"You do but throw away your words," returned Jack. "I would rather be in my place than yours."
The whole of that day Jack was left alone. It was the longest day of his life. The little book which Anne had so strangely sent him was his greatest comfort, and he read till his eyes ached with the dim light, striving to impress on his memory the words of the sacred text, lest the book should be found and taken from him.
When he could see no more, he found a bit of wood which had once formed a part of a rude bench, and busied himself in carving some crosses to be sent as farewell gifts to his father, sister, and other friends. He was still so engaged when the jailer came to pay his evening visit.
"Where are my uncle and Master Dennett?" was Jack's first question.
"Ask me no questions; you will know soon enough," was the gruff answer.
"I pray you, Master Davis," said Jack, in some agitation, "tell me how it has fared with mine uncle! Hath he been condemned?"
"Yes, then, if you must know," returned the jailer. "There was no chance for him. They said he had been respited once before—that his father was burned for a Lollard, while he was pardoned for his youth, and by the intercession of the old knight. Brother Joseph, as they call him, testified that he had overheard the old man instructing you in matters of heresy, and that you had both read from the Lutheran books. He was especially bitter against yourself. Then they went about with the old man to learn who had purveyed him the Testament, but they could get no satisfaction from him. I promise you he answered them roundly. Well, the end of it all is, the poor old father is to be burned tomorrow, and you are to be carried to see the show. So there! It is a shame. I care not who hears me say it, and he like a father to you."
"So said one of the priests. ''Tis like seething the kid in its mother's milk,' said he, and old Thomas, who disdained to say a word for himself, plead earnestly for you that you might be spared the sight, but they said it was for your soul's sake, and they would not hear him. What now! Keep up like a man! I have more for you to hear. See, drink this," said the jailer, with rough kindness, holding a cup to Jack's lips. "I have a message for you, and I promised to deliver it."
Jack made an effort to overcome the faintness which was stealing over him, and roused himself to hear the rest.
"The old man bade me tell you to be of good courage and care not for what was to happen to him; 'for,' says he, 'my pain will be but short and my happiness eternal, and so will yours be, so you be but faithful.' There, I had no business to tell it you, but I am not one to refuse a request to a dying man."
"Master Dennett?" asked Jack.
"Oh, he hath recanted and confessed all," answered the jailer, with a touch of scorn. "He was a cock of another sort, I promise you. He is to do penance tomorrow in face of the people, and suffer some fine. But I pray you consider well what you are about, for this monk is in fiery earnest, and it were pity of your father's son to suffer such a death."
"And will you not let me see my uncle again?" Jack asked.
"I could not, if I would," replied the jailer.
"The old man is not here, but confined in the room in the church tower yonder. Fare you well."
When Jack was left alone, he sat down on his bedside like one stunned. Burned! That good, innocent old man! That one whom he loved like a father—who had been truly, and not in mere name, a spiritual father to him. Burned alive! And he was to see it! There was no escape. He was in hands which knew not how to show mercy, and which would never spare him one pang.
He said to himself that he had expected this—that he had known all along that it would come at last; but none the less did it come on him with the suddenness of a hard blow. There are certain things for which no amount of preparation will prepare us. Then would come the old horrible thought—was it worth while after all? Was he not sacrificing life and reputation for a mere dream—a figment of the imagination? Was not one religious belief as good as another—were they not alike the inventions of men? Then, how many good men had believed that which he was about to die for denying! His father believed it still—so did Father John and my lady. Might it not be true, after all? And if it were not strictly so, was it not at any rate as true as the rest? Might he not profess his own belief, and so escape till better times—those times which Master Fleming believed would surely come, when the storm should have spent itself and passed away?
He might keep his Bible and read it in secret, or he might slip away and go abroad to Wittenburg, where he could confess the truth without fear.
But Jack had learned already that the devil is never to be conquered by listening to and arguing with him, but by taking refuge from his malice and sophistry in the presence of God.
He threw himself on his knees, and then on his face, and there poured out the bitterness of his soul. At first, he could say little more than "Lord help me! Lord deliver me!" over and over again, but by degrees he grew calmer, and the quieting and comforting influence of the Holy Spirit made itself felt in his soul.
