A SORROWFUL PARTING.
That evening Jack went, as he had proposed, to consult Father William about Sister Barbara.
Father William had lately made full profession of his faith, and preached the reformed doctrines openly in his church by the waterside, whither hundreds flocked to hear him—some urged by personal affection, for Father William was by far the most popular priest in Bridgewater; some from curiosity, to hear what was beginning to make such a noise and stir; and a few moved by earnest desire to hear and understand the truth. As yet, no disturbance had arisen in consequence of his preaching.
The other priests, indeed, were furious, and the preaching friars thundered unsparing denunciations against the heretic and all who heard demonstrating to their own satisfaction, at least, that he was possessed with ten devils, and would certainly be torn in pieces by them some day. The priest of St. Mary's was an infirm, easy-going old man, of the same school as Father John of Holford, and the prior of the convent was engaged in an active warfare with another convent concerning certain tan-yards and mills which they owned in common. Moreover, it was pretty well-known that the bishop of the diocese was, if not in reality a favorer of the gospel, yet nowise inclined to interfere with those who were.
Under all these favoring circumstances, Father William remained unmolested for the present, and he improved the time by preaching every day in his own church, and instructing in the truth those persons—and they were many—who came to unburden their minds and consciences to him.
Jack found him sitting at his frugal supper table, not eating, but leaning back in his chair; and he could not but remark how worn and thin the good man looked.
"You are killing yourself with this constant labor, dear father," said he; "you must take some rest."
"I must work the work to which I am sent, while it is yet day," said Father William. "The night cometh apace, in which no man can work. Unless I am greatly mistaken, this calm which we now enjoy is like to be of short duration, and I must use it diligently to win souls to my Master, and plant seed which may spring and grow when I am laid low. Besides," he added, with a sorrowful smile, "why should I save the body for the hangman or the stake? I should esteem myself blessed, indeed, if I might but die at my work. But what can I do for you, my dear son?"
Jack briefly opened his business.
"The danger is imminent, as you say," said priest when he had heard the story. "It would be certain death for the lady to return to the convent, and she may be called to do so any day—especially if she be suspected of heresy."
He mused a little while, and Jack almost thought he had forgotten the subject of conversation, when he roused himself from his abstraction.
"I think I see my way," said he. "I know a gentleman's family among the hills, yonder, where I think she would be welcome, both for her own sake and the gospel's. It is a wild and rocky nook—they say the sun is scarce seen there in winter, for the height of the hills which surround it—and there are abundance of places where, if need were, an army might be concealed. I shall be going that way tomorrow, and will see the lady and break the matter to her."
Sir William was as good as his word, and in two or three days, he told Jack the result of his mission. The lady was overjoyed at the thought of having such a companion in her solitude and such a teacher for her daughters, and the squire was ready to afford succor to any one who came to him in the name of the gospel.
"They are but rustic folk," said the priest, "and, though of gentle blood, far behind our town burghers in refinement and luxury. Sister Barbara must be content to rough it not a little, but that is a small matter. Any home, however rude, is better than a prison."
The result of these negotiations was communicated to Sister Barbara. At first she was distressed at the thought of leaving her school and her new friends, but a little consideration showed her that flight was the best course.
"I care nothing for roughing it," she said; "the good father well says that any home is better than a prison, and doubtless I can find ways to make myself useful to the lady and her daughters."
"And if this storm blows over, as I still hope it may, you will return to us, dear madam," said Master Lucas. "Truly the house will seem empty and dreary without you. Meantime, let no word of this matter be dropped in the household—before Anne, least of all."
"I cannot make up my mind to distrust Anne," said Jack.
"No person is to be trusted whose mind and conscience are wholly in the keeping of another," said Master Lucas. "I pray you, let me manage the matter my own way."
"So Madam Barbara is going to leave us," said Cicely, a few days afterward. "Father William has discovered some friends of hers off among the hills who desire a visit from her, and she is to go to them. We shall miss her more than a little."
"I hope to return, one of these days," said Madam Barbara. "I am sure I shall never find a happier home than this or a kinder friend than you are, dear Cicely, if I go over the world to look for them; but this lady is very lonely, and she has daughters to educate, and, moreover, there are other reasons which make my going desirable."
"Well, well; every one knows his own business best, and blood is blood—I don't deny that," said Cicely, "and I can't but think one's own relations were meant to be nearer than other folks, for all Anne says about it. But it must be a wild, dreary place—especially in winter."
"The more need for sunshine in the house, and I am sure Madam Barbara carries that with her wherever she goes," said Jack.
Anne heard of the intended departure of Sister Barbara with little regret. There had, of late, been no sympathy between them. Anne felt that Sister Barbara wholly disapproved of her conduct to her father and brother; and dead as she believed herself to be to all earthly things, she could not endure even an intimation of that blame she was so ready at all times to bestow on others. Moreover, she was jealous. It was impossible to live with Sister Barbara and not love her, and though Anne did not and would not take any pains to make herself agreeable or beloved, yet it angered her to the soul, to see another taking the place which belonged of right to herself.
Anne's life, at this time, was one of sheer inconsistency. She was fighting in behalf of a faith in which she, in her heart, scarcely preserved a shadow of belief; she was determined to crush out all earthly ties, and at the same time she was able to endure the thought of not being first in her father's house; and though she had told her brother that she should feel perfectly justified in betraying him, she was yet fiercely indignant at him for withholding his confidence from her. All this inward conflict did not tend to make her the more amiable, and while she revenged upon herself by renewed penances any failure in "holy humility," she was deeply hurt and indignant if any one in the least degree reproved or resented her bursts of temper.
She asked no questions as to Sister Barbara's plans, and hardly returned her expressions of affection at parting, yet she stood at the door watching the party as far as she could see them, and then, going up to her room, she wept long and bitterly—partly over the parting, partly over the disappointment of the hopes with which she had welcomed her former friend, and a good deal, it must be confessed, from mere hysterical fatigue consequent upon fasting and watching for sixteen or eighteen hours.
Jack and his father rode with Madam Barbara to within some ten miles of her destination, when they were met by Mr. Hendley, who gave the lady a hearty welcome, and to her friends an equally hearty invitation to come and see him and his wife, and stay any number of days or months.
Then, seeing the lady mounted on a pillion behind her protector, they took their leave of her, and turned their faces homeward. Taking advantage of a late moon, they had set out long before day to avoid any prying observations or questions from the neighbors, and it was still early when they returned home. As they turned into their own street, Jack uttered a vehement exclamation of surprise, at the sight of a stout elderly gentleman, in a cassock, descending with apparent pain and difficulty from his mule.
"What now?" asked his father.
"It is Father John, from Holford, as sure as you live, father!" exclaimed Jack. "What miracle or earthquake can have brought him so far from home?"
"We shall soon hear," replied his father.
"Yes, if the poor man have any breath left to speak," said Jack, as he threw himself hastily from his own beast. "I should think that doubtful."
