found it hard to have any charity or toleration for those who differed from her, but this was the worst of all.
But this was not all. There was a deeper cause for her disquiet than wounded self-love. Anne had told the truth when she said that she had found it hard to forget the words she had heard from Agnes Harland. They had indeed rung in her ears for days, and a voice in her heart constantly made answer to them, "These things are true! They are no delusion—no modern invention. They are true, and if so all my belief hitherto has been false, all my sanctity wherein I have trusted and for which I have received honor of men is built on a false foundation."
For days and weeks these and such like thoughts tormented her. She confessed them to Father Barnaby; she performed with punctilious accuracy the penances he laid upon her; she tried with all her might to overcome her affection for poor Agnes, and to believe what Father Barnaby told her, that her betrayal of her friend's confidence to him had been a virtue and not a piece of base treachery. She did in some measure quiet her conscience and mind, and recover her self-complacency, by such means; but there yet lingered in the depths of her heart, an uneasy feeling that all was not right with her; that Agnes might after all have been a martyr for truth instead of a stubborn heretic.
She had not intended to tell Father Barnaby of what Jack had said about wanting to read the Bible; but, as Thomas Sprat had once said, she was as wax in the hands of her confessor. The clergy had begun to be exceedingly jealous on the subject of the Scriptures, already spreading among the common people, and to watch on all sides for the least indication of heretical opinions. Anne came away from her confession trying to think that she had done her duty to her brother, though she well knew to what her confession might lead. She felt that she had betrayed her brother's confidence, and it was this which made her so shy of him when he came home from Holford. Still, she said to herself she had done her duty, she had disregarded the ties of the flesh, as she had been told she was bound to do; and if she was made wretched thereby, why, there was only so much the more merit in the action, and that was some comfort.
Just as she had succeeded in attaining some degree of quietness, came Jack, determined to arrive at an explanation, full of the earnestness of a thorough religious conviction, and roused in her heart again all the old rebellious misgivings. In vain, did she strive to forget what he had said. It rung in her ears by night and day. The ghost, which had never been quite laid, came back to haunt her more constantly than ever, with the old whisper, "It is true. It is all true; and with all your efforts you have not made one step toward true holiness; because you have been walking in the wrong direction. You are a miserable sinner, not one whit better, not so good as these people you have been looking down upon all your life."
If Anne had yielded to these convictions, if she had listened to the voice speaking within her, she might indeed have been unhappy for a time; but her sorrow would not have been bitter, and she would soon have found peace. But she would not yield—not one inch. To do her justice, it was no fear of consequences which kept her back. She would have gone to the stake as cheerfully as any martyr that ever died. But her pride rose in arms, that pride which was her strongest characteristic, and which waxed stronger and stronger, because she never acknowledged its existence to herself. Was she to confess that all her life had hitherto been wrong and mistaken? Was she, the pattern to the pupils, and even to the elder sisters, the prospective prioress, the future abbess, perhaps, to own that she had no title to all these honors, that she was no saint, but a miserable sinner, that instead of doing anything to purchase the salvation of others, she could only sue as a beggar for her own?
There is no passion of the human heart harder to deal with than pride, even when we have all the helps which grace can give. It is hard to descend into the valley of humiliation and to catch no slips by the way; if we do chance to fall, our enemy is always ready to take advantage of our fall to disturb our rest; yet, when we are summoned to descend into this valley, there is no peace to be found but in obedience to the call. Anne heard the summons, and in her heart of hearts she felt that it came from God; but she was determined not to obey. She fought against conviction with all her might, but as yet the voice would not be silenced nor leave her, and the combat had to be fought out anew every day. Her life was made wretched by the discord in herself, and in her desperate distress, she visited her own wretchedness on all around her, especially on Jack, whom she looked upon as the cause of all her trouble. She knew that he prayed for her, and tried to be kind and patient with her, and that provoked her worst of all. She redoubled her devotions and penances, but she had lost all comfort in them. She would have eased her mind by confession, but, angry as she was at Jack, she hesitated at putting his life into the hands of Father Barnaby. Besides, the father was very busy preparing for his journey to London, and had no time to hear confessions at present, so she must even bear her burdens alone.
"Here is Father Barnaby asking for you, Jack," said Master Lucas, coming into the sitting-room where Jack was at work with his books. "He is just about to set out on his journey, and wants a word with you at the door."