Promise after promise came thronging to his mind, full of beauty and force as he had never known them before, and at last the full crowning work of Divine grace was wrought in his soul, and he was able to say for his friend as well as for himself, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." He had never felt any fear for his uncle's steadfastness, and he no longer had any as regarded his own. He felt sure that the Lord was faithful who had promised; and that strength would be given him according to the work he had to do.
He rose at last, and, lighting his candle, he took out the precious little book which had so strangely come to him, but he had read barely one chapter before he heard footsteps approaching, and hastily extinguishing his light, he thrust that and his book far into the straw of his bed. He had hardly done so before his door was unlocked and Father Barnaby entered his cell.
"You watch late, my son," was his first greeting; "methinks you should be glad to sleep."
Jack simply inclined his head.
The priest put down the lantern he carried, and sat himself down on the pallet opposite to Jack, as if prepared to enter into conversation. Jack quietly waited for him to begin.
"You have heard the result of the trial to-day, I suppose," said Father Barnaby, after some minutes silence.
Jack assented.
"I would willingly have saved the old man," he continued, "but the evidence was too plain against him. He was convicted on the witness of one who heard him not only reading and speaking heresy, but striving to corrupt you. There was nothing to be done."
Still Jack did not reply, though the priest paused as though expecting him to speak.
"For you, my son, I would fain save you from a like fate," continued Father Barnaby. "I trust to be able to do so, if only you will be conformable and docile as becomes your youth. You will be brought before us in the morning early, before the execution takes place, and I have come to see if any argument of mine can move you so that you shall then be ready to confess your errors."
"You are the jailer and I am the prisoner," said Jack, breaking silence for the first time; "therefore I must hear you whether I will or no; but I tell you plainly, I am not to be persuaded. If indeed you do mean kindly, I thank you for your kindness, but I would rather it displayed itself in leaving me alone that I may have space for thought and prayer."
"But you will not refuse to listen to me," said Father Barnaby gently. "I have not come to argue with you, my son. I know well that in such cases, arguments are of little avail. But I desire to set before you plainly the results of two different courses of action."
Father Barnaby then proceeded to set forth the consequences of Jack's persistence in heresy. He would die a disgraceful and horrible death. He would bring upon his family a lasting shame and probably a suspicion of having shared in his fault. Even if it could be so managed that he should escape with life, he could look for nothing but life-long ignominious imprisonment, secluded from books, from friends, and all that made life worth having.
On the other hand, he had but to abjure his errors to be set at liberty. He should not even be asked to do public penance. The worst penalty inflicted on him should be a short seclusion in some religious house, where he could have the use of such a library as he had never yet seen, and pursue those studies which he so dearly loved. After that he should go to Oxford, or to some college at Rome, and who could tell to what station he might arrive? The great cardinal himself was the son of a butcher, and other eminent men at Rome were of equally obscure origin.
Jack listened so quietly that Father Barnaby thought he was gaining the day, and waxed yet more eloquent. At last he stopped.
"You are very silent, my son. May I not hope that you are coming to a better mind? Upon what are you meditating so deeply?"
"Upon the temptation of our Lord," replied Jack. "The devil took Him up into a very high mountain and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and said, 'All these will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' Do you think if our Lord had done so the devil would have kept his promise? Or if he had, do you think the kingdoms of the world would have been worth the price?"
Father Barnaby colored and bit his lip. "You are scarce civil, my son."
"I meant not to be uncivil," said Jack. "So far as you mean kindly, I thank you; but the things you propose have no charms for me at present. I am too near death not to see their true character. As a man would be a fool who should give away the inheritance of a kingdom for the sake of playing the king one day before the eyes of man, so do I hold him a million times a fool who barters his assured hope of a heavenly inheritance for aught this world has to give."
Father Barnaby sat silent for a moment. Then he said with energy—
"My son, every word you say makes me more anxious to save you, not only for your own sake, but for that of the Church. We cannot afford to lose you thus. I do not ask you to change your opinions all at once. I only ask you to recant them, and then take time to study under proper instruction. As a priest, you could study the Scripture without sin, and I will take care that you have every facility to learn not only the Greek but the Hebrew. The Church hath power to bind and loose, and even if you commit a sin in this matter, she can absolve you."
"Ay," said Jack; "but suppose I lie to the Church, how shall I know that the Church will not lie to me? Once more, father, I thank you. I do believe you are willing to save my life, but I tell you plainly that I have no mind to be saved in any such way. I know that the God I serve can yet deliver me out of your hands, if such be His will, and I am content that His will be done. In all courtesy, I pray you to trouble me no more, but to leave me to the rest I need."
