Jack was overjoyed at the discovery. He had never seen any part of the Old Testament except the Psalms, and could hardly believe in his good fortune. He looked the books over once more, and found a part of St. John's Gospel, evidently copied by the same hand.
Both books had been carefully studied, as was evident from the marks and marginal notes they contained. Jack understood at once the secret of David Brent's refusal to see the priest, and his dying, as his wife said, without the sacraments, yet as peaceful and calm as a babe. He felt, as he looked at the books written out with so much care by a hand evidently unused to holding a pen, like one who comes unexpectedly on the writing of a dear friend long dead; and he vowed that as long as he lived, David Brent's children should never want anything that he could do for them.
He trimmed the shaded lamp and sat down to read, but even the interest of his new discovery could not divert his attention from the sick man. Was he really Sir John Brydges's long-lost son? And if so, what was to be done to restore him to his parents? Could he be persuaded to return to his father's house? That would be best for all.
"But if he will not, the knight must come to him," Jack said to himself. "I must bring the father and son face to face, and then I am sure all will be well. I remember what the knight said on the terrace at Holford the day I went to speak with Master Fleming. Oh, how I wish he were here. But there is no use in speculating. I must wait and see how matters will turn out."
Jack once more addressed himself to his book, and read till he was aroused by the voice of the invalid. He rose and went to the bedside. Paul had been sleeping quietly for some time, but he now began to talk, though without opening his eyes; and Jack perceived that he was wandering, between sleeping and waking. He held his breath not to lose a word.
"Mother, mother," murmured the sick man. "Mother, I am not dead. I need no masses, even if they were worth anything. Only take me home, and lay me on my own bed, and let my father sit by me as he used to do in old times. Father will forgive me for disgracing him when he knows I am sorry for what I have done. 'While he was yet a great way off, his father saw him.' Master Firth bade me return to my father and seek his forgiveness. But a heretic!"
Jack started and drew nearer to the bedside.
"A heretic!" repeated Paul.
And then looking up, and seeing Jack bending over him, he added eagerly, but yet with a certain wildness which showed his mind was still wandering—"You have seen my father of late. Do you think he would receive and forgive me if he knew that I had heard the Lutherans preach—that I was of the new religion?"
"I am sure he would—quite sure," said Jack. "Some men say he is a favorer of the new religion himself."
"But my mother—what would she say? She is a proud and devout lady, you know."
"She is your mother," said Jack briefly, as though that were enough.
"But if she should refuse me when she knows the truth, if she should turn her back upon me after all, it would go near to break my heart. And you know I must needs speak the truth. 'He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.'"
Jack saw that his patient was becoming over-excited, and was likely to do himself harm.
"Hush!" said he, with kindly authority. "You will do yourself a mischief by talking so much, and I am sure your mother will not be pleased with that. Let me give you some refreshment, and then I will read to you, and you must try to sleep."
"But what will you read? Will you read from the Scriptures?" asked Paul, looking eagerly into Jack's face. "But no, you must not do so, or they will put you in prison and on the rack as they did me. See here," and he pushed up his sleeves and showed his emaciated wrists covered with terrible scars, the sight of which made Jack's blood boil and his fingers clinch involuntarily. "You must not read the Scripture, and besides you do not know it."
"I do both know the Scripture, and will read it to you, dearest brother," said Jack, striving to speak calmly, though he was thrilling all over with excitement. "Do but lie down and be quiet, and I will read as much as you will."
"But are you then a Lutheran?" asked Paul, looking wistfully into his face, "Or are you laying a trap for me, as they did in Flanders? There be no Lutherans in England."
"May God so deal with me as I am dealing truly with you," said Jack, solemnly. "There are some—yes many, in this place—who love the Gospel and read it, but as yet secretly, for fear of the oppressors. Have no fear, but down and rest, and I will read the holy Scripture to you as long as you will."
Seemingly reassured, Paul lay down, and Jack began reading from the book he had discovered. There was much of course that he did not in the least understand, but he found enough which was plain to make him long for more.
Paul now and then spoke a few words, but more and more dreamily, and Jack had at last the satisfaction of seeing him fall into a sound quiet sleep. He sat reading and thinking by the bedside till the gray dawn began to steal in at the window. As he rose to replenish the fire, Paul was roused and opened his eyes.
"Are you still here, my kind nurse?" said he, speaking faintly, but with no appearance of wandering or bewilderment. "Is it not very late? It seems as though I had been sleeping for a long time."
"It is very late, or rather very early. It is just growing daylight. You have slept soundly for several hours. How do you feel?"
"Much better," replied Paul. "My dreams have been very sweet. Did I dream it, or were you reading to me before I went to sleep?
"You were not dreaming, dear brother," said Jack. "Have you any recollection of what read?"
"Why do you call me brother?" asked Paul, with a wondering look. "It is a dear name, but I never knew I had a brother."
"I call you so because I cannot but think that in one sense we are brothers," said Jack. "But tell me, do you remember what I read?"
"It could hardly be so," said Paul; "and yet—it seems to me as if you had read to me from the Scripture. You are not a priest, are you?" he asked, starting. "I fear I have been saying more than I ought."
"Have no fears," returned Jack. "I am no priest, or priest's tool, of that you may be sure, and you have betrayed nothing. I did read from the Scripture to you last night, because you desired it, and because I myself love the Book. I could not betray you if I would, for I should myself stand in the same peril."
"It is well," said Paul. "I am most thankful to have fallen into such good hands. I do think I may trust you," he added, looking wistfully into Jack's face. "But I have been so betrayed by those in whom I have confided, that it has sometimes seemed to me that I could never trust man again."
"Have you no family friends near here?" asked Jack gently. "I should think you a Somerset man by your speech."
"No—yes—indeed, I know not what to say on that matter," replied Paul, in an embarrassed tone. "I had once as kind friends as ever lived, but I know not whether they would own me now."
"Never mind," said Jack, who did not wish to agitate or alarm his patient. "We will talk of that when you are stronger, if you are disposed to give me your confidence. At present, be sure you are among friends who will do all in their power for you."
"I must think of it," said Paul, sinking back. "It is no mere question of a shipwrecked sailor coming home in rags and poverty, you know. I may tell you this: that my family are gentlefolk of condition, and that they have good reason to be angry with me since I have brought upon an ancient and honorable house not only trouble but disgrace. There are more interests than mine to be considered, you see, and therefore I must weigh the matter well. I would gladly die, if die I must, with my head on my father's breast; but not even for that dear privilege would I bring a new pang to rend his bosom."