"With Jack, father?" said Anne, in a tone of uneasiness. "Are you sure?"
"I know only what he said, sweetheart. He asked for Jack. Hurry, my son, and do not keep the father waiting."
Anne would have liked to listen, but she dared not do so, though she came into the shop. She saw the father give Jack a couple of books which Jack received with all due reverence, exchange two or three remarks with her father, and apparently decline politely an invitation to take some refreshment. Then, bestowing his blessing, Father Barnaby rode away as it seemed, in a very good humor; and Master Lucas and his son came back into the shop.
"What did Father Barnaby say?" asked Anne.
"He gave me the books he promised me, and advised me to study them," replied Jack. "I am sure I shall do so with pleasure, for he knows a great deal more about Horace than Master Crabtree does."
"Horace," said Anne in a disappointed tone. "You must be mistaken, Jack. I am sure Father Barnaby does not concern himself about such heathen and secular learning."
"Look for yourself," said Jack, smiling. "Here are the two volumes both of his own writing, one upon the Eleventh Ode of Horace, and the other on the Latin metres. Father Barnaby is a great student of the Latin poets."
Anne was convinced against her will, but she looked very much discomposed.
"Did he leave no message for me?" she asked.
"None," replied Jack. "He asked if all were well, and if Sister Barbara kept on with her school; that was all. Then he bade good-morning and rode away."
And was that all? Anne had much ado to keep back her tears of mortification and disappointment. After all her efforts to please him, he had gone away to be gone for weeks or months without a word. He had distinguished Jack with special favor, notwithstanding what she had told him about her brother, and had apparently forgotten her existence. It was very hard, and it did not tend to make her feel more kindly toward her brother. She went up to her room and cried till she was weary, and then imposed a new penance upon herself, because she had failed in humility. Poor Anne!
MARY BRENT'S LODGER.
"I am glad he is gone," said Sister Barbara to Jack, when she heard of the afternoon's visitor. "I could not be easy so long as he was about. He is a terrible man."
"And I am glad as well, and that for more reasons than one," answered Jack; "one of which is that poor old Father John will be left in peace. I have no fears of his disturbing other folks for heresy or anything else, so long as he is left to himself. But there is that sacristan, who is a prying, eavesdropping fellow, and men say a spy of Father Barnaby's."
"I grow very weary of all this concealment," said Sister Barbara. "I sometimes feel as if I must speak, come what may."
"Father William says the same, and I suppose it must come to that shortly," said Jack. "He has scruples about celebrating masses for the dead, and I think he will declare himself before long. He is not the man to act against his conscience. Do you think, madam, the time will ever come when the people of this realm will dare to speak out, and when the Scripture will be read in the churches?"
"It may come in your time, but I fear not in mine," said Sister Barbara, sighing, "and there will be terrible times first. The bishops and priests will not give up their claims on the people without a fierce struggle, and nobody can guess the side the King will take. You heard the sermon the priest of St. Mary's preached last Sunday about those who presume to read the new Gospel?"
"Yes, madam," said Jack laughingly. "He is a learned man. He said that Greek was a heathen tongue, and asked if it were likely that the Scripture would be written in the language of heathens, while Latin was the tongue of our Holy Father the Pope. He said Hebrew was the speech of unbelieving Jews, and therefore not fit even to be named by Christians. ¹ I could hardly forbear laughing."
¹ This is a fair sample of the eloquence of the preaching friars.
"Laugh while you can," said Sister Barbara sadly. "I greatly fear we shall all laugh out of the other side of our mouths ere long. Just think what a power this man and others like him hold in their hands; how they penetrate the inmost secrets of families and individuals. Jack, there are hard, troublous times before us, and we do well to be sober, wary, and sad."
"Sober and wary if you please, but by your leave, dear lady, not sad," said Jack. "Since all our fate standeth not in the hands of these men, but in the power and will of our Lord who can overrule all their designs for the good of His children, and make, as the Psalm says, even the very wrath of man to praise Him. He says to His disciples, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' but He adds in the same breath, 'Be ye of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'"
"You are right, and I am wrong and faithless," said Madam Barbara; "but oh, dear brother, you are young, and you have never seen what I have seen. You have lived under the pure and peaceful shelter of your father's roof, and your priest, Sir William, is one of a thousand. But I have grown up in a convent; I have been behind the scenes and have been trusted. I saw the condemnation and punishment of Agnes Harland, who was murdered, if ever a sweet saint was murdered in this world for her boldness in speaking the truth."