"Well, we must give him all the welcome and refreshment in our power," said the master baker, dismounting more leisurely. "Your reverence is heartily welcome to my poor dwelling," he added, addressing the poor old priest, who had dropped exhausted on the first seat. "I would we had been at home to receive you in more fitting form. I pray you to walk into the parlor."
The old man rose with some difficulty, and, accepting the support of Master Lucas's arm, he made out to walk into the sitting-room. Jack ran before to bring forward the easiest seat and place a footstool before it, and then to bring a cup of ale, which Father John drank without a word.
Then turning a lack-lustre and piteous eye upon his cupbearer, he ejaculated—
"Alack, my dear son!"
"I trust nothing unpleasant has chanced to bring you so far from home, father," said Jack, fearing he knew not what. "It must have been a toilsome journey for your reverence."
"Alack, you may well say so. I did not believe I should ever ride so far again—and it is all for your sake. I would I were safe home again, that is all. These vile footpads would as soon rob a priest as a layman, I believe, and I am shaken to a very jelly."
"Your reverence must not think of returning to Holford to-night," said Jack.
He was dying to learn the good man's business, but he knew by experience that to try to hurry him was only to throw his brains into a hopeless confusion.
"I am sure my father will not be willing to have you leave us so suddenly, now that you have honored us with a visit."
"No, indeed, good father!" said Master Lucas heartily. "You must sup with us, and give me time to thank you for all your kindness to my boy."
"Tut, tut! That was nothing," returned Father John. "The young rogue! I could find it in my heart to wish I had never seen him, for he hath so wound himself round my heart as I could not have believed possible."
"Is my good uncle well, sir?" asked Jack.
"Well—why, yes, for aught I know," replied the priest, rather hesitatingly; "and yet—Is any one within hearing? I must speak to you in private."
Jack went out of the room and presently returned to say that Cicely and Anne had gone to evensong, that Simon was busy in the bakehouse, and he had set little Peter, the 'prentice, to watch the shop door.
"It is well," said Father John; "but yet we will speak low. My business is this: Father Barnaby has returned from his travels somewhat suddenly, and, it is said, with extraordinary powers from the Cardinal, to search out heretical books, and apprehend the owners thereof."
Jack looked at his father in dismay.
"Now I know not that this concerns you, my dear son," continued the priest, laying his hand on Jack's arm, and looking earnestly at him. "I hope, with all my heart, that it does not, and that for many reasons; but I know you are intimate with Arthur Brydges who makes no secret of his opinions, and there are other reasons: Father Barnaby is a hard man, and especially bitter against heresy; and I would not, to be made Abbot of Glastonbury, have any harm happen to you."
"And you have taken this long journey to give me warning," said Jack, much affected, and kissing the old man's hand. "Truly, I know not how to thank you, dear father."
"But you must not say so, for the world, my dear son," said Father John hastily. "Remember, I am not supposed to know anything of this matter, and have come to consult your father on the investing of certain moneys left me by my brother, lately dead. I would not hear a word—supposing there were any such thing to hear—lest I should be called on to testify. Do you understand?"
"We both understand, reverend sir, and feel your kindness," said Master Lucas. "Believe me, I shall never forget it—"
"Tilly-vally, tilly-vally!" interrupted the priest. "It is naught! I have lived, I fear, a selfish life, and I would fain do some good before I die. I love not these new-fangled ways better than Father Barnaby himself. I am sure a parish priest's life is hard enough as it is, and they say the Lutherans are for having sermons every Sunday, and Scripture readings, and what not. No, I love no new fancies in religion, but I do not hold with all these burnings and imprisonments and the like. I think kindness and good treatment far more likely to bring men back to the truth."
"Why, there was Father Thomas, the librarian at Glastonbury; in his youth he was greatly taken with such of these new notions as were current—Lollardism, men called it then—and some of the brethren were for having him hardly dealt by."
"'Let him alone, let him alone!' said the abbot—that was Abbot John, not the present Abbot Sylvester—'Let him alone,' says the abbot. 'Let me deal with him.'"
"So he calls Brother Thomas, and after some talk, he makes him his secretary, and custodian of all the books."
"'And, Brother Thomas,' says he, 'I would have you take especial care of the Latin authors, and cause some new copies to be made of Cicero his Offices, and of Virgil and Horace, and spare no expense upon them.'"
"Well, that was the end of Brother Thomas's hankering after heresy."
Jack could not help smiling at the story, though it was, in some respects, a sad one.
"And now I have discharged my errand, and you must make what use of it you will," said Father John; "only, if you love me, let no word of the matter go abroad. I have given them warning at the Hall, also—and, if I have done wrong, the saints forgive me. Alack, my poor bones!"
"If your reverence will take some brief repose, we will have supper ready directly," said Master Lucas; "here comes my good housekeeper. Cicely, let our meal be prepared directly; and, let every thing be of the best, since this good father is to be of our company."
"Nay, I know not if I ought to remain here," said Father John, who had been solacing himself all through his long and, to him, arduous journey, with the thought of the master baker's good cheer. "I ought, perhaps, to go to the convent—"
"I am a villain, if you leave us this night," said Master Lucas sturdily. "It were foul shame to me to let such a reverend father, and my son's benefactor to boot, depart from my roof fasting. Make haste, good Cicely, and do your best; and you, son Jack, attend me with the lantern, that I may draw some good wine for our honored guest."
"What is to be done now, son?" asked Master Lucas, so soon as they were alone in the cellar.
"Indeed, father, I cannot say," returned Jack. "I see not but I must abide the storm."
"By our Lady, that shall you not!" said his father. "This good old man has given us warning, and it were a mere tempting of Providence, not to profit thereby. When will Davy Brent be sailing again?"
"Not under two weeks, he told me yesterday. But, father, how can I leave you?"
"Better lose you for a little time, than altogether," said Master Lucas sadly. "Son, son! It was an evil day when I sent you from me."
"Nay, my dear father, say not so," replied Jack earnestly. "Truly, this cross is a heavy one, and hard for flesh to bear; yet I cannot regret that I have taken it up. The truth as I have learned it, first from Uncle Thomas, and afterward from the Scripture itself, is worth more to me than all the world hath to offer. I only pray that I may have grace to hold it to the end."
"Well, well! It skills not, arguing that matter now," said his father rather impatiently. "The question now is, how are we to use the good man's warning. You might go to Harrowdale where Madam Barbara is. I am sure the squire would give you welcome—or you might go out to Holford."
"I doubt that would be stepping from the frying-pan into the fire, as matters are at present," said Jack; "and yet I would fain see my uncle."
"Well, well, we will talk farther, presently, when the folks are abed," returned his father; "we must not remain longer here, or Anne will suspect something. I would she were away."
"Father," said Jack earnestly, "I beg of you, and it were the last favor I should ever ask of you, as it well may be—I pray you, be kind and patient with Anne. She is very unhappy, and at times, I think, she is hardly herself."