"Think then, dear brother, think, but pray also," said Jack, deeply moved. "You know the Apostle bids us, when we lack wisdom, to ask it of God, nothing doubting, and it shall be given us."
"I will indeed do so," replied Paul. "Nobody knows more than I the value of prayer. But do you go home now, and go to rest. I hear the good people of the house stirring."
Jack went home, but not to rest. He walked through the quiet street in the crisp morning air, thinking what he had better do. He did not know a great deal about sickness, but he could see that Paul's state was critical. A very little might turn the scale, so that there could be no recovery; and how sad if he should die without being reconciled to his father! From what he knew and guessed, Jack felt sure that there would be no trouble between Paul and his father, on the subject of religion. He walked three or four times up and down the street, but at last he made up his mind.
"I will do it," said he. "I will do what lies in my power to bring the father and son together. I will talk to my father, and if he is willing I will borrow Master Felton's pony and set out without delay."
JACK'S ERRAND.
"Is my father up, Simon?" asked Jack, as he entered the shop, which the journeyman was just putting to rights.
"I think not, Master Jack. I have not heard him stirring, and he usually calls me to come truss his points for him."
"I will myself go up and help him to dress," said Jack, and he went softly up-stairs to his father's room. Master Lucas was just awake.
"So you have come home betimes," said he, rubbing his eyes. "You have had a long watch and will be for taking a good nap, I dare say, though you do not look very sleepy either," he added, looking in his son's face. "You seem as if you had heard some good news."
"And so I trust I have," said Jack. "I want to consult you, dear father, about a matter of moment."
"Give me my gown, then," said his father. "It is time I was up. Now let me hear the story."
Jack sat down on the side of the bed, and told his father of the discovery he supposed himself to have made, with the grounds of his belief. Master Lucas listened with attention.
"But supposing this young man to be the heir of Holford," said he, "do you think his father would receive him again?"
"I have good grounds for thinking so, which you shall hear," said Jack, and he repeated his reasons, which we already know.
"Poor gentleman! My heart aches for him," said Master Lucas. "But what is it you propose to do? You cannot take Master Arthur to his home, weak as he is, even if he were quite willing to go."
"No; and, therefore, I propose to bring his home to him," said Jack. "I propose to ride to Holford, see the knight, and tell him all that I have told you. Then he can act as he pleases."
"Have you said aught of your intention to Master Arthur—or Paul, as he calls himself?"
"Not a word, dear father. I thought it best to be silent. Paul—his name is Paul as well as Arthur—Paul is in doubt as to his reception at home. He says he has brought shame and disgrace on his honorable house, and he knows not whether he ought to return—"
"So had the youth Father William preached about yesterday, brought shame and disgrace on his family," interrupted the baker. "Yet he returned, and his father received him gladly."
"And if the poor prodigal had been ill and starving, repentant, and longing above all things for a sight of his father's face, yet too weak and too fearful to go to him," said Jack, eagerly, "do you not think that he and his father both would have been thankful to that man who had brought them face to face, who had carried news to the father that the son was languishing, perhaps dying, within his reach? Make the case your own, dear father, and tell me."
Master Lucas turned and looked at his son with tears in his honest blue eyes. "Jack, you are a strange lad for your years. I cannot understand what has made a man of you so suddenly. Even do as you will, and manage the matter your own way, my son. I cannot see what harm can come of it. If the knight should refuse to see his son, the poor young gentleman will at least be prevented from a bootless journey."
"He will not refuse," said Jack. "Then, with your leave, dear father, I will set out directly."
"As soon as you have rested a little and taken a good meal, my son. Nay, I must insist upon that much, or we shall have you ill again. Remember you are all the son, I had well-nigh said all the child, I have in the world. Get you down and send Simon to engage for your neighbor Fulford's pony. It is an easy beast to ride, and faster than my mule. It is a market-day, and the roads will be full of people, so you will have nothing to fear from robbers, or I would send Simon with you."
"I do not need him," said Jack. "Nobody would think of robbing a lad like me; and besides I doubt Simon would be no great safeguard. He has not the heart of a chicken. Father," added Jack, earnestly, "I do heartily thank you for trusting me so fully."
"When I see aught to distrust in you, it will be time to begin," said Master Lucas. "My blessing upon thee, dear lad. Thou hast never yet wilfully given thy father a heart-ache."
A pang shot through Jack's own breast, as he remembered how soon he might be called upon to do and suffer that which would wring his father's heart with anguish through no fault of his own. "Oh, if it were only myself," he reflected, as he sought his own chamber, "how easy it would all be to endure." And, dearly as he loved his father, Jack almost felt like praying that the good old man might be taken away from the evil to come, before the storm burst which Master Fleming had foretold.
Calmed and refreshed by his morning reading and prayers, Jack came down to his breakfast dressed for his journey, his sober, resolute face showing that his determination was unshaken.
Cicely exclaimed against his setting out on such a ride after he had been watching all night.
But Master Lucas made her a sign, and she said no more, except to entreat her darling to eat and drink heartily, and to put a comfortable morsel in his pocket, that he need not be faint by the way.
She was dying with curiosity to learn the object of his journey undertaken so suddenly, but she knew of old, that unless Master Lucas chose to tell there was no use in asking.
Anne was not so discreet. She came in when breakfast was half over, from the priory church, where she had been praying since four o'clock. Kneeling on cold stones for three hours on a stretch without one's breakfast is not likely to improve the temper, whatever other spiritual graces it may impart. Anne felt weak, exhausted, and wretched, and all ready, as her father said, to take the poker by the hot end.
"What is Simon doing, walking that horse up and down before the door?" she asked, as she sat down. "Have some of Jack's grand friends come to visit him so early?"
"I did not know that I had any grand friends," said Jack.
"I thought it might be Master Fleming," pursued Anne. "He seems to use our house as his own at all times."
"If he does, he is no more free than welcome," said her father. "I ever esteem his visits an honor as well as a pleasure. But you are wrong this time. The pony is for no less a person than our Jack, who is about to ride into the country for some miles."
"Indeed!" said Anne. "And what takes him into the country?"
"Business," replied her father briefly. "Business of importance, which no one can well do but himself. Ask no questions, sweetheart, for more I cannot tell you."
"I do not mean to ask any questions," said Anne, flushing. "I know well that I am the last person to be trusted, especially by Jack."
"Do you say so, Anne?" asked Jack, turning full upon her, as his father left the room. "Methinks I have trusted you already farther than you were willing to have me, farther than I had reason to do, considering all things. But I do not mean to reproach you, dear sister," he added, repenting, the next moment, as he saw how Anne winced. "The business I go upon is not mine, or you should know all about it."