"Murdered!" said Jack, starting. "I thought she died a natural death."
"And so she did in one sense, that is to say, she was not killed by any regular execution. No, it was by slow, hard, unrelenting tyranny, by exclusion from light and air and nourishing food, ay, often even from sleep itself for days together. Father Barnaby persuaded the prioress that such severity would overcome her obstinacy and bring her back to her duty; but he did not know with whom he had to deal. I have seen the prioress weep bitter tears after she had, at his instigation, given orders for some new hardship to the poor prisoner; and I believe she would never have consented to what was done, had she not verily believed she was acting for the good of Agnes herself. At last Agnes fell ill, so ill that all thought she must die. Then the reverend mother could bear it no longer. She was a spirited lady and used to rule, and she had her own way in spite of the confessor. She had Agnes removed to a more comfortable place, and appointed me to attend on her, because she said she knew I would be kind to her and that I was in no danger of being perverted. She little knew what was going on. But Agnes died at last. They persecuted her almost to the last minute to recant, but she was firm as a rock, and died peacefully, with the name of our Lord on her lips."
"They blamed me much for weeping for an obstinate heretic," continued Sister Barbara, wiping her eyes. "They buried her in an obscure corner of the graveyard, all overgrown with nettles, and without any sacred rites. The sisters were always afraid to approach the place, because others had been buried there before, nuns who had broken their vows, and one who was an heretic like Agnes. They said the place was haunted; but to me it seemed like holy ground."
"You will hardly wish to return to a convent to live, madam," said Jack, after a pause.
Sister Barbara shuddered. "I will never do so unless I am compelled by force," said she. "I had not been three weeks under this roof, before I felt that it would break my heart to leave it; but now that I know more of the matter, my mind is made up. I will remain in your good father's family and teach my little school as long as I am allowed to do so. I love my children, and they love me, and I hope I am doing some good in the world."
"And if they require you to return to the convent?" said Jack.
"Then I shall refuse; and if I am pressed I shall tell my reasons," said Sister Barbara; "and after that, things must be as they will, or rather, as the Lord pleases. Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same day. I shall always be thankful that I was allowed to learn what a Christian home was like."
"I am sure it was a blessed day that brought you here, madam," said Master Lucas, who had entered the room in time to hear the last words. "You have been like sunshine in the house ever since you came into it. I would all religious persons were like you, and above all that you could put some of your own bright spirit into my poor Anne. I know not what to do with her. I do not like to find fault, and besides it does no good; but it hardly seems fair that she should spoil the comfort of the whole family as she does. But as for you I do trust, madam, that you will never think of lodging elsewhere, so long as you can be content with such accommodations as simple folk like us have to offer."
"There is no fear of that, Master Lucas; I am only too happy here," replied Sister Barbara, smiling and sighing. "I never knew there were such kind people in the world as yourself and Dame Cicely. I only wish I could do aught to requite your kindness."
"And so you do, madam, so you do. To say nought of anything else, you have added much to my profit the last six months, by your skill in confectionery. But I am forgetting my errand. Son Jack, can you leave your books long enough for a walk this fine evening?"
"Surely, and with great pleasure, dear father,"' replied Jack. "It is not often you find time to walk with me."
"Nor have I the time now, for Simon has gone to Master Mayor's with the manchets and cold baked meats for the feast to-night; and I must be at home to send off the other matters. But here is little Peter come from Mary Brent to ask you to come down and see her lodger who lies very ill. Peter says he hath no infectious disease, but suffers from the effects of hardship and famine. It seems Davy's captain took him off a wreck on which he was floating, a few days before they came to port. He was very ill and all but starved; and Davy, like the good fellow he is, brought the poor man home to his mother's house."
"Has Davy returned, then? I am right glad to hear it," said Jack. "He was always a good lad, though he would go to sea in spite of the prior."
"I think none the worse of him for preferring to work and help his mother," observed the master baker. "But Mary would like you to come down and see the poor man; and hark ye, lad, you might as well carry a little basket with you, just some biscuits and manchets, and a jellied fowl. I had reserved two or three for ourselves, but we can well spare one, and it is just the meat for a sick man."