"If she be honest and true, I will be a kind father to her, as I have ever been, I think," said the baker; "but if she prove a traitor, and do aught to betray her brother—"
"She may not be able to help it," said Jack. "Do you not see, dear father, that she must answer any questions the priest chooses to ask her? With that engine of confession in their hands, the churchmen hold the inmost keys of every man's house and family."
"A plague take the whole of them!" exclaimed Master Lucas.
"A plague is like to take them, and that before long, if all we hear about the breaking up of the religious houses be true," said Jack. "It is because they know how it will take the power out of their hands, that the priests so oppose the spread of the true gospel. But I pray you, father, be kind to Anne, for my sake."
"Are you and Jack going to stay in the cellar all night and catch your deaths with the damp?" called Cicely from the top of the stairs. "Here is supper all but ready, and you would but draw the wine and ale, and I am sure you must need your food, as well as the good father yonder. Marry, I was fain to give him a dish of cakes to stay his appetite till supper was ready."
At supper, Father John was the merriest of the party. Like many easy-going people he had the gift of putting far-off the evil day, and persuading himself that what he wished not to happen, never would happen. He had made what was for one of his habits a great sacrifice of ease and comfort to warn his young friend, and he was inclined to take the reward of his good deed. He praised Cicely's cooking, paid Anne various old-fashioned compliments, and made her very angry by telling her she was a foolish girl to wear out her youth in a nunnery. She had far better marry some stout young fellow and bring up a dozen of sturdy lads and maids to comfort her in her old age.
"I would you could persuade her to do so," said the baker.
"I have already told you, father, that I look upon myself as the vowed bride of the Church," said Anne with more asperity of tone and manner than altogether suited the character she avowed. "If I am to hear more such discourse, I shall retire from the table."
"Hoity-toity!" said Father John; "Since when hath it been the fashion for maidens to threaten their fathers either natural or ghostly in such wise? But, come, I meant no offence. I did but say what I truly think. I am an old man, my daughter, and, though I am a priest, I have seen much more of life than you have, both in the cloister and out of it; and I tell you, in all seriousness, that a woman who brings up her children in honor and in the fear of God, does a more acceptable work in His eyes—ay, and bears more pains and penances, too—than any cloistered nun since the days of St. Bridget herself. Think you the vigil is not as acceptable which is passed in soothing and tending a sickly, suffering babe, as that which is spent in kneeling on a chapel floor?"
"I should say so," said Cicely, much edified. "And yet nobody thinks of there being any merit in a wife's or mother's care of her family, because it just comes along in the course of life."
"That is to say, it comes in the course of God's providence," said Jack. "The one state of life is God's appointment, and the other is man's invention."
"I say not so much as that," said Father John hastily. "Doubtless the cloister is His appointment for some, as the family is for others. But come, Mistress Anne, since that is your name, be not displeased with me, who am a man old enough to be your father, and a priest beside, but pledge me in a cup of this sweet wine which is just fit for a maiden's drinking."
"I thank you, but I drink no wine," said Anne coldly.
"Anne, you are scarce civil," said her father. "I pray your reverence to pardon her ill manners."
"Oh, let her have her way," said the old priest. "Caprice is the privilege of women, poor things, and it were hard to deprive them of it. Young maids love to say No. Eh, daughter?" he added, with his jolly laugh. "We all know what that means. The 'I will not' of a bishop-elect and that of a maiden come to much the same thing in the end."
Good reason as they had for gravity, neither Jack nor his father could forbear laughing at Anne's discomfiture.
"Come, come, never mind it, child, and do not spoil the evening by peevishness," said her father. "Who knows how many more happy evenings we may spend together? Father John, will your reverence take another cup of wine?"
"No more, no more," replied the old man. "I am no toss-pot, my good Master Lucas, though I love a social cup now and then. I would fain go to rest, since you are so kind as to afford me a bed, for I am weary after my ride."
"When did you and Anne go to church?" asked Jack as he returned, after lighting the father to bed, to help Cicely put away the wine.
"Anne was not at church with me," replied Cicely, surprised. "I left her at her prayers, in the little cabinet yonder, while I went to carry some broth to Dame Higby."
Jack started.
Then Anne had, after all, heard the whole. What use would she make of her knowledge? He could not guess. He went at once to his father's room, and told him what he had heard from Cicely. Their conference lasted long, but with no very satisfactory result, and at last it was decided to wait till morning, and consult Sir William.
"The morrow is the feast of St. Michael's," said the baker. "They are not likely to do anything on that day, and we shall have time to think a little. But, Jack, if you have any of these books, I pray you hide or destroy them this very night."
"I will do so," said Jack. "Give me your blessing and your forgiveness, dearest father, before I leave you."
"Forgiveness is none when there has been no fault," said Master Lucas. "From thy cradle to this time, thou hast ever been to me a dutiful and good son. My blessing thou hast and wilt ever have, let this matter end how it will."
THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.
Jack went to his room, where his lamp was already lighted, and taking his beloved books from their usual hiding-place, he began to think what he should do with them. They were not many. There was first and dearest of all, the New Testament with Tyndale's notes, which had been given him by Master Fleming; then his Greek Testament; the Prophecy of Isaiah which he had brought from Mary Brent's house, and two or three small tracts and treatises. These last he read carefully through, once more, and then burned; but he could not bring his mind to burn his Bible.
There was a certain little cupboard in the wall, concealed by a sliding panel, which Jack had discovered by accident some few years before, and of the existence of which he had never heard any one speak. He had concealed his discovery with a boy's fancy for mystery, and now it was to serve a good purpose. He opened it and placed his books therein, all but his Greek Testament, which he thought he might safely reserve. He then closed the panel, and pushed his desk against it, and he had just finished these arrangements when he heard some one open his door.
He looked hastily and angrily round.
There stood Anne with a lamp in her hand.
"What now?" said he, trying to speak indifferently. "What brings you here so late?"
"I might ask what keeps you up so late," returned Anne. "You seem to have little regard to the repose of your guest, that you make such a noise."
"No fear of disturbing him, honest man," said Jack. "He is snoring like a porpoise, this minute, and I dare say he sleeps all the better for his unwonted exercise. He is a kind, good-natured man, though he may have his little infirmities, like the rest of us."
"It skills not talking of him," said Anne, entering the room, and closing the door. "Jack, what have you been doing, this night?"
"I have been burning some papers, if it imports you to know," replied Jack, not altogether pleased with the tone Anne assumed.
"Jack, have you destroyed your vile, heretical books?"
"I have no vile, heretical books, Sister Anne; therefore I have no opportunity to destroy them. Let me ask you in turn, since questions are the fashion, what has brought you to my room at this time of night?"
"It is, indeed, a time of night for all honest folks to be abed, unless they watch, as a duty," said Anne; "but if I had been inclined to sleep, I could not do so. What were you and my father talking about, so long?"