"Nay, I have no desire to penetrate it," said Anne, coldly, but with eyes that flashed an angry fire. "I desire to enter into none of your secrets. I can guess its nature well, and will not even presume to warn you, though I know the terrible risk you are running. You are working to bring down ruin upon yourself and your father's house, fancying that you are having your own wilful way, while all the time you are being made a tool and a cat's-paw of, by craftier heads than your own."
No lad of sixteen likes to be called a tool and a cat's-paw. Jack had his share of pride as well as Anne, and he had to bite his lip hard to repress an angry answer. He did repress it, however, and after a moment of silence answered quietly, "Anne, would you like to have anyone speak to you in that manner? Would you like it, for instance, if I were to call you a cat's-paw and spy of Father Barnaby?"
"You have no right to call me so," said Anne. "I am no spy, and I will not submit to be called one."
"You have no need to submit, for I have no intention of calling you a spy or any other disagreeable name," said Jack, smiling. "I only put the case for your consideration. As to my business, all this secrecy which nevertheless is needful at present, is just making a mountain out of a very small molehill. Come, Anne, do not let us quarrel just as I am going away. Why should we not be loving and gentle to one another as brother and sister should be?"
"Because you are a heretic," replied Anne. "It is my duty to try to bring you back to the faith, and failing that to treat you as—"
"As Agnes Harland was treated, perhaps," said Jack, interrupting her. Then repenting the next moment, "Dear Anne, forgive me; I am wrong. I should not have said so much."
He would have taken Anne's hand, but she repulsed him.
"Yes, as Agnes Harland was treated," said she sternly. "Even so. You have no right to expect any thing else at my hands. I have had many regrets, many misgivings, as to this matter, but I will allow them to influence me no more. The Church is more to me than father or brother or friend. I am the vowed bride of Christ, and I will be faithful to my vow—ay, though I had to walk over the dead body of every friend I have in the world. I will be faithful to my vows and to my conscience. Now you know what you have to expect."
"Very well," said Jack. "My life is in your hands. But, Anne," he added, looking fixedly at her, "are you sure that you are faithful to your conscience? Are you sure your conscience is not telling you this minute, that what you have heard from Agnes and from me is true, every word true? Are you not at this very moment resisting the Spirit which tells you that you have been mistaken and wrong hitherto; that shows, you all your built-up righteousness to be more worthless than rags and dust, and pleads with you to forsake your errors and turn to the truth; to leave the broken cisterns hewed by man, and seek the fountain of living waters? I believe it is so. Anne, Anne, beware! For me, I am in God's hand, and no real harm can chance to me, but I tremble for you. Anne, Anne, beware how you grieve the Spirit by resisting your convictions of truth!"
"Time is wearing away, my son, and it were well you were on your road," said Master Lucas, entering the room. "The days are shorter than they were. Shall you return to-night?"
"Yes, father, if I can finish my business," replied Jack; and then desirous of diverting his attention from Anne, he said hastily, "I was thinking whether there was any token I could carry to the old priest at Holford. He is a good-natured old man and was kind to me, and I should like to show that I remembered him."
"That is well thought on, my son. Do you get my saddle-bags, and I will put up some sweetmeats and comfits for Father John's sweet tooth, and also something for Uncle Thomas. We must not forget old friends."
Jack went for the bags, and while his father was filling them, he found opportunity for another word with his sister.
"Anne, I am sorry if I have grieved you."
"Words cost very little," said Anne coldly. "Let me see you confess and abjure your errors, and I shall know how to believe you."
"My errors, as you call them, shall be confessed with my latest breath, if God gives me grace to hold fast to Him," returned Jack. "You would not have known them, had it not been for my earnest desire to comfort you in your trouble. Nor do I regret having spoken them, though by so doing I have put a weapon in your hands to slay me withal. It seemed to me that I must speak, whatever came of it. The Gospel says, 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed when he shall come in the glory of his father and of the holy angels.' And again, 'If we deny him, he also will deny us.' Dear Anne, only listen to the Word and to the Spirit, only take up the cross and follow the Lord, and all will be well."
Anne compressed her lips and made no reply, and her father coming in at that moment, she escaped to her own room.
"Is all ready?" asked Jack. "Then give me your blessing, dear father, and I will set out."
"Thou hast it, thou hast it, my son," said Master Lucas, laying his hand on his son's head as he bent his knee before him. "May our Lord and the saints prosper thy journey and bring thee safe home again!"
Jack's mind was at first hardly in a state to enjoy his ride. He had a sharp battle with himself before he could subdue the anger and wounded pride which stirred within him; and his conscience told him that he had not been without blame. He had spoken harshly and scornfully to his sister, and made an ungenerous use of the secret she had confided to him.
Anne was deeply angered at him, that was plain; and he had, by offending her, lessened his chance of influencing her for good. He had another cause of disturbance. It seemed to him that much as he had thought on the subject, he had never realized before, the trouble he was likely to bring on his friends, especially on his father, by accepting the new doctrines, as they were called. He said to himself, as he rode along, that he might be taken up and thrown into jail any day, and that there would be probably no release from prison for him, save by the ignominious death of the stake, or the still more shameful and fatal way of recantation.
He pictured to himself the stake and chain, the crowd of scornful gazers and the blazing torch, or the scaffold set up in the market-place where the apostate must stand bearing his fagot while a monk preached from the pulpit over his head.
"It would kill my father in either case," said he to himself. "He would never recover the grief and the disgrace. And if it should prove a delusion after all! If Anne should be right and Master Fleming and the others wrong!"
It was a fearful combat that Jack fought out with the Tempter that sunny autumn day, as he rode over the heath and along the still green hedgerows. The travellers he met saw in him some youth going out on a holiday excursion, and marvelled at his sombre face and compressed lip.
It rarely happens in these days that any young person is called to really give up all for Christ, to choose between His love and service and the love and respect of all nearest and dearest friends; and when it does so chance, there is usually everything in the sympathy of Christians to make the task as easy as it can be made. Moreover such a choice, though it may bring grief and estrangement, involves no actual loss or disgrace.
But in the time whereof I am writing, the case was very different. The man or woman who embraced the new doctrines, as they were called, not only came out from all the dear old customs and sanctities of the familiar home life, not only broke up "the old sweet habit of confidence," but he brought shame and public disgrace into his own family circle, if he did not entail upon his friends absolute pecuniary loss and serious danger to life and liberty.
I have sometimes heard it said, that those martyrs by the stake and the rack had an easier work to do, and deserved less credit therefore, than those have who bear with the trials and vexations of every-day life. I think those who say so forget one thing; namely, that the martyrs who perished on the stake or rack, had just the same wearying, worrying, every-day trials and cares that we have, in addition to the one great trial.