"It is enough, ungrateful, obstinate lad," said Father Barnaby rising. "I leave you to your fate. I shall pray for you that you may open your eyes before it is forever too late."
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"It is enough, ungrateful, obstinate lad," said Father Barnaby."I leave you to your fate."
"I shall also pray for you," returned Jack; "and so I bid you good-night."
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Early the next morning Jack was aroused by the entrance of the jailer and his men.
"You are to go before the priest," said the jailer shortly.
"I am ready to do so," returned Jack calmly, rising from his bed. "I should be glad of water to drink and to wash in, Master Davis, if it be your pleasure."
The jailer looked at Brother Joseph, who answered sharply, "What need of such fopperies? The reverend fathers cannot be kept waiting."
"As you will," returned Jack. "Master Davis, since it may well be that I see you no more, I thank you for all your courtesies to me, and beseech you to convey these little tokens to my father with my love."
"What are they?" asked Brother Joseph.
"You may see them if you will," Jack was beginning, but the jailer interrupted him—
"What then? I am captain of this jail, I trow, and not you, Master Joseph. Take your prisoner way as quickly as you will, but I will have none of your airs here. Marry come up! You are no such great man. Goods left by my prisoners belong to me, I would have you know. I will do your errand, Jack Lucas, and I wish heartily that you were well out of this scrape."
The sacristan deigned no reply, but hurried his charge away as quickly as possible. Early as it was, the street was already full, and in the short passage between the jail and the convent, Jack heard many words of encouragement and met many kindly glances. He was taken into a room in the Benedictine convent, where he found his judges already waiting and a secretary ready to take down his replies. He was asked the usual questions as to his belief, and warned to answer truly.
"I have no desire to answer otherwise," said Jack, with an expressive look at Father Barnaby.
He was then questioned as to his belief in the authority of the Pope, the sacraments and purgatory, to all of which questions he returned straight-forward answers.
"Whence did you obtain your heretical books?" was the next question.
"I am not here to criminate others, neither do I own to having any heretical books," replied Jack.
"Call in the witnesses," said Father Barnaby.
Jack looked earnestly toward the door, and started as Anne entered supported by her father. Anne was pale and worn, but seemed quite calm.
She gave her brother a long look which he could not understand. It was full of love and supplication, and then brightened into a sort of triumph and joy.
"This maiden is the sister of the prisoner," said Father Barnaby. "With a degree of faith and piety rare in this age, she hath herself, by her own act, delivered him into the hands of the Church that his soul may be saved even by the destruction of the body. Speak, my daughter, without fear. How did you first suspect your brother's heresy?"
"He came to me to comfort me one day when I was in trouble," answered Anne clearly and readily. "He found me in tears, and strove to console me by telling me what he had learned from reading the Bible."
"Well—" said the prior, "and you refused to listen to him?"
"I did at that time," returned Anne.
"What did he say?"
"He told me that all my penances and exercises were of no avail; that—"
"That will do!" said Father Barnaby. "We have heard enough of these blasphemies without troubling you to repeat them. Is it your belief that your brother is wholly a heretic?"
"He is wholly a believer in the gospel as set forth by Master Tyndale," said Anne, "as—as I am also!" she added firmly. "I believe with him! I was blinded for a time—blinded and besotted by spiritual pride and selfishness, and I fought against my convictions with all my might. Tempted by the devil, I betrayed my brother into your hands; but God in infinite mercy hath given me the grace of repentance. I believe my brother is right—and I desire no more at your hands than leave to die with him."
All present stood as if stupefied for a moment, when Jack, wrenching himself from his detainers, sprang forward and clasped his sister in his arms.
"Your prayers have been heard, dearest brother," said Anne, kissing him. "I am not now afraid to speak the truth. A long time I fought against it, but it would not be withstood. I am come to confess it and to die by your side."
"The maid is frantic," said Father Barnaby, recovering himself. "This distress has driven her beside herself, and she knows not what she says. She hath ever been a faithful child of the Church."
"I know right well what I say," returned Anne. "It is no new thing. The work was began in the convent by Agnes Harland, and was finished by the reading of God's Word. I—" She stopped, strove to continue, raised her hands as if grasping for something, and then, slipping from Jack's arms, she sank senseless to the ground.