"You had better ask my father, if you desire to know," replied Jack. "If he sees fit to tell you his business, I can have no objection, but I do not think he would thank me for repeating it."
Anne stood silent, a moment. Then she said, "Jack, where has Sister Barbara gone?"
"She has gone to her friends, as she told you."
"That is not answering my question. I ask you to whither she has gone."
"And I reply, Sister Anne, that even if I knew, I would not tell you."
"You mean to say that I am not to be trusted."
"Even so."
"Jack," said Anne, setting down the lamp, and coming nearer to her brother, "do you know that Father Barnaby is returned, and is, even now, in Bridgewater?"
"I knew he had returned, but not that he was here," replied Jack. "How do you know that he is here? Have you already seen him?"
"No; that is—Jack, do you mean still to persist in your heresy? Do you mean to draw down disgrace and ruin on your father's house, to break his heart and mine, all that you may follow your own wicked and headstrong fancies? Are you so much wiser than all the world? What chance have you had to learn so much more than I, that you are so confident in your own opinion?"
"To your first question," replied Jack, "I answer that I do mean, God helping me, to hold fast even to the death, to His truth which you call heresy. I do not pretend to be wiser than all the world, but if I see all the world wrong, that does not excuse me for being wrong also. I am not following my own will or conceit, but the Word of God, and I must go whither it leads me, though it be to prison and death as it led Agnes Harland, and has led many another."
"And when you are brought—I mean, if you are brought before Father Barnaby, you will say these same things. Oh, brother, brother!" she exclaimed, falling on her knees at Jack's side. "Do not be obstinate! Do not throw away your life for nothing. You are young; you have been misled by others. They will be merciful to you if you do but recant your errors, and tell the names of those who have misled you. Oh, brother, brother! Do not be stiff-necked; do but confess, and all will be well."
A sudden light broke in upon Jack's mind. He cast off his sister's hand and drew back, as if from a snake.
"Anne!" said he sternly. "You have betrayed me."
Anne did not answer. She covered her face with her hands.
"You have acted the traitor's part a second time," continued Jack. "It was not enough to give over your friend to death, but you have stained your soul with this new treason. I believe you have already seen Father Barnaby."
Anne did not deny it. She sunk her head still lower, but said not a word.
"You have, then, done the mischief already," said Jack. "When did you see the priest?"
"It does not become you to question me or to speak to me thus," said Anne, striving to assume her usual tone. "I have but done that which was right, and my duty. No man is bound to keep faith with heretics. You speak of acting according to your conscience. Why should I not act according to mine?"
"You know that you have not done so," said Jack, fixing a penetrating look on his sister's face. "You have belied your own conscience, and betrayed me to death, for the sake of what, in your heart, you know to be a lie. Yes, Anne, in your heart, you believe that what I have told you, and what you heard from Agnes, is true—God's own truth. If this may be heresy, you are at heart as much a heretic as I am."
"I will not hear this!" said Anne hastily. "No one shall call me a heretic. You have no right to complain. I gave you fair warning. I come to you, to-night, not because I repent of what I have done, but to warn you—to give you a last chance."
"Many thanks to you!" said Jack, with a bitterness he could not altogether restrain. "Pray, what is to be the price of this piece of villainy? Are you to be made a prioress, or are you to found a new order? But I not speak so," he added hastily. "God give me grace to forgive you."
He walked up and down the room two or three, times, and then threw himself on his knees, by the bedside.
Anne stood, stiff and silent.
At last, Jack rose and turned to her.
"Anne," said he, "you have done a base and cowardly deed, and you will one day see it so, however you may regard it at present. I know not what has prompted you, and I desire not to judge you. Only remember this, when your day of remorse and repentance comes—as come it will—remember, there was forgiveness even for them who crucified our dear Lord, and the same forgiveness will be granted to you if you truly repent, and accept the offer of mercy. For my own part, I freely pardon you, and if I do not do so wholly, now, I believe the grace will be given me. But I warn you, that you are placing yourself in imminent danger of eternal perdition, by your present resisting of the Spirit and of your own conscience. 'He who denieth me before men, him will I deny before the angels of God,' says our Lord Himself. He now holds out His pitiful arms even to you, but there may come a day when He will hold them out no more—when you may long to confess what you now deny, and it may be forever too late."
Anne still stood silent, but her face showed the storm within.
"But I must not throw away my life," said Jack hastily. "It may be that I can yet escape."
"There is no chance. The house has been watched ever since your return," said Anne, in a hoarse voice. "You will but make matters worse."
"Be it so, then. I will bide the storm which you have brought upon me," said Jack. "I pray you to leave me, sister. I have need of time and solitude to collect my thoughts and prepare for that which is coming."
Without a word Anne turned and left the room, and Jack fastened the door.
Then, drawing his Bible from its hiding-place and trimming his lamp, he knelt down and read, again and again, the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. ¹ He passed several hours in reading and prayer, and then, as the gray morning began to creep in, he rose and dressed himself as for a festival, and when it was fully day, he went down to his father's room, to help him dress, as usual. He was met at the door by Simon, with a face full of terror and dismay.
¹ I request every reader of these pages to do the same.
"Oh, Master Jack, Master Jack! What can have happened? The constable with his men are at the door and demand entrance, and Father—I cannot think of his name—"
"Father Barnaby," said Jack gently. "Go down, Simon, and say I will be with them directly. I will but see my father."
"What means all this disturbance?" asked Master Lucas, opening his door. "Who are those men without?"
"Let me come in, dear father, and I will tell you all," said Jack. "Go down, Simon. Dear Cicely, do but be quiet, and dress yourself."
Jack entered his father's room, and, shutting the door, told him what had happened.
"Then it is too late!" exclaimed Master Lucas, wringing his hands in anguish. "My son, my dear son! Fool that I was! Why did I not insist on your leaving me last night?"
"It would have been useless," said Jack. "I have reason to know that we were watched from the moment of our return. But let us go down and face these men quietly and manfully."
They descended accordingly, and found the shop filled with men. Father Barnaby occupied the sitting-room, and was attended by Brother Joseph, the sacristan from Holford, who favored Jack, on his entrance, with a glance of triumphant malignity, from beneath his down-dropped eyelids. Father John occupied the easy-chair, sitting upright and grave, and as Jack and his father entered the room, he arose, and with a tone of marked kindness, bestowed his blessing upon them.
"I thank you heartily," said the baker; and then, turning to Father Barnaby, he said, "Your reverence is an early visitor. May I ask what has brought you to my poor house at this hour?"
"My business is far from pleasant, Master Lucas," returned the priest austerely. "It is simply to search your house for heretical books, and to arrest this youth, your son, that he may be examined concerning certain errors which he has received and also endeavored to spread abroad among the faithful children of the Church. I must ask you to call all your family together."
"Jack, call your sister and cousin," said the baker briefly.
"With your leave, the young man abides here," said Father Barnaby.