Anne Ascue had her household vexations, and those no small ones; her trials with husband and children and servants, lack of money, and uncertainty as to the future. Tyndale and Frith had to contend with misprints and misunderstandings, the stupidity and dulness of printers and proof-readers unused to the language in which they worked, with pirated editions, and all the other manifold annoyances which beset authors and publishers nowadays. Were these, think you, any easier to bear for the great trial which was always in the background? Were the clouds any the more transparent because of the total eclipse which was impending? I think not. How then were they borne?
I think the answer is to be found in this—that these men and women who thus took their lives in their hands, and went forth to witness for their Lord in the midst of an adulterous and perverse generation, lived daily very near to God. They realized in a wonderful way God's love for them, His constant care for them, His superintending providence which would let nothing happen which was not for their good.
Master Garrett, at Oxford, when he was in danger of being apprehended, kneeled down weeping in his chamber and read the tenth chapter of St. Matthew, and the words were to him a living reality. These men literally, and in no figurative or exaggerated sense, gave up all for Christ. They literally left all and followed Him; and to them was fulfilled in all its fulness the promise, "Ye shall have tenfold more in this life, with persecutions, and in the world to come life everlasting."
With many, the conflict was sharp and the victory sometimes doubtful; but sooner or later the word was fulfilled and the strength given according to the day. ¹
¹ I think any one will be convinced of the truth of this statement who will read for himself the letters of the martyrs, especially those written in prison.
So Jack Lucas found it, riding that soft autumnal day along the quiet lanes and over the barn heath. For a time the conflict was fierce, and the enemy strong—so strong that the young warrior more than once groaned aloud in the bitterness of his soul, and was ready to cry out:
"I sink in deep waters; Lord, why hidest thou thy face in the needful time of trouble?"
But by degrees, his mind grew calmer. He could not trust himself to argue with the Tempter, or even to fight with him but, like Christian in the dark valley, "he was forced to put up his sword and betake himself to another weapon called All-prayer—so he cried, 'O Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul!'"
And so it was, that the Master he served was pleased to give him the victory for that time. A wonderful calm and peace descended upon his spirit, and he was able to enjoy the beauty around him, and to take pleasure at being once more in the country.
He arrived at Holford in good time, and rode direct to the Hall. To his great disappointment, he found that both the knight and his lady were away. They had gone to visit a sick friend in the neighboring parish.
"But they will be home before evening," said the porter, as Jack expressed his disappointment; "so, if your business is urgent, you might as well wait for their return."
"I think I will do so," said Jack; "and meantime I will go to visit my uncle and the good father at the village."
"Ay, the old man will be glad to see you, and his reverence as well," said the butler, who had come out to speak with Jack. "I promise you, the father gave our knight a good character of you, for I heard him myself. He said you had given him great help at a pinch, and had much to say of your scholarship, especially of your Latin."
"It was no very great help I gave him," said Jack; "but he is a good-natured old gentleman. Well, Master Butler, I will go down to the hamlet and see the priest and my uncle, and return about the time the knight is expected."
HOLFORD AGAIN.
Jack's first visit was to his uncle. He found the old man in his accustomed seat on the turfy hill, with Bevis sitting by his side. He could not but think that Thomas had grown visibly older and more infirm during the few weeks of his absence.
"I have been quite well," he said, in reply to Jack's anxious inquiries; "but either because I have missed your good company or because I am so many weeks older, I do not feel quite my usual strength. But then, I am an old man, dear son. I am fourscore and four years old, and cannot expect to use my limbs as lightly as when I followed our old knight to the wars more than sixty years ago. But what brings you to Holford so soon again?"
"I had an errand to the knight, from one of his friends in Bridgewater," said Jack, hesitating; "at least—Uncle Thomas, I should like to tell you the whole story, but I suppose the knight should know my errand before any one. Only, uncle, will you pray that I may have wisdom to guide me? For my mission is something delicate."
"Surely, surely, dear son, thou hast my prayers at all times. The knight has been very kind to me of late. He has ever been so, but there seems now to be a new bond of union, if I may so say, between us. I have also had more than one visit from our good friend Master Fleming, who, as you doubtless know, has been several times at the Hall, and never without seeking me out. I have been greatly blessed in mine old age in being allowed to see again the light which shone upon my youth. But how has it fared with you, my dear lad? Methinks you, too, have grown older since I saw you."
"I almost feel as though I had never been young," said Jack, sighing. "I have so much to think of. Uncle Thomas, I do feel guilty in keeping this matter secret from my father. He has ever been the best and kindest of fathers to me, and I cannot bear to feel as if I were deceiving him. I feel as if I must tell him all."
"I am not sure but you are right, my clear lad," said the old shepherd, thoughtfully. "I like not concealments more than you do, and, as you say, your father hath every right to your confidence."
"If the secret had been mine alone, he should have heard it long ago," said Jack. "But there was yourself, and Master Fleming."
"Think not of me, my son," said Thomas Sprat; "I am, as I think, already suspected and watched, and at best my time is short. You had best consult Master Fleming, however, before moving in the matter. He may see reasons for secrecy which I do not, and you know that the secret, once told, can never be got back again."
"I have told one who will, I fear, have less mercy on me than my dear father," remarked Jack. "Anne knows all about my share in the secret, and I cannot tell how she will use her knowledge."
"How happened it that you told her?" asked the shepherd.
Jack repeated the story, adding, "I do not know but I was wrong, but I could not see her so unhappy without striving to comfort her. It seems to have done no good, however, but rather harm, for I am sure she has been more miserable than she was before, and she grows more and more hard and cold toward me every day. She told me this morning that she would keep no terms with heretics, and that she would be true to her vow and to the Church, if she walked over the dead body of every friend she had in the world. I know not what she would do, but I would fain anticipate her, at least with my father."
"It is a hard strait," said the old man, sighing; "yet I suppose Anne feels as you do, that she must follow the dictates of her own conscience."
"If she were only doing that," replied Jack; "but I cannot help fearing that she is acting not against her own conscience, and trying to stifle its voice."
"If so, she is indeed in evil case, and needs all our prayers," said Thomas Sprat. "Be very gentle and patient with her, dear son, and seek you wisdom of God, doubting not that it shall be given."
"Have you seen Father John of late?" asked Jack, after a short silence.
"Only twice since you went away. I have not been to the church in service time, but I have met him in the village, and once at the Hall. His reverence has always an inquiry and a good word for you. He seems more easy and jovial, more like his old self, since Father Barnaby went away."