"So! Did I not tell you she was beside herself?" said Father Barnaby. "Master Lucas, has your daughter been ailing?"
"She hath not complained," replied Master Lucas, stooping and raising Anne in his arms; "but she has looked very ill ever since yesterday, when she came from visiting a family of children in our lane who are down with the sweating sickness."
"The sweating sickness!" exclaimed the prior, in alarm. "Let her be removed at once! It is as much as our lives are worth to be in the room with her. Master Lucas, will you take home your daughter?"
"Ay, that will I," replied Master Lucas, raising Anne in his arms. "My son, my dear son! How can I leave you here?"
"Think not of that now, dear father, but take care of Anne and of yourself," said Jack. "I trust we shall meet again in a better place where no malice of our enemies can separate us."
"Let us have no more of this," said Father Barnaby. "Master Lucas, take this poor maid home and let her have fitting attendance. I attach no weight to her words, spoken in the delirium of disease. Brother Joseph, secure the prisoner."
But Brother Joseph evidently shrank from the task. "He has just embraced and kissed this woman, your reverence," said he, "and—"
With a smile, Jack kissed his sister once more and walked back to his place. His bearing evidently made a strong impression on the prior, who whispered something to his fellow inquisitors, to which Father Barnaby replied with a frown. As soon as Anne was removed, Jack was again questioned as to the person from whom he had received his books. He resolutely declined to answer.
"Have a care," said Father Barnaby. "There are means for wrenching the truth from unwilling witnesses. We have no time to waste."
"Let them bring hither the old man," said the prior. "He will perhaps be more complying this morning. My lad, if you would save yourself and your uncle from sharp pain, you must answer freely. Did you receive your book from Sir William Leavett?"
"No," answered Jack decidedly. "So far I can satisfy you, but I shall answer no more questions."
There was a short pause, and the inquisitors seemed to be busily consulting together, while the messengers were despatched for the old shepherd.
Brother Joseph presently returned with a startled and awe-struck expression of countenance.
"Well! Why have you not brought him?" demanded Father Barnaby sharply.
"Please, your reverence," stammered the subordinate, "there is no—no use—the man is dead!"
"Dead!" exclaimed the two priests together.
"Yes, your reverence. He lies on the floor of his cell, his hands clasped and his limbs composed as if he had died in sleep. On the wall at his head these words are written: 'I know in whom I have believed.'"
"Thank God!" exclaimed Jack fervently. "He hath won his eternal crown of glory, and hath escaped the malice of his enemies! The Lord be praised, who hath not delivered him over as a prey to their teeth. The snare is broken, and he is delivered. Thank God!"
"He hath escaped an earthly only to sink into an eternal fire," said Father Barnaby sternly; "but we have you still. I am willing to show mercy, and I promise you your life shall be spared, if you will recant your errors, and confess the names of your seducers. Otherwise, in three hours' time, namely at noon, you shall burn at the pile prepared for your uncle."
"I am in God's power, not in yours," returned Jack steadily. "He can yet deliver me out of your hands, but if not, know that I will not bow down to your idols nor deny His truth."
At this moment there was a knock at the chamber door, and a monk entered.
"What now, brother?" asked the prior.
"Here is the bishop's sumner and two other men, who have ridden express with a letter from the bishop to Father Barnaby," returned the brother. "He will deliver it into the reverend father's own hands."
"Bid him come in," was the reply, and the sumner or summoner entered, a stout, good-natured looking man, whose air and complexion savored more of the alehouse than of the church. Father Barnaby opened the letter which was presented to him, and as he did so a look of intense vexation and annoyance passed over his face. He crushed the letter in his hand, and then as if recollecting himself, he smoothed it out once more and restored it to the cover. The prior cast an inquiring glance at him.
"It is from the bishop himself," said Father Barnaby, in a low tone. "The peevish old man hath taken great umbrage at my proceeding in this matter without consulting him, and requires me to send young Lucas at once to him, that he or his chaplain may examine him in person."
"Umph!" returned the prior, evidently not at all sorry to be rid of his own share in the business. "So much the better. We shall be well rid of him. But had you not consulted the bishop, brother?"