"As you please," returned Master Lucas; "here comes one, to speak for herself. This is my cousin, Cicely Annan, a widow, who hath kept my house since I lost my wife. My daughter is, I suppose, in her room. Peter, call your young mistress."
Anne presently made her appearance. She was very pale, and evidently greatly agitated.
"This is the whole of my family," said Master Lucas. "This reverend gentleman is from Holford, and did us the honor to sup and sleep with us."
"I know Father John of Holford, well," said Father Barnaby dryly. "Methinks he might be better found in his own parish, on this holy day."
"Good brother—or son, as I may well call you, since I am old enough to be your father—I have yet to learn on what ground I am to ask your leave as to when and how I shall leave my parish," said Father John, with more dignity than Jack had thought he could assume. "If your commission extends to my private affairs, I would fain see your warrant."
Father Barnaby looked somewhat disconcerted, for a moment. "I crave your pardon, good brother," he said, recovering himself. "Doubtless it was business of moment which brought you to this house. But, Master Lucas, have you not a lady abiding with you—a lady formerly a nun in the convent where your daughter was bred?"
"She has been with us, but she left us yesterday, to go to friends in the country," replied Master Lucas.
"Where did she go?" was the next question.
"I know not," replied Master Lucas. "It is somewhere among the hills, but I know not the name of the place nor of the family whither she has gone."
This was true, for both Master Lucas and Jack had carefully abstained from informing themselves on these points.
"Umph! Well, that matters not now," said Father Barnaby. "Master Lucas, I regret to say that I have certain information that this your son (who is a youth of parts and understanding beyond his years) entertains the most heretical and false opinions concerning the sacraments, the adoration of saints, and other matters of the last importance. Do you know aught of this matter?"
"Your reverence can hardly expect me to bear witness against my own son—at least till I am obliged to do so," replied Master Lucas. "He hath ever been a good and dutiful son—that I can say for him."
"Have you any heretical books in your possession?" asked the priest, turning to Jack.
"I have a copy of the New Testament in Greek," replied Jack, "if you call that heretical; also, I have two treatises which your reverence gave me, one concerning the eleventh ode of Horace, and the other on the Metamorphoses of Ovid. Your reverence knows best what they are. Also I have Virgil and Horace, and certain other Latin books."
"Play not with me, young sir," said the priest, frowning. "I have certain intelligence from one who has seen it, that you have in your possession a copy of the Lutheran New Testament. I require you to put it into my hands."
Jack was silent, and did not move.
"Come, my son," said Father Barnaby, assuming a more friendly tone, "I pray you, be not obstinate. Do but give me up your books, and promise me to confess openly your errors, and all may yet be well. Unless you will do so I must search your father's house, and commit you to prison, where it may go hard with you."
"I am a prisoner in your hands, and you must needs do your pleasure," said Jack briefly. "I have nothing more to say, except that, whatever I may be, my father knows naught of these matters."
Jack and the rest of the family were in the sitting-room, while the house was thoroughly searched, but in vain. The hiding-place the books remained undiscovered, to the great chagrin of Brother Joseph, who showed himself an adept in the business, and who had to report his ill success to his principal.
"It matters not, we can take another way. Daughter," said Father Barnaby, turning to. Anne, who had hitherto stood quite silent, "you, at least, are a faithful child of the Church, as you have already shown. Can you tell me where these books are likely to be hidden?"
"I believe them to be in a small cupboard in the wall, behind my brother's desk," answered Anne, in a husky tone.
"Vile wretch that thou art, wouldst thou betray thy brother?" exclaimed her father, thrown off his guard.
"Your daughter, Master Lucas, does but do her duty in discovering her brother's guilt," said Father Barnaby. "It is the greatest kindness she could show him. Rejoice that you have one faithful child left."
"She is no child of mine from this day," said Master Lucas. "I wholly disown and cast her off. I would she had died at her birth, rather than she should have lived to be what she is."
"Father, remember your promise," said Jack; "I pray you do nothing hastily."
Brother Joseph now returned with the books. "Is this all you have?" asked the priest, examining them.
"That is all."
"You and your uncle had other books when you were at Holford, I know," said the priest. "What were they, and whence did you obtain them?"
Jack was silent.
"You will do the old man no service by this silence, if that be your thought," said Father Barnaby. "You had best be frank with me, since I mean you naught but good."
"No doubt," answered Jack dryly. "I thank your reverence for your good intentions."
"There is enough of this," said Father Barnaby angrily. "Since you are obstinate, matters must take their course. Constable, lead this youth to jail, and lodge him like the others. Master Lucas, I advise you to remain quiet and be amenable, and no harm shall befall you."
"Farewell, dear father," said Jack. "I pray you heartily to be of good comfort and put your trust in God. Have no fears for me, I am in His hands who did never fail them that trust in Him, and no real harm can befall me. Farewell, dear Cicely, you have been like a mother to me. Father John, I thank you heartily for all your kindness and good counsel."
"Have you no word for your sister, dear son?" asked Father Barnaby.
"I have already said my farewell to my sister," replied Jack gravely and sadly. "I have no more to add, save to beg her for her soul's salvation to remember my parting words. I am ready to go, Master Constable."
"My blessing go with thee, my son!" said his father. "I trust we may yet see you here again."
"And mine, also," added Father John, rising "and if my interest in your behalf is of any you shall have it with all my heart, as well as my prayers to our Lord and all the saints for your good deliverance."
Master Lucas stood gazing after his son till he could be seen no longer. Then, turning away, his eye fell on Anne, who remained standing.
"Do you stand there in my presence, after what you have done?" he asked, in sternly measured tones, as if he would not express the wrath which stirred him at sight of his daughter. "Think you the sight of you can be grateful to my eyes? I would you had died at your birth ere I had lived to see this day!"
"Nay, my good, my kind friend," said Father John. "Be not over hasty. I trust that this maiden had nothing to do with her brother's misfortune. Is it not so, daughter?"
"I did what was right," said Anne, striving to speak calmly. "My brother is an heretic, and a blasphemer of Holy Church and the sacraments, and not only so, but he was ever striving to prevent me. I delivered him to justice for the sake of his soul and mine own."
"I verily wonder whether thou art my own daughter," said the master baker slowly, "or whether my child died in the convent yonder, and some devil entered into her body! Surely, thy mother and I never had such a monster! I will not curse thee, for the sake of him who has gone; but get thee from my sight, or I cannot answer for what I may do! Get to thy chamber—dost hear me?" he repeated, stamping his foot.
"Yes, go, daughter," said the old priest. "You do but enrage your father the more by your carriage, which I must say is neither maidenly nor Christian. Get you to your chamber, and repent if you can, for, in sooth, you have been guilty of a great sin. My poor, dear friend!" he added, as Anne withdrew. "Let us forbear harsh words. They can do no good. Let us kneel down and pray, not only for our dear young brother, but for this misguided girl. I do trust all may yet be well. The bishop is a kind-hearted man, and averse to all harsh measures, and I have some interest with him which I shall not spare to use. I hope all may yet be well."