"Yes, I dare say. He is afraid of Father Barnaby, and I must say I am glad he is gone, for all our sakes. He is a hard, dangerous man. I must go see the old gentleman, for he has been very kind to me, and I have a token for him from my father, of a kind he will like right well."
Jack found Father John looking much as usual, seated at his ease in his great chair with his dinner before him, flanked by a mighty tankard of ale on one side and a flask of wine on the other. He gave Jack a warm and affectionate welcome, and would have him sit down to dinner with him.
"I am late to-day," said he; "I have been out visiting the sick, and have taken a long ride, for me—quite to the other end of the parish. But I have great news for you, my son," he continued, piling Jack's plate with good things while he spoke. "The bishop's sumner was here yesterday, and he tells me Father Barnaby is expected to go to Rome on a mission of weight for the king and the cardinals. I am sure I hope he may have a pleasant journey, and that his Holiness will like him so well that he will make him a cardinal, or, at least, a bishop of some good bishopric on the other side of the world."
Jack smiled. "Perhaps his Holiness will keep him in his own family," said he.
"So much the better—so much the better," said Father John, hastily. "I bear no ill-will to Father Barnaby, but his merits are too great for such an obscure station, and we are a deal more comfortable without him."
Jack could hardly forbear laughing. He brought forward the sweetmeats and other matters which his father had sent, and had the satisfaction of seeing them received with great delight. Then excusing himself, he hastened once more to the Hall, and found that Sir John and his lady had been at home for an hour.
"I told the knight you had been here, asking for him, and he bid me show you to him as soon as ever you came back," said Master Butler. "He waits you in the library."
Jack felt somewhat abashed, not to say frightened, when he found himself alone with Sir John, and hardly knew how to begin his tale.
"You come a messenger from Master Fleming?" said Sir John, kindly, seeing the youth's evident embarrassment. "Speak freely; we are quite by ourselves."
"It is not upon any business of Master Fleming's that I have come, Sir John," said Jack, gathering courage. "I know not but you will think me very forward and presumptuous when I open the matter to you. In that case, my only excuse must be that I have done as I would be done by under the like circumstances."
"It is a good excuse, if any be needed," returned the knight gravely. "Of that I can judge better when I hear what you have to say to me."
"Your worship has a son," said Jack, determined to go to the root of the matter at once.
Sir John started and turned pale. "I have—or had," said he, trying to speak calmly. "I know not if he be living or no. Have you heard any news of him?"
"I believe that I have—nay, I am sure of it," replied Jack. "It was that which brought me here this day."
Sir John paused a moment, and then asked, "Is the news good or bad?"
"Altogether good, as I think."
"Tell me at once what you have to say," said Sir John. "I can bear anything better than suspense. My son is then alive?"
"He is alive, and likely, as I trust, to live, though he has been ill and is still very weak," replied Jack.
He then went on and told his tale in as few words as possible, adding, "I am come to you, Sir John, wholly on mine own motion, and without authority from Master Arthur. But it seemed to me no more than right that you should know the truth."
"Does not my son then desire to see me?" asked Sir John.
"He does, indeed," said Jack eagerly. "He said last night that his only remaining wish was, to ask your forgiveness and to die in your arms. But he cannot come to seek you. He is very weak and low, unable so much as to rise from his bed, and besides, I can see he is full of fear and doubt. He says he has brought disgrace and shame on an honorable house, and he knows not whether his friends would not rather think him dead. I do not think he even guesses that I know his secret, for I gathered it from his wanderings last night, whereof he remembered nothing this morning. I most humbly crave your pardon, if I have done wrong," said Jack, not knowing how to interpret the knight's face.
Sir John rose, and walked to the door of the ante-room, where a servant was in waiting.
"Tell David to put my saddle on gray Hastings," said he sharply and briefly. "Bid him also saddle a fresh horse for young Lucas, and take care of the one he rode, that it may be returned tomorrow; and let David make himself and Hugh ready to ride with us. Make haste and then return hither."
Sir John shut the door, and returned to where Jack was standing.
"My young brother," said he, "for brother you are in the bonds of the gospel—you have done for me what I can never repay. However this matter may turn, I shall never forget your service. I had, heretofore, taken you for a boy of promise and grace, indeed, but yet a boy. You have shown yourself a wise and discreet man, as well as a good Christian. Tell me, does any one know of this matter besides ourselves?"
"Nobody but my father, sir," answered Jack. "I was obliged to consult him before taking so much upon myself; but I am sure he will never mention the matter."
"That is well. I would have nothing said here till the matter is settled. Not that I shall be ashamed to own my son before all the world; but I would not have his mother disturbed while there is the least doubt. Now I must order refreshment for you, while I apprise my lady of my sudden journey."
"I have but lately dined with the good priest at the village," said Jack. "I shall be ready to ride so soon as your worship is ready."
"Ay, you are very far in Father John's good books," said the knight, smiling. "Poor old man, he would fain be at peace with all the world, I believe. But you must eat and drink for the honor of my house. I will but seek my lady and be with you again."
Lady Brydges was much surprised to hear of her husband's sudden journey, but offered no opposition.
"I had hoped you were done with public affairs," said she. "At our age, the chimney corner is the best chair of state."
"I am wholly of your mind, sweetheart," replied her husband. "This is no matter of public business, however, but a private concern of mine own. I shall, I trust, be with you or else send you word of my progress tomorrow; and I would have you say a word of kindness to young Lucas, who has done me a great service, and, as I think, saved me from losing what I could ill spare."
My lady was always disposed to be gracious, at least, to her acknowledged inferiors. She asked Jack about his studies and his school, told him of a sovereign remedy for the headache, to which he was subject, and ended by giving him a plum-cake, and a silver piece.
At another time, Jack might have resented being treated like a schoolboy, but just now he was too full of interest and compassion to harbor any such feeling.
In the course of half an hour, the party were on the road, and riding at the best speed of the knight's good horses; the pony being left behind to rest and regale himself in Sir John's stable.
"You say my son was very weak and low," remarked Sir John after riding some time in silence. "Has any physician or priest been to see him?"
"Davy Brent sent for old Doctor Berton directly," answered Jack; "and he hath been to Master Arthur every day, but Master Arthur did not desire to see a priest."
"Did he say aught to show you the state of his mind?"
Jack had been hesitating as to whether he ought to say anything about Arthur's religious condition; but now that the way seemed so clearly opened, he hesitated no longer.