"Not I! I never thought of him. My powers were held from the cardinal, you know, and the bishop hath lately been so infirm and so careless of anything which went on—"
"Nevertheless, I think it was taking a good deal on yourself," said the prior, evidently not ill-pleased at Father Barnaby's discomfiture. "The bishop is the bishop, so long as he is alive, and we must not ignore him. What are your orders concerning the prisoner, Master Sumner?"
"My orders are to carry him back with me that his lordship may examine him," returned the sumner somewhat bluntly. "I would lose no time, so please you, for the days are short. We will but wait to refresh ourselves and our beasts and then ride forth without delay. I have a spare horse for the young man."
"It is well," said Father Barnaby. "The bishop's order shall be obeyed. How he will answer the matter to the cardinal, is his concern, not mine."
"Exactly so," returned the sumner, who seemed to have scant reverence for the monk. "In an hour, then, we set forth."
It was something more than an hour, however, before the sumner was ready to set forth, and then it was observed by some persons that his rubicund face was redder than ever, and that his speech was something thick. It was also said that the sumner was met at the tavern where he had stopped by a strange gentleman, who had professed an acquaintance with his brother in London, and who was very free in treating him and his attendants, to both ale and strong waters. There was quite a crowd around the convent gates as they issued forth, and Jack found himself jostled almost off his feet. In the press, he suddenly felt a hand laid heavily on his shoulder. Somebody pushed a well-filled purse into his hand, and whispered in his ear—
"Treat the men well, have your wits about you, and when you hear the owls hoot, keep a good lookout."
Jack pocketed the purse, and being at last mounted and placed between the sumner and one of his men, the party set off at a good pace and were soon clear of the town. Jack would fain have had news of his sister, but that was clearly out of the question. They had ridden some four or five miles in silence, when they passed a decent looking alehouse, and Jack remarked—
"If it were not against your orders, Master Sumner, I would ask leave to buy some refreshment. I have fasted from both meat and drink since yesterday even."
"Who says it is against my orders?" returned the sumner. "If men are hungry, I know no reason why they should not eat—always supposing they have wherewith to pay."
"That have I," answered Jack; "and I dare say you and these good fellows will not be the worse for a can of ale to wet your throats."
"Not a whit! Not a whit!" answered the sumner. "Here, good host! What! Are you all asleep there?"
The host presently appeared at the door, all deference to the great man, who was not an infrequent customer. The party alighted, and Jack soon had a good breakfast set before him, while his guards were accommodated with foaming pots of ale. Jack was not much disposed for food, but he made the best figure he was able, and the ale being discussed, he asked the landlord if he had no strong waters, remarking that cold ale was sometimes thought unwholesome to horsemen. The medicine was produced, and a goodly dose swallowed by each of the patients with little reluctance. Jack paid the reckoning liberally, and the party were again on their way.
They were approaching a thick wood on the borders of Lord Harland's estate, when Jack bethought himself of a grisly tale of murders and ghosts he had once heard of this same wood, and asked the sumner with an appearance of interest, whether the tale were true. The man had never heard it, and Jack repeated it at considerable length. This brought on another story of robbers relating to the same place, and then another.
The sun had now sunk pretty low, and the road bordered by woods on one side, and on the other by a desolate hillside, was in deep shadow. Jack remarked how dismal the wood looked, and how deep the shadows were. The sumner assented, and started nervously and crossed himself, as the hooting of an owl was heard among the trees, which was answered by another voice farther on.
"Avaunt Satan!" exclaimed the sumner, crossing himself once more. "Who ever heard owls so early in the day?"
"They are birds of ill-omen, and haunt places where foul deeds have been committed," said Jack, his heart beating fast. "I trust we shall meet with no evil creatures in this lonely place."
"Speak not of it," said the sumner in great agitation. "There again!" as the hooting of the owl sounded nearer. "Santa Maria, ora pro nobis! I would I could remember a psalm or a prayer!"
At this moment, and just as they were arrived at the darkest part of the road, three or four men well-armed and masked rushed from the wood and confronted them, seizing the bridle of Jack's horse and commanding them all to stand. The sumner and his men, confused, half drunk, and wholly frightened, did as they were bid.
"By what authority do you stop men on the highway?" asked the sumner in a quivering voice.