ANNE.
Anne retired to her room and locked herself in, a precaution which she might have spared, for nobody came near her except one of the maids to bring her some food. The girl, though she did not speak, looked at Anne with an expression of wonder and reproach, which went to her heart.
"Where is my father, Dorothy?" she asked, feeling as if she must say something.
"Your father has gone out with the old priest who was here last night, Mistress Anne," was the short reply.
And Dorothy, who was usually disposed for a gossip at the smallest encouragement, retired and shut the door without another word.
Wicked and base as was the action she had committed, in itself, Anne was very much to be pitied. Her mind had for weeks been utterly unsettled.
As Jack had said, she was, in her heart, almost entirely convinced that her brother was right, and that she was wrong. In spite of herself, as it were, she could not help recalling all that she had heard and read with Agnes Harland, which was a great deal more than she had told Jack. In spite of herself, when she was listening to the harangues of the preaching friars against heresy, her mind would persist in bringing up and arranging arguments on the other side. When she repeated, as she did daily, her long litany of invocations to the saints and the Virgin Mary, something kept constantly telling her that it was a useless labor, and making such suggestions as these:
"How do you know that these saints can hear you? They were, and are, but finite beings like yourself, and cannot possibly be present in all places and at all times at once."
These were but a few of the distractions which beset her night and day, destroying her peace of mind, humbling her pride, and undermining her faith in those things wherein she had made her boast.
But Anne would not listen. She said to herself that they were but temptations of the enemy, such as had beset all eminent saints, and were to be banished by the proper means. So she fasted and scourged herself, and lay on the bare floor, and repeated ten times more prayers than ever. She had been fed upon "Lives of the Saints" from the time she could read, and for years, her cherished ambition had been to become a saint, on the model of Elizabeth of Hungary, or St. Bridget: to be looked up to as a pattern of holiness and austerity; to found a new order of nuns, more self-denying even than the "poor Clares," more contemplative than the Carmelites; to rule them while she lived, to be made a saint, and have miracles worked at her grave, when she was dead and buried.
Father Barnaby had cultivated these notions, seeing in the girl material which might encouraged her to believe made useful, and had believe that in the course of a few years she might be placed at the head of a sisterhood of her own founding. Anne had plenty of imagination, and hundreds of times she had gone over the whole matter in her own mind, arranging the rules and services of her house, and the very dress of the sisters. She fancied herself like St. Hilda, giving counsel and advice to abbots and priests, even to bishops and heads of the Church; as helping to stay the tide of heresy by her prayers and writings; as educating girls to perpetuate the doctrines and ways of her new order.
And was all this to be given up? Was she to abandon all her cherished ambitions and be content with the life of a daughter at home or a mere commonplace mother of a family? Or, still worse, was she to run the risk of open shame and disgrace and punishment, of being despised and held up as a warning, instead of an example, by those over whom she had hoped and expected to rule? Was she to confess that all her righteousness, her prayers and penances and sufferings, were worse than worthless in God's sight, and receive the gift of salvation as a free, wholly undeserved alms? Was her only title to heaven to consist in the fact, not that she was a saint, but a sinner? It could not be true—it should not be true! It was a work of the devil tempting her to abandon her vocation and all the great things she had planned.
And then came the thought—was it not her own fault after all? Had she not by weakly yielding to family affection—those fleshly ties from which she had been told again and again she must tear herself loose—had she not given the Tempter a handle against her? Ought she not to do all in her power to prevent the spread of heresy, and had she not, by yielding to her regard for her only brother, and concealing his fault, made herself a partaker therein? Would not her peace of mind return, if she were once to make the sacrifice? Would not that sacrifice be an additional and most precious jewel in the crown of martyrdom she coveted?
Yes, it must be so, and the sacrifice must be made. Once done, the deed could never be recalled. She would be held up as a bright example of piety, and she should again find her former peace, and satisfaction in prayer and penance and saintly reveries, and the doubts which disturbed her would depart forever.
Then there was Sister Barbara—Sister Barbara whose coming she had expected and prepared for, with so much pleasure, who had been one of the elders of the order, and a pattern of sanctity. There had long existed not even the semblance of confidence between them, but Anne had no doubt she was as bad as Jack, every whit. She had seen a book in her hands which was no prayer-book—she was sure of that—and she was always reading it while her "Hours" and her rosary lay neglected day after day. Sister Barbara and Jack were always talking quietly together and exchanging smiles and glances. Besides, did she not go to hear Father William preach even after he had refused to celebrate masses for the dead, and declared his opinion that it was lawful for priests to marry if they saw fit?
These and other indications convinced Anne that Sister Barbara was as bad as Jack—nay, worse, for was she not a nun, and had she not been a person in authority? Then there was her school! Was she to be allowed to pervert the children under her charge?
The morning that Sister Barbara went away, Anne went to the Priory church, determined, as she said, to decide the matter one way or the other before she came home. The first person she met was Father Barnaby. In her excited state of mind, this encounter seemed a supernatural sign sent for the confirmation of her wavering resolution, and she did not rest till she had told him all. She could not indeed tell the place where Sister Barbara had taken refuge, for she did not know it, but she told all she did know about the matter.
Father Barnaby was well pleased. He had come down, as Father John said, armed with a special commission for the searching out and destruction of heretical books and the suppression of heresy, and he was determined to carry through his work with an unsparing hand. It was a good omen to be thus met at the beginning, and served in some degree to counterbalance the chagrin he had felt at discovering that his chief prey had escaped him.
Father William had set out only the day before his return, on a visit to London, and there was too much reason to fear that by the connivance of friends, he might escape to Germany. But here was a notable prey to be taken at once, and he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. He commended Anne for her faithfulness, though he gave her less praise and paid less attention to the rest of her confession than she thought she deserved. However, he told her she had taken the best means to get rid of her trouble of mind, and confirmed her in the idea that it had all been owing to her having wickedly concealed her brother's errors. A watch was at once set upon Jack's movements, and he was apprehended, as we have seen.
Anne returned to her home with a strange feeling of exultation. She had done the deed. She had sacrificed what was nearest to her, and shown plainly that nothing was so dear to her as the cause of the Church and true religion. Surely, surely all must now be right with her. There would be an end forever of these haunting doubts, these wild temptations to go to Jack, own herself convinced, and beg for instruction. This feeling lasted her all day and till she saw her brother finally carried away to a fate which she knew too well, and heard her father's voice commanding her to her chamber. Thus she went to her room.
Lo! Her enemy was there awaiting her, armed with tenfold power.
She had done the deed. She had betrayed her brother to shame and death, she had incurred her father's hatred and curse, which was withheld only for the sake of his son; and all for what? Was she any nearer to the quiet of mind she had so ardently desired? She did not find it so. Instead thereof, her doubts returned with tenfold power. They were no longer doubts, they were certainties—demonstrated truths. She did not reason upon them; she could not.