"Master Arthur begged me to read the Scripture to him, and I did so," said he. "He seemed, at first, to fear that he had betrayed himself to a spy of the priests, and when I reassured him, he showed me the scars which had been made on his wrists by the rack as he said, whereby I supposed he had been in the hands of the Inquisition somewhere in the Low Countries or in France. He seemed to fear that your worship would not receive him because he had heard the Lutheran preachers, and said it was Master Frith who told him he ought to return to his father."
"My poor boy!" said Sir John, and then followed another long silence, which was hardly broken till they reached Bridgewater.
The horses and man-servant were left at the inn, and Sir John walked down to Mary Brent's house attended by Jack, and followed by the wondering looks and respectful salutes of all he met, for Sir John was almost as well-known in Bridgewater as the tower of St. Mary's.
"You had better go up first and see how my son is," said the knight, as they reached the door. "But what shall we say to the good woman of the house?"
"I will manage that," said Jack, marvelling at his own confidence. "I can easily content her."
Mary Brent in her neat widow's weeds was always fit to be seen, and welcomed Sir John with all due humility.
"The dear young gentleman has been much better to-day," said she in answer to his inquiries. "He said he felt as though Master Jack had put new life into him. I hope your worship will see no harm in him," she added somewhat uneasily. "I could do nothing else than take him in when my son brought him home."
"You have done quite right, and I thank you, dame," said Sir John graciously. "If the young man proves, as I think he may, a kinsman of mine, you shall be no loser by your kindness."
Jack found his new friend sitting up in bed, supported by pillows, and looking eagerly toward the door. He seemed a little disappointed as Jack entered alone.
"Is it you, my kind nurse?" said he. "Are you alone? I fancied I heard another voice."
"A familiar voice?" asked Jack, smiling. "A voice you have heard before?"
"It did seem so," replied Paul, sinking wearily back again on his pillows. "But it could have been but a sick man's fancy. I doubt I shall never live to hear that voice again."
"Whose voice did you think you heard?" asked Jack; then, as Paul did not answer, "Was it your father's?"
"It did, indeed, seem like his," returned Paul. "But I know it could not be. Oh, could I but once fall at his feet like the poor prodigal!"
"The prodigal did not fall at his father's feet, though he might have meant to do so," said Jack, softly. "When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him."
Paul started up with more energy than one would have thought possible. "Have you brought my father to me?" he cried. "Is he here?"
"Hush hush!" said Jack, gently laying him back on the pillow. "Do but be quiet and composed, and all shall be well. There is, indeed, a worthy gentleman below stairs, and when I see you yourself again, I will bring him to your bedside."
Great was the amazement and delight of Mary Brent when Sir John, coming down-stairs from his long interview with her lodger, took her by the hand, and, in fitting and formal phrase, thanked her for the kindness she had shown to his only son and heir.
She could hardly comprehend the matter, and looked from Sir John to Jack in evident bewilderment.
"Do you not understand?" said Jack. "The young gentleman above is Mr. Arthur Paul Brydges, Sir John Brydges's son, long in captivity in foreign parts and supposed to be dead. He was on his way home when he was wrecked and saved by your son Davy."
No happier or prouder woman than Mary Brent could be found in all Bridgewater and Somersetshire to boot. It was plain that Paul, or Arthur, as we must now call him, could not be moved at present; so fitting furniture and garnishing was procured for Mary's empty rooms, and the next day Lady Brydges and her waiting gentlewoman came in from the Hall and took up their lodging with the shipmaster's widow.
After all Jack's care in preparing the way, the shock of the meeting told severely on Arthur's enfeebled frame, and for many days, he hovered between life and death. At last, however, youth and good nursing carried him through, and he was able to be taken home to his father's house.
It may easily be guessed that the knight and his lady were not wanting in thanks and in more solid tokens of esteem toward the kind little widow and her family. All the furniture which had been bought for Lady Brydges's use was given to Mary. Davy was advanced by Sir John's interest to be commander of a coasting vessel, and her younger children rejoiced in the new clothes, the toys, and sweetmeats, which made them the envy of all the school-children.
"'Tis a fine thing to have grand friends," said Dame Higgins, who had made an errand to Mary Brent's house expressly to see the new furniture. "You were in luck, after all."
"I should not have been in luck, if I had taken your advice and left poor Mr. Arthur to take his chance at the convent gate," returned Mary, unable to resist the temptation of triumphing a little. "But he should have been welcome to my best bed all the same, as long as he needed it, if he had been the poor sailor we all thought him."
"Some folks have all the luck," grumbled Dame Higgins. "If I had taken in all the poor vagabonds in the port, they would never have turned out anything but vagabonds."
"When you take in a poor vagabond sailor, he will turn out a prince of the Indies at least," said Davy Brent bluntly. "My mother did what she did from pure love and kindness, and she would not have failed of her reward, however it had turned out."
"Well, well, I don't want to quarrel," said Dame Higgins. "You are sure to be rising folks, now that you have obliged such great people; and I only hope you won't forget old friends in your prosperity, that is all."
CONFIDENCES.
Some four or five weeks had passed quietly over the heads of our friends since the events recorded in our last chapter.
Master Fleming had returned to London, carrying with him the thanks and blessings of all the poor in Bridgewater, and of all whom he had led into the knowledge of the Scriptures and the way of life. Dame Barbara continued her school, now as large as she could manage.
Jack had made more than one journey to Holford to visit his uncle and Arthur, between whom and himself had grown up a warm and intimate friendship. This friendship, though approved by Sir John, was not viewed with altogether favorable eyes either by my lady or Master Lucas. My lady, though she acknowledged the obligations of the family to Jack, nevertheless thought it rather beneath her son's dignity to be so familiar with the son of a citizen; and Master Lucas, who was fully as proud in his way as my lady was in hers, did not like to have Jack visit at a house where he was likely to be looked upon as a presumptuous intruder.
However, Arthur's mother was inclined to treat her son with every indulgence, so long as he continued in his present weak state, and, though she gently mourned over the degeneracy of the times which made such a friendship possible, and was sometimes more condescending in her kindness to Jack than was altogether pleasant, still she was kind, and, moreover, acknowledged that the young man had parts and breeding which would not disgrace any station.
It may be guessed that Jack and Arthur never wanted for topics of conversation. Arthur had lived a roving and somewhat wild life for two or three years after he went abroad, till he at last fell dangerously ill at Antwerp. Alone in a strange place, without money and without friends, he was likely to fare badly; when he was found out by those two eminent saints and confessors, Frith and Lambert, then engaged in distributing and preaching the Word of God among their own countrymen abroad. By them Arthur was fed and nursed and cared for till he recovered his health, and by them was he led to see what was the root of all his troubles, to renounce the errors in which he had been brought up, and to profess the truth.