"By the authority of our Master!" answered the leader of the band in an extraordinary deep voice. "This youth is an heretic, and belongs to our Master as his rightful prize. Over you we have no power unless you resist us, but if you do so you are ours;" concluding with a deep growl, "Ride on, and look not back, and we shall do you no harm."
The sumner and his companions lost no time in obeying the command, nor did they once look backward till they had left the dreadful wood far behind them.
Arrived at home, they told fearful tale of a band of robbers, at least twenty in numbers, and of unheard-of height and appearance, who demanded the prisoner as an heretic in the name of their master. The sumner more than insinuated that the leader was no mortal man and that the heretic had been carried off by the devil whom he served.
Our readers will naturally desire an explanation of this sudden change of affairs. The day on which Thomas Sprat was condemned, Father John who seemed suddenly to have grown twenty years younger, rode over to visit his old friend and college companion, the bishop. After some gossip, Father John spoke of Father Barnaby's return and the clean work he was making of heresy over in Bridgewater.
The bishop was an old man, very infirm, and somewhat childish, but excessively jealous over his episcopal dignity, and very indignant at any infringement thereof, especially by the monks and preaching friars. He grew angry at once, wondered what that upstart was thinking of, and declared that he would not have his poor people hunted and imprisoned by any Jack in office of them all, and that Father Barnaby should know. Just at this juncture arrived Lord Harland, ostensibly with a present of rare and valuable foreign books, but really on the same errand as Father John. He understood the hint on the instant, and took pains to blow the coal already kindled, till the bishop was roused to the point of summoning his secretary and dictating a sharp letter to Father Barnaby, which he declared should be sent the first thing in the morning.
The next day the young Harlands contrived to fall in with the messengers, and by judicious and liberal treatment, secured all the information they wanted. The rest may easily be guessed.
When Father Barnaby heard the tale, he pronounced it an evident and gross case of rescue, and hinted that the sumner had made his account of the transaction. He tried to rouse the bishop to investigate the matter, but the bishop, satisfied with having vindicated his dignity and snubbed the monk, declared it was not his business to catch footpads, and that if Father Barnaby wanted the heretic back, he might go to the woods and look for him.
The sumner and his companions declared point blank that Jack had been carried off by the devil; and gave a fearful description of the giants who had stopped them in the road, and the fearful screams and yells they had heard while riding away. The preaching friars repeated the story with many and wonderful additions all over the country, till it was at last declared that the heretic had been torn to pieces on the spot and his bones scattered far and wide. Father Barnaby might, perhaps, have investigated the matter more fully, but a few days after he was gratified at receiving an appointment of dignity in the Cardinal's own splendid household. He left Bridgewater forever, and it may safely be said that nobody regretted his departure.
CONCLUSION.
Four or five days after the events recorded in the last chapter, Master Lucas came down into his shop while it was yet early, and sending little Peter, the 'prentice boy, out on an errand, began setting certain matters in order. Master Lucas, had, of course, heard the story of Jack's disappearance, and while he was as much at a loss as any one else to understand how it had come about, he could not help hoping that his son had escaped and was in safety. But the suspense was terribly trying; and the usually cheerful and equable spirit of the master baker was heavily oppressed.
He had another cause of anxiety. Anne had never spoken or shown signs of consciousness since the day she had sunk down in the council chamber of the convent. Excitement and grief had been too much for a constitution already enfeebled by watching and fasting. It was hard to say what was her disease, but whatever might be its nature, it yielded to no remedies, and the patient was evidently growing weaker every hour. Cicely was untiring in her attendance on the poor girl, and she found a faithful and wise assistant in Mary Brent, who left the care of her house and lodger to her sister, and came to help her old friends in their trouble.
Master Lucas finished his arrangements in the shop and sent Simon to eat his breakfast. He was thus left alone, and was sitting leaning his head on his hands, when a gentleman entered the shop, whom he recognized at a glance as one of the young Harlands, though the stranger had his hat pulled down and his face well muffled in his cloak.
"You are Master Lucas, if I mistake not, the owner of this place?" said the stranger, addressing him with marked courtesy.
"The same, at your service," returned the baker, rising. "Can I do aught for you?"
"I desire to purchase certain matters for my lady which you will find set down in this paper," said the stranger, giving him one with a meaning glance and a slight pressure of the hand. "I or my servant will call for them in an hour." So saying he turned and left the shop.