She felt, rather than knew, that it was Jack who was the martyr for the truth, and she was the Judas who had betrayed him. She had denied her Lord, belied her own conscience, and sacrificed her family to a monstrous lie. What would she not have given to recall the events of the last few hours? But it was too late—forever too late; and the thought filled her with inexpressible anguish and despair.
Anne rose at last from the floor, where she had thrown herself at the foot of the crucifix, and in the sheer restlessness of misery wandered into Jack's room. There were all his treasures; his strings of birds' eggs, his shells and other foreign curiosities derived from traders and sailors, his Latin books and exercises. The blackbird and squirrel he had brought from the country were hopping about their cages, and seemed to wonder why they were neglected. Anne took down the cages and ministered to the wants of the occupants. The action, simple as it was, seemed to bring her some relief, and as the blackbird tuned up its mellow whistle, she leaned her head beside the cage, and wept long and bitterly.
The little cupboard where Jack had hidden his precious books stood open. Anne bent down, and looking into it she saw something in a far dark corner, for the recess extended deep into the wall beside the chimney. She drew it out, and looked at it. It was a small copy of the New Testament. Arthur had received from London a number of these new books, and had given one to Jack. Jack had put it away with the rest, but it had been overlooked by the searchers in their haste and triumph at finding their great prize. Anne stood looking at it for a few minutes, and then returning to her room and once more fastening her door, she sat herself down to read, nor did she move from her place till it was too dark for her to see.
At dark, Cicely herself brought her a light.
"Where is my father?" Anne ventured to ask.
"He is below, poor dear man!" returned Cicely sobbing. "He has been to the prison to see—" here her voice was lost in tears. "Your brother is better lodged than we had hoped," she continued presently, "along with old Thomas Sprat and some of the townspeople, and we are permitted to send him bedding and refreshment. Your father says you are to use your pleasure as to staying in your room or coming down to supper. He does not desire to make a prisoner of you!" added Cicely, with emphasis.
"Return my thanks to my father," said Anne sorrowfully but calmly, "and say to him that, with his good leave, I will remain here. Tell him I thank him for his goodness, and if he will but add this much, to pray for me, I can ask nothing more."
Cicely repeated the message, adding that she hoped Anne was not going out of her mind, or meditating anything desperate, for she looked as if she had seen a ghost.
THE TRIAL.
When Jack arrived at the jail where he was to be confined, he found a great crowd gathered round the door, and was greeted from the midst of it with more than one cry of, "God speed thee, dear lad!" "Be of good courage, brother, and God bless thee! Our prayers are with thee!" And he read in most of the faces surrounding him only pity and sympathy.
Father Barnaby frowned ominously on the assemblage, and hurried his prisoner as soon as possible into the jail.
"Let this young man be shut up by himself," said he to the jailer.
"Your reverence must needs build him a cell, then," returned the jailer, who seemed to have no special pleasure in his task. "Every place is full and overflowing, except the dungeon, where there are only two. Shall I put him therein? I think he were best out of sight of this crowd."
"Do so, then," replied the father. "Youth, I advise thee to take the time of thy imprisonment to consider and repent of thine errors. Thou art but young, and thou hast been misled by more crafty heads than thine own. Thou hast also good parts, and I would fain serve thee, and make thee an instrument of good in the Church."
"I thank your reverence," replied Jack, in a steady tone, and then raising his voice he said, "Good people, pray for me and mine, and be steadfast in the truth, you who own it."
"We will! We will!" shouted several voices in return; and one man added, "Let the Jack Priest look to it. If old Harry quarrels with the Pope, we will pull down their crow's nest about their ears ere long."
Jack was hurried into the jail and the doors shut upon him, so he heard no more, but he noted even then the look of furious wrath mingled with confusion on Father Barnaby's face. He had no time for further observations before he found himself pushed into the cell of which the jailer had spoken, and the door locked upon him.
It was some minutes before his dazzled eyes could distinguish anything in the dim dungeon, which was lighted only by a small grated aperture near the ceiling. As he grew more accustomed to the place, however, he saw that it was a small room about twelve feet square, with stone walls and floor. The furniture consisted of a stool or two, a rude table, and two pallet beds, on one of which lay stretched a sleeping man. Another man, apparently just aroused from slumber, rose to his feet and advanced a step to meet him.
"I cannot say thou art welcome, friend, to this dungeon," said a voice Jack knew right well; "but to such slight entertainment as we have, I do bid thee welcome."
"Dear uncle," exclaimed Jack, recovering his dazed senses and springing forward, "dearest uncle, do you not know me?"
"My son, my son!" cried the old man. "Is it indeed my son? I feared this, but hoped you might have timely warning. And is it to this I have brought thy youth?"
"Nay, dearest uncle," returned Jack; "not you, but the malice of our enemies, and the enemies of the truth of God. You brought me to the knowledge of that truth and goodness, which shall make all their wrath to praise Him. But who is our companion?"
"It is Master James Dennett, a ship-owner and merchant here in Bridgewater. Disturb him not, for he hath been sorely tried in spirit, and unable to sleep the whole night. Truly, I am glad to be eased of his lamentations. But sit you down here on the bedside, and tell me how all this has chanced. I had hoped you would have had timely warning."
Jack told the story of his betrayal and arrest.
"Alas! Poor maid, was she so far left to herself?" said the shepherd, when he heard of Anne's part in the transaction. "We must put up many prayers for her. And how is your father disposed?"
"He gave me his blessing ere I left him, and do not think he is angry with me. I left him with old Father John, who rode all the way from Holford to give me warning, but he was too late. But how were you taken, dear uncle?"
"Even as I would have desired—on my knees," replied the old man smiling. "I was in the little thicket whither I have long resorted for prayer and reading, as my father did before me, when a band of men, headed by Brother Joseph the sacristan, broke in on me. I told them it was paying a fair compliment to an old man-at-arms, that at nearly ninety, he should need six men to secure him."
"But surely Sir John Brydges will take your part?" said Jack.
"I believe he can do nothing," replied Thomas Sprat. "They have raked up the old matter of Lollardie, and Father Barnaby assures me that as a relapsed heretic, I have no chance of being admitted to mercy, though if I will recant my errors I may perhaps, in time, be delivered from purgatory."
"Many thanks to him," said Jack. "He hath been profuse in his promises to me if I will recant, even to promising me church advancement. But do you know aught of Arthur?"
"They have not apprehended him, but more than that I do not know," replied the shepherd.
"But here comes the jailer with our bread and water."
"Methinks on a feast day they might offer us better fare," said Jack. "It is scarce canonical to fast upon St. Michael's day."
"Don't cry out before you are hurt, young sir," said the jailer, depositing a jug of broth on the table. "I have so far stretched my orders as to bring you the same breakfast as the other prisoners who are only confined for highway robbery, murder, and the like."
"Many thanks for your courtesy, Master Davis," said Jack. "When I am again at liberty, I will do as much for you."