Arthur had naturally a quick and strong mind and a warm heart. He studied eagerly and earnestly, and by the time he was able to be about again, he was fully grounded in the new doctrines. He was desirous of undertaking some useful work to show his thankfulness and sincerity, and taking with him a package of Testaments and tracts, he travelled from city to city and from village to village distributing the seed of truth, especially among his own countrymen.
Moved by the arguments and solicitations of his friend Frith, he at last became convinced that it was his duty to return and make his submission to his father; and he determined to do so, though sorely in doubt about his reception, for his father was a proud man, and it was a boast of the Brydges that no heir of the family had ever brought disgrace upon it.
It was at Brussels, on his way home, that Arthur Brydges was betrayed by one who had come to him pretending to be in want of an English Testament. This man had been in trouble, himself, as a Lutheran, had abjured his so-called errors, and was now endeavoring to atone for them by making himself serviceable as a spy. His former connection with English Protestants enabled him to assume the character to perfection, and perhaps Arthur in his zeal was not so careful as he should have been.
At any rate, he fell into the trap, went as he supposed with his new friend to a secret assembly of Protestants, and found himself in a dungeon of the Inquisition, from which he hardly escaped with life, by the connivance of an English priest who was not yet lost to all feeling of humanity or patriotism.
"The base hound—the infamous, cowardly traitor!" exclaimed Master Lucas when he heard the story. "Did he betray his own countryman to death, and that under the guise of friendship? I would go all the way to Bristol on foot to see him hanged."
"There have been worse cases than this," said Arthur; "cases in which the brother has literally betrayed the brother to death, and the father the son. Nay, I knew of one in which a brother informed against his own twin sister, and believed he was doing God service."
"Such things seem impossible," said Master Lucas. "I wonder what his parents said."
"They may have approved," said Anne, bending closely over her work as she spoke. "If the sister were an heretic and a blasphemer, the brother's duty to the Church—"
"Tell me not of duty to the Church!" interrupted the baker. "I say the man was a villain, unfit to live, not worthy of the name of hound, since even brutes know the ties of affection and friendship. Why, the very old cat there, thief that she is, would fight to the death for her kittens. But here I am growing as hot as one of mine own ovens," said he, wiping his forehead and smiling at his own vehemence. "Only, Anne, thou shouldst not vex thine old father by taking the contrary side."
After Arthur had gone, the story of his adventures was talked over at the table, and Master Lucas again vented his indignation against the cowardly spy who had betrayed Arthur, and against spies and traitors in general.
"If it had been my son who had done such a thing, I would never see him more."
"Suppose it were your own son who was a heretic?" said Anne.
"That is a different matter," replied the baker. "It would be a great misfortune, and much to be deplored, but it would not be a base and traitorous action like the other. Nay, I could forgive heresy—the wildest heresy—in a man, sooner than treachery."
"I do not see the treachery," said Anne. "If he warned his sister beforehand what he was going to do, in case she persisted in her error as you call it, she had no cause of complaint. His duty as a Christian stood before his duty to his family, or any other carnal and fleshly ties. I think he did right," said Anne, flushing as she spoke. "I do not see how he could do otherwise."
"Would you, then, do so?" asked Sister Barbara.
"I would," replied Anne. "I should think it my duty."
"Then wouldst thou never again enter thy father's door or receive his blessing!" exclaimed Master Lucas, striking the table with his fist so that the dishes jingled. "Never would I see again a child capable of playing such a villainous part. My curse—"
"Dear father!" exclaimed Jack, laying his hand entreatingly on his father's arm. "My dear good father, do not be angry with Anne. She would never do anything to forfeit your blessing, I am sure."
"I beg, Jack, that you will not interfere," said Anne, who seemed bent upon raising a storm. "It does not become you to meddle. Let my father say his will."
"My will is to bid thee hold thy tongue, for a malapert contrary wench as thou art, and not provoke thy old father to make a fool of himself, or bring on a fit of apoplexy," said Master Lucas, making an effort to control himself and speak in his usual pleasant tone. "Reach me a cup of cool water, my son. It was an evil day that I sent my daughter to a nunnery to learn to despise the honest and natural ties of blood and childly duty among a parcel of fantastic and bigoted old maids—craving your pardon, madam," he added, turning to Sister Barbara. "But it is enough to make a man a heretic in spite of himself, to hear one's own child upholding such notions to one's face. I verily believe more heretics are made by the priests than by any one else."
"I wonder what my lady says to Arthur's new notions," said Sister Barbara. "She used to be very strict lady about such matters."
"She was greatly grieved and shocked at first," said Jack; "but she is becoming more reconciled of late, and, I believe, she has never shown Arthur any unkindness in respect of them."
"Well, I don't wish Master Arthur any ill, but I wish he and our Jack were not so intimate," remarked Cicely. "The next thing we shall have Jack, himself, infected with Lutheran notions. They say Father William has come round to be an out-and-out Gospeller, and is all for having folk read the Scripture for themselves. Not that I see why the Gospellers are to be blamed for that," added Cicely simply. "Because, of course, if it were the true Bible, the more they read it, the more devout Catholics they would be."
Jack and Sister Barbara both smiled.
"Father William has been nothing else but a heretic this long time," said Anne angrily. "I am glad if he has at last had honesty enough to confess it."
"Heretic or not, he is one of the best men that ever breathed," said Master Lucas. "One cannot but think there must be something in these new doctrines, since such men as he are carried away by them. Jack, are you for riding out to the Priory Mills with me? I have some business with the miller there, and the afternoon is fine."
Jack accepted the invitation with alacrity, thinking he saw an opening for the confidential conversation he had been longing to hold with his father for some days past. The burden of secrecy had been troubling him more and more, of late, and he had determined at last, that, come of it what would, he would bear it no longer. He hastened to make himself ready, and, as he was descending the stairs, he was beckoned by Sister Barbara.
"Jack," said she, "I cannot but think I am playing a deceitful part by your good father. I cannot think it is right to go on so. I shall grieve to leave the shelter of this roof where I have been so happy—where I have first learned the meaning of the word home," said the good lady, her eyes filling with tears; "but it is not right to expose your father to the dangers which may arise from harboring a heretic. I must leave you, though I know not whither I can go."
"Do nothing hastily, dearest sister," said Jack. "I myself shall open my heart to my father this afternoon, and we will see what is to be done. I trust all may yet be well."
"All will yet be well," returned Sister Barbara. "It cannot but be well if we are only faithful; but I doubt we shall see terrible times first. Let us pray for one another that our faith fail not in the fiery trial."