"And a pot of my spiced confection of cherries," added Madam Barbara. "They are very cordial to a weak stomach. But mayhap Master Jack is too fine a gentleman to carry such a large basket through the streets."
"I would cuff his ears soundly, if I caught him in any such foppery," said Master Lucas.
"And I give you full leave to do so," returned Jack, laughing. "Do but have the matters ready, and I will set out without delay."
As I have said before, Mary Brent's circumstances had greatly improved of late. She had repaired her house, which had once been a good one, and frequently took lodgers. These were generally of a very profitable kind, being ship-masters and mates, who spent their money freely, ate and drank of the best, and made many a valuable present to the gentle retiring widow and her pretty little daughter. She was standing on her own doorstep as Jack came up, talking with a neighbor who seemed to be rather out of humor.
"Oh, very well! Mighty well, Neighbor Brent!" she said, as Jack came up. "If you can afford to take a penniless stranger into your best room and keep him for goodness knows how long without the least hope of any pay, why, 'tis no concern of mine."
Mary looked as though she were decidedly of the same opinion, but she answered gently—
"It is no more than I should like to have some woman do for my boy, if he were wrecked and landed in a strange place, neighbor."
"All that is mighty fine," said Dame Higgins, tossing her head. "What I say is, 'let every herring hang by its own head.' If you don't look out for yourself, nobody will look out for you. Take care of number one, is my motto; and it has served me well so far. Take my advice, let this man be carried and laid where he belongs, at the convent door, and let the monks take care of him."
"I shall do no such thing," said Mary Dean. "Much beholden to you for your advice, neighbor; but I am not yet so poor as to turn a poor shipwrecked sailor out of my house. I wonder you dare think of such a thing after the sermon Sir William preached to us only yesterday about the poor man that fell among the thieves."
"Oh, Sir William, Sir William," returned the woman, scornfully. "Sir William had better look out for himself. He is an arrant Gospeller and Lutheran, unless he is much miscalled; and we all know what that comes to. Just as you like, but you are a fool for your pains. The next time your children want bread, don't come to me, that's all."
"I am not likely to do so, since the only time I ever asked you for anything you gave me a flat refusal," said Mary Brent. "I trust my children will never be the poorer for my kindness to this poor lad, but if they are, I can't help it."
"And if they should be, you have enough of warm friends who will not let them or you want, my good Mary," said Jack, who had stood quietly listening to this conversation.
Dame Higgins started violently, as did Mary herself, for in the heat of discussion and the gathering twilight, they had not noticed Jack's approach.
"Is that you, Master Jack? I am right glad to see you," said Mary. "I felt sure you would come, or I should not have been so bold as to send."
"You did quite right," said Jack. "The folks at home have sent some delicacies for the sick man, and also something for your own table. Let me carry it in for you, the basket is heavy."
"Good lack, so it is," said Dame Higgins, casting an envious eye on the contents of the basket, as Jack lifted the clean white cloth which covered it. "What luck some folks have, to be sure! Such baskets never come to our house."
"But I thought your motto was that every herring should hang by its own head," said Jack, as he entered the house.
Dame Higgins only replied by a prodigious sniff, and some remarks; apparently spoken to the air, concerning folk who knew which side their bread was buttered, and how to turn their charities to good account.
"Dame Higgins is out of humor," observed Jack.
"She is seldom anything else, save when she has made an uncommonly good bargain, or some unexpected gain hath come to her," replied Mary Brent. "She and her husband seem to care for nothing but saving and making money. I have been poor enough, as you know; but I never saw the day I would exchange lots with Joan Higgins; with all her wealth, she is poorer this day, than ever I was in my worst times."
"She would always be poor, if she had the revenues of the cardinal himself," said Jack. "But what is this about your lodger?"
"Oh, poor young man, he is in a sad case enough," replied Mary Brent. "They found him floating on a kind of raft pinned together with bits of wreck, and took him off. He says the ship foundered, as nearly as he can tell, about twelve days before he was rescued, that there were two men and a young boy on the raft with him at first, but they died one after the other, till there was no one left but himself. He is a well-made but slender youth, and does not look like a regular sailor; indeed, I think he hath all the air of a gentleman born; but he is not willing to give any account of himself, and there is no use in teasing him till he gets stronger. He wanders a deal at times, but more from weakness than from fever, I think, and then his talk is always about Holford; and Davy and I thought that as you had been so long at Holford of late, you might perhaps find out something from him. He may have friends, perhaps a mother who is wearying for news of him."