"I would you were at liberty to do it," said the jailer bluntly. "This turning the key on old friends and neighbors is no pleasure to me, I can tell you. What then? A man must do his duty, be he jailer or mayor; but he need not have a heart as hard as the nether millstone. I judged you and the old man would like to be together, so I clapped you in here; but do not you tell yonder monk so."
"Never fear," said Jack. "I do not love him so well as all that. Again I thank you, Master Davis, and so will my father. Be assured you shall be no loser. Come, we are better than we might be," said he after the man had closed the door. "I am heartily glad we have fallen into such good hands. Shall we awaken our companion? He sleeps soundly."
"He has not slept all night," said Thomas Sprat. "I fear much he will not stand the trial. The goods and ties of this world are over-near his heart, poor man. What, brother! Will you awake and break your fast?"
"Where am I?" said Master Dennett, sitting up and gazing round him with a bewildered expression. "What has happened? Alas, I know too well!" he added, sinking back again. "That I should ever live to find myself here in Bridgewater jail! And who is this new companion in misery? Surely, it is Master Lucas's son. Alas, young man, what has brought you hither?"
"The fear of God and the love of His Word," said Jack. "But come, sir, arise and eat, that you may be strengthened for the day's trial."
"And what will strength avail?" asked the ship-owner somewhat peevishly. "Can we break out of the dungeon by dint of strength? Or can we bend the hard hearts of our enemies?"
"The God we serve can do both, brother," said the old shepherd; "or, failing that, He can give us strength to confess that truth which shall minister to us an entrance into His Eternal Kingdom. But come, arise, and eat at all events. There is no use in refusing such good things as we have."
Master Dennett essayed to eat, but desisted after a few mouthfuls, and threw himself upon his pallet again.
Jack made a tolerable meal, and then bestirred himself to render the place as comfortable as might be. The rest of the day passed quietly enough.
Master Dennett lay on his pallet and wept over his hard fate.
Jack and his uncle talked quietly together, recalling many passages of Scripture, and encouraging each other to steadfastness in the trial which they knew was awaiting them. Towards night, the jailer brought in their evening meal, and a large bundle.
"Here are some matters sent you from home," said he to Jack, "bedding and such like, as I guess. Your father hath been here, and has begged me to be kind to you, as why should I not? You never harmed me, I trow."
Jack warmly thanked the jailer, who, surly as he was, seemed disposed, indeed, to be as kind as his duty allowed.
The bundle contained bedding and linen, and artfully concealed in the centre of a great loaf, some paper, a pencil, and the means of striking a light, together with two wax tapers. There was also a Psalter, in which Jack perceived a leaf doubled down. He opened the book, and found underlined the passage, "Be of good courage;" "Fear not," and others of similar import, and doubly underscored the word "Wait." He turned to the first page and read the name of Father John. There were glad tears in the boy's eyes as he showed the book to his uncle.
"The good, kind, old man!" said Thomas Sprat. "I know not what he can do, and yet I thank him with all my heart. I would not have believed anything would lead him to make such an exertion. For myself, I hope nothing in this world save a speedy passage out of it, and that my age gives me warrant to expect: but I would gladly have you, my son, saved from the fiery trial, if it might be done without your denying the faith."
"Better death an hundred times than that!" said Jack.
"Be not confident, young man," said Master Dennett, apparently somewhat displeased. "Better bethink yourself how you will answer when you are brought before the council."
"I am not over-confident, I trust," replied Jack; "but I trust in Him who says, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,' and therefore I am bold to say, 'The Lord is my helper: I will not fear what man may do unto me.' As to meditating how I shall answer, I make bold to refer you to the words of our Lord: 'When they take you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall say. For it is not you that speak, but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.'"
"Ay, but those words were not spoken to men like us," said Master Dennett. "They were spoken to apostles and saints."
"And what were the apostles and saints but common simple men like to us?" asked Thomas Sprat. "Are not all God's children called to be saints, and does He not promise the same grace freely to all if we are but faithful?"
"Alas, my faith is not like yours," said Master Dennett. "You are, besides, an old man, and must soon die at any rate; but I cannot but bethink me of my young wife and her babes, and the happy fireside I left but yesterday, with my old mother sitting in the chimney corner with my youngest-born on her knees. Little did I think as I bade them farewell and went out to my business, that the evening would find me here."
And the poor man threw himself on the pallet again in an agony of grief.
"It is indeed hard for flesh and blood," said the old man. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. We will pray for and with you, brother, that you may have strength in the evil day."
The night passed without disturbance, and in the morning came another basket of provisions from home.
"Your father has sent meat and alms to all the prisoners—debtors and all," said the jailer; "and a handsome present to my wife as well. He might have spared that, but he is a kind and liberal man. Truly, you have no cause to thank them who brought you into this scrape."
"Nobody led me into it, good Master Davis," said Jack. "I thank you heartily for bringing me these things. Have you heard whether we are to be brought to trial this day?"
"Nay, I am in none of their secrets," growled the jailer, and withdrew.
Jack made haste to examine the provisions. In one loaf, he found a short letter from his father, full of affection. In the other, he discovered what astonished him beyond measure. It was a small book carefully wrapped up, which, on being opened, proved to be the Testament lately given him by Arthur Brydges. In the envelope was written in Anne's hand, "Forgive and pray for me! A. L."
Master Dennett had also received a missive from his wife, and while he was reading it, Jack took the opportunity to show Anne's gift and note to his uncle. "I know not what to think," said he. "It is Anne's hand, I am sure. I cannot wonder so much at what she hath written, but that she should send me the Testament passes my comprehension."
"It is indeed strange," said Thomas. "Can she have repented of what she has done?"
"I cannot but hope so," replied Jack, "if only for her own sake. I have all the time thought she was fighting against her inward convictions. Poor maiden! I forgive her with all my heart. I suppose I had better destroy this writing, though I should love to keep it."
"Destroy it by all means," said the shepherd hastily, "lest it bring the poor girl into trouble."
With the next morning came Brother Joseph and a summons to the prisoners.
"Nay, not so fast, my young scholar," said the sacristan, with a sneering laugh, as Jack rose to accompany his uncle. "Your time will come soon enough."
"Am I not then to go with my uncle?" asked Jack. "You are to stay where you are till you are called, when, mayhap, you may wish yourself back again."
"Farewell, then, dearest son of my love!" said the old shepherd, embracing and kissing Jack. "Fear nothing, but remain in prayer and meditation of that goodness and faithfulness which will fail neither of us. Master Dennett, let us this day play the man for our Master. Once more, farewell, my dear lad. Pray earnestly for me, but have no fears. I am not alone in this matter, but One goes hence with me who will not suffer me to fall."
"Enough of these blasphemies!" said Brother Joseph harshly. "And spare your breath for your own porridge. It will be hot enough to need it all. As for you, young sir, bethink you well, for I tell you unless you wholly recant and confess who were your movers in this thing, not all your Greek and Latin can save you from the fire, here or hereafter."