In the course of their ride, Jack opened his heart to his father, as he proposed. He found Master Lucas not unprepared for the disclosure, and though much disturbed yet not inclined to be angry.
"I have been suspecting as much, this long time," said he. "Ever since your return from Holford, I could not but see that you were greatly changed and improved—yes, I will say improved. But to think that you should have heard all this from Uncle Thomas. Truly, one never knows where danger lies. Had I been told to select a safe place for a lad, I could not have thought of a better one."
"Did you not, then, know the story of his father?" asked Jack.
"I do remember hearing something of it, but the matter happened long before my time, and was hushed up as much as might be. And then, who would think that Uncle Thomas, who could not have been more than fifteen at the time, would have remembered and held fast his father's teachings all these years, and after all he has gone through? It is truly wonderful!"
"It is, indeed," said Jack. "You would be astonished to see how much he remembers of what he learned when he was a little lad. But, dear father, I am so glad you are not angry with me. I feared you would be so, but yet I felt that I could not keep a secret from you any longer. You have been so good and kind to me, that it made me feel like a traitor to know that I had any concealment from you."
"Your secret has not been so well kept but I have had a shrewd guess at it," said his father, smiling somewhat sadly; "but I waited till you should tell it me yourself, as I felt quite sure you would do, sooner or later. But, my son, have you counted the cost? You know to what all this may lead."
"Yes, father, I know it well, and have thought it over many times. If it were only myself on whom the danger and the disgrace were like to fall, I should care less; but that I should bring this trouble upon you, who have ever been the best and kindest—" Jack's voice was choked, and he turned his head away.
"Nay, dear son, be not grieved for that," said his father kindly. "I see not but a man must follow his conscience wherever it leads. Neither can I see why the priests should so angrily oppose the reading of the Scripture."
"If you should read it yourself, you would see," replied Jack. "There is not one word in the whole New Testament about the worship of the Holy Virgin, nor of purgatory, nor vows of chastity, nor a hundred other things which the priests teach us to believe. St. Peter himself was married, and so were St. James, and St. Philip."
"But the priests say this Lutheran Gospel is not the true Scripture," remarked his father.
"I know they do, and for that reason they discourage with all their might the Greek learning that is spreading so much at the universities. But, father, the Greek Testament is the very same."
"And nothing about purgatory or about the masses for the dead, either?" asked his father. "Art sure, Jack?"
"Not a word, father."
"Then a deal of good money has been thrown away," was the next reflection of the business-like master baker. "I myself paid more than three hundred marks for masses for your mother, who was as good a woman as ever lived, barring her little peevish tempers; and twice as much for my father and mother. And the priests have robbed poor Dame Higby of almost the last penny to sing for the soul of her husband. But how have we been befooled if these things are true!"
"Only read for yourself, dear sir, and you see," said Jack.
"Nay, I am no scholar, as you know," returned his father. "But how as to Madam Barbara? I have sometimes suspected that she was in the same boat. If so, it is like to go hard with her, having been a nun."
Jack told his father, as she had desired him, the story of Sister Barbara. Perturbed in mind as he was, Master Lucas was considerably amused.
"Poor Anne! She little thought what a wolf in sheep's clothing she was bringing into the fold when she spent such a time in trimming up her altar in Madam Barbara's room. I have seen, this long time, that there was no great confidence between them. But what we are to do, I cannot guess; for the outcry against heresy grows louder every day. I think, Jack, you had best go abroad for a time."
"But, dear father, how can I leave you?"
"It would be very hard," said Master Lucas sadly; "hard to lose both my children, for I doubt I shall have no more comfort with Anne. But it were better for me to know you safe in Germany or the Low Countries than to see you in prison or worse. Truly, I am fallen on evil times in, mine old age which I thought to spend so quietly."
"I think I could bear all, if I had it to bear alone," said Jack. "It is that which has made the cross so heavy to me. But, father, you would not have me false to my conscience, and traitor to my friends, like the man Arthur told us of?"
"God forbid!" returned his father solemnly. "Better a thousand deaths than that. But we will not anticipate evil," he added. "Some say our gracious prince favors the new gospel."
"I fear there is not much to be expected in that quarter," returned Jack; "but as you say, we will not borrow trouble. I have breathed more freely ever since Father Barnaby went away. I think him a most dangerous man. He has gone to Rome, as they tell me, where I hope, as Father John of Holford says, they will make him bishop of some place on the other side of the world."
"But as to Madam Barbara," said Master Lucas after they had gone on a little way in silence.
"Well, dear father."
"My son, I cannot help having great fears for her. I would she were in some place of safety. I should miss her sorely from the house, that is the truth, for she is like sunshine itself."
"I have sometimes thought," said Jack slyly, "that if Madam Barbara were not a nun—"
"That you might have a step-dame some of these fine days, you rogue," returned his father, laughing. "What would you say to that?"
"I should rejoice heartily," said Jack eagerly; "for I am sure she would make a good wife, and I love her dearly already. Besides, I should be pleased with anything which made you happy."
"Well, well! There is no question of that matter now," said his father, who was obviously not displeased with the idea. "We must not forget that madam is a born lady, though she condescends so kindly to become one of ourselves. But the question is now not of marriage, but of saving from hanging."
"I will talk to Father William about the matter," said Jack. "I will go to him this very evening. Dear father, I am so glad I have told you all, and that you are not angry with me."
"I could not be angry, son Jack, though I do not deny that I am greatly grieved. I would fain spend the remnant of my days in peace. Not but I would gladly see the Church reformed, and especially some order taken with all these lazy monks and begging friars, who eat honest, industrious folks out of house and home, and carry off silly girls to convents; but I fear your friends are too sweeping. I cannot bring myself to believe that so much we have been taught to receive as Gospel truth is no more than men's invention."
"Only read for yourself, father, and you will see."
"Well, well, perhaps I may, if only to put my head in the same halter with yours. One word more, Jack, because we may have company home and no chance to speak further. How much of all this does Anne know?"
Jack repeated to his father what the reader has heard already.
"I cannot think that Anne would betray me, for all she says," he added.
"I do not know," said Master Lucas, shaking his head. "Anne is a true nun. She thinks all family affections are carnal and fleshly ties, and to be trampled under foot. I cannot—I will not think of your mother's daughter, that she would do such a deed, but I hope she may not be tried. But after all, we may be borrowing trouble. Father William makes no secret of his new ideas, nor does Arthur Brydges of his, and I hear my Lord Harland is as open, and he is very great with the bishop. Anyhow, I wish we were well out of the scrape."