"I will see what I can do," said Jack. "I had almost forgot to wish you joy of Davy's return. I hear he has done very well."
"Yes, indeed, Davy is second mate, which is great promotion for one so young," said Mary. "He earns good wages besides what he can make by trading on his own account, and he has brought me home a good sum of money, besides presents of foreign stuffs far too fine for me to wear, and many curious outlandish toys for the children. I know you will be glad to hear as much, for your folks have always taken his part," added Mary, wiping the glad and proud tears from her eyes; "but thank God, nobody can call my Davy a scapegrace any more."
"He is a brave good lad, and I always thought so," said Jack, "and to my mind has shown himself a far better Christian by going to work to help you and the children than he would have done by becoming a monk and leaving you to shift for yourselves or live on charity. But it grows late. Shall I go up and see this stranger?"
"If you will," said Mary. "He lies in my best room."
The stranger was as Mary had described him, a dark slender young man, sunburnt and emaciated, yet having the air of a gentleman. He was comfortably accommodated in his hostess's best bed, and Mary had combed his dark curling locks and trimmed his beard, evidently wishing to set him off to the best advantage.
The moment Jack's eyes fell upon him, he was puzzled by a resemblance to some very familiar face, but whose he could not tell.
"If I have never seen you before, I have certainly seen somebody very like you," was his first thought.
"See here, Master Paul," said Mary in a tone which was both affectionate and respectful. "Here is young Master Lucas come to see you."
"He is very kind," said the invalid faintly smiling. "I am no great sight, I am afraid, but any friend of yours is welcome, my kind nurse."
"I did not come to stare at you, but to see what I could do for you," said Jack, seating himself by the bed. "My father has sent you some nourishing food, and bid me ask what else we could do for you. You seem very ill and weak."
"I have gained a little, I think, since I came here," said the invalid. "It is such a wonderful blessing to be among kindly English folk once more and to lie still in a clean and decent bed."
"I am sure you are heartily welcome," said Mary Brent. "But I will leave Master Jack to sit by you if he will be so kind, for I have matters to attend to below stairs."
Mary went away, and Jack remained quietly sitting by the side of the invalid, who seemed to have fallen into a doze. The more Jack looked at him, the more certain he became that he had seen him or some one like him before.
Presently the stranger opened his eyes and asked for drink. Jack supplied his wants and arranged his pillow comfortably.
"Do you live in this place?" asked the stranger whom Mary Brent had called Paul. "You do not look like a town-bred lad."
"I am so nevertheless," replied Jack; "but I have been keeping sheep all the summer with my good uncle at Holford."
"At Holford!" repeated Paul with a little start.
"Yes, my uncle is shepherd to the good knight of Holford."
"What, old Thomas Sprat! Is he alive still?" asked Paul with interest.
"He is alive and well," said Jack more puzzled than ever. "Do you then know my uncle and the family at the Hall?"
"Yes—that is, I was once in the family of Sir John for a time," said Paul with evident embarrassment. "Is the good knight well?"
"He is well, or was so last week," said Jack. "I saw him in the market-place a few days since. He hath grown very gray of late years, but still holds his own."
Paul sighed. "And my—I would say, my lady—have you ever seen her?"
"Oh, yes, often while I was at Holford," replied Jack. "She goes about among the poor people a great deal, but rarely visits among the gentry since her son's death."
"She believes him dead then," murmured the stranger so low that Jack could but just catch the words.
He answered them as if they had been addressed to him quietly, but with his heart beating fast as a wild idea occurred to his mind.
"My lady thinks him dead, and has caused many masses to be sung for him; but the knight will not believe it. They say he keeps his son's room in the same order in which the poor young gentleman left it, when he went to college, and he will not suffer his son's old dog to be killed, though the poor old beast can hardly crawl from the hearth to the hall door. I have often marvelled much how the young master could leave such a kind father."
"Because he was a fool," said Paul vehemently, "a gull, a thrice-sodden ass; an ape who must needs mimic what others did, and ruffle it in silk and gold with the sons of court favorites and noblemen."
"Then you knew the heir of Holford?" said Jack, his first idea growing stronger the more he heard.
"Yes—that is, I knew him at college," replied Paul, making an evident effort to control his agitation. "He was a foolish boy, and unworthy of so good a home."
"I have heard that the men blamed the knight for having been over-strict with him, and that the young gentleman himself laid his wrong-doing to the same cause."
"That is not true," said Paul almost fiercely. "He never sunk so low as that. He would have been the basest hound that ever lived, had he done so."
"I am glad to hear that," said Jack. "I can never think much of those who strive to excuse themselves by laying all their faults on the shoulders of others. I wish he would come back to his home. I am sure the good knight would receive him joyfully—even as the prodigal in the parable was received by his father. But you are talking too much for one in your weak state," he added. "Let me give you some food or a cordial, and then do you try to sleep."
"I am indeed weary," said Paul. "But must you go away?"
"Not if you need me," replied Jack. "I will stay all night if you desire it. I can easily send word to my father, and I am sure he will make no objection to my doing so."
Paul said something about it being too much to ask of a stranger, but he was so evidently pleased by the proposition, that Jack at once decided to stay, and went down-stairs to seek a messenger.
Davy willingly undertook the office.
"And what do you make of him?" he asked.
"Very little as yet," replied Jack, unwilling to mention his suspicions. "He has been at Holford at some time, I dare say in the train of some gentleman who came to visit at the Hall—and his mind runs on it. He is very feeble, and his mind is disturbed, but he seems to like to have me beside him."
"I am sure you are very kind," said Davy. "What shall I say to your father for you?"
"Only that I am going to watch by the stranger's bedside, with his good leave," said Jack; "and you may, if you please, ask Dame Cicely for my warm doublet, for the nights are growing chill."
"And that reminds me that I may as well kindle a little fire in the room," said Mary. "A blaze is a cheerful companion, and, as you say, the nights are growing chill. But, Master Jack," said she, detaining Jack for a moment, after Davy had gone on his errand, "I want to consult you about a certain matter, and that is, as to whether I should send for a priest?"
"Has the young man asked for a priest?" inquired Jack.
"No, that he has not," replied Mary. "He shook his head when I asked him at his first coming whether he would have one; and when I did but hint at it again, he said right sharply, 'No, no! No priest,' and Davy bid me not trouble him about the matter. But maybe he should have one for all that."
"I would not trouble him at present," said Jack. "If he grows worse we can send for Sir William, who will come any hour of the night, you know."
"That he will, the good man," returned Mary. "Better man never lived, for all they call him a Lutheran. But you know, Master Jack, my poor husband died without the sacraments, and I would ill like to have such a thing happen again in my house."
Jack quieted the good woman with renewed assurances that he would send for Sir William if it became necessary. He reminded her that the stranger was very weak, and it was not worth while to oppose his wishes when a little thing might set him back and perhaps throw him into a fever.
"I dare say you are right," said Mary. "I will get you some supper and make ready a comfortable morsel to eat during the night, for you must take care of your own health, you know, and you have been delicate of late."
Jack was too much excited with the discovery he supposed himself to have made, to feel hungry; but he was one who could put his own feelings aside for the sake of other people. He consented to eat some supper to satisfy Mary's hospitable thought, and found, as young people are apt to, that he was hungry enough to do full justice to the savory fare she had provided.
He then stole back to the sick man's chamber, where a cheerful little fire was already burning, while a pile of wood and fagots offered the means of replenishing it during the night. Mary Brent moved about gently putting matters in order, and covering a little table in one corner with refreshments for the watcher as well as the invalid. Finally she beckoned Jack aside and, with rather a mysterious air, opened a little cupboard, hidden by a piece of tapestry:
"Here are some books which belonged to my poor husband," said she. "I found them when I was putting the house to rights, and hid them away that the children might not see them, for I cannot read, and know not whether they be good books or no. But I dare say they will not hurt you, and they may serve to help you keep awake."
Jack looked over the books, which were partly written and partly printed. They formed an odd collection of Canterbury tales, lives of saints, and one or two old romances. He turned them over and at last discovered, hidden under the disguise of a volume of ballads, a manuscript book carefully written out. He took it to the fire to examine it, and read on the title—
"This boke ys the boke of the prophet Isiach, written out by me from a boke of the Scripture which a man had in Antwerp, and ys doubtless ye trew word of ye livinge God."
Underneath was written in the same hand—
"O Lord, how long."