Master Lucas opened the paper and saw at a glance that it contained another on which was written, in a hand he well knew, "Read and burn quickly."
Putting it into his bosom, he called Simon into the shop, and locking himself into his own room, he read the following letter:
"I doubt not, dearest father, you have heard ere this of what chanced in Warton wood. I write now from the cabin of a vessel to tell you of my safety thus far, and that I have good hope of escaping to Germany along with Paul. I have had the kindest and most hospitable treatment at the house where I have been before I came on board this vessel, which waited for me at a place near at hand. I name no names for fear of trouble. Dear father, I pray you be very kind to Mary Brent's family, and, so far as may be, discharge the debt I owe to young Mr. Harland and his brother. Also, if it lies in your way, do something to pleasure the bishop's sumner, who treated me courteously and kindly while I was in his hands. I shall write again when I can do so safely. My love to all at home, especially dearest Anne, and also my duty to Father John, who exerted himself greatly in my behalf. I cannot now write more, for we are about to sail. Dear father and sister, pray for me."
The letter was not signed. Master Lucas read it again and again, and then going down to the bakehouse, he put it into the hottest fire. He then returned to the shop and busied himself in doing up the goods named in Lady Harland's list, and a little relieving his heart by adding thereto a large packet of sugar candy and some rare and precious spices and perfumes which he had obtained from London through the agency of Master Fleming. He had hardly finished when the stranger entered the shop once more.
"What, all these!" he exclaimed, as he saw the packages. "My mother must intend to set up a shop. And how much am I to pay?"
"Nothing," answered the baker. "Not one penny will I take from your father's son. I pray you present these matters to your lady mother with my humble duty, and if it were not presuming too far—"
"Well," said the stranger, laughing, "the younger son of a poor lord is no such great person, Master Lucas, that you should use so much ceremony, besides that we are, so to speak, in the same boat just now. In what can I pleasure you?"
"Only by breaking your fast with me," returned the baker, smiling in his turn. "My household is something disordered by these troubles, and by the serious illness of my daughter, but I will do what I can for your entertainment."
"Good faith, Master Lucas, that is a presumption easily pardoned by a hungry man as I am," returned the stranger good-humoredly; "but I fear I shall put you to inconvenience. I trust your daughter is not dangerously ill. She must be a brave maiden. I hear she confounded the priest finely the other day."
"She hath never spoken or known any of us since that time," said the baker mournfully. "I fear she will never speak again."
"You are indeed greatly afflicted," said the stranger, in a sympathizing tone; "but I hope all may yet be well, and that you may once more have your son in your arms, though perhaps not very soon. My father thinks that there are very great changes impending, both in Church and State. But these are dangerous matters to talk upon."
When they were by themselves and safe from eavesdroppers, Mr. Harland gave his host an account of Jack's escape. After the encounter in the woods, he had been taken under cover of night to the house of Lord Harland, where he had been concealed for two days. Here he was joined by Arthur Brydges, who brought him news that Davy Brent's vessel would be in waiting at Porlock quay at a certain time. The two young men were furnished with horses by Lord Harland, and riding by unfrequented roads, they reached Porlock without any accident or detention, and got on board the vessel in safety.
Davy Brent was going round to Plymouth, where he expected to find vessels bound for France and Germany. Arthur was well supplied with money by his father, and Sir John had also provided Jack with a well-filled purse. They proposed to travel in the guise of students, and to make for Wittenburg where they would be in safety.
Mr. Harland had scarcely taken his leave, when Cicely summoned Master Lucas to the sick-chamber.
"Anne hath opened her eyes and spoken," said she, weeping. "She is quite herself, but I fear—"
Master Lucas hastily obeyed the summons, and the moment he entered the room he saw the state of the case.
Anne's eyes were open and rational, but that awful shadow rested upon her face which once seen cannot be mistaken.
"My dearest daughter," was all her father could say, as he bent over her and took her hand.
"Jack?" whispered Anne, with a look of eager inquiry.
"I trust truly that he hath escaped and is in safety," whispered her father in return. "I have had a letter from him written on shipboard, and there is every reason to hope that both he and Arthur will make their way safely to Germany. He sent his love specially to you."
Anne smiled sweetly, and lay silent for a few minutes. Then she said faintly but clearly—
"Dear father, you have forgiven me?"
"As fully and truly as I hope myself to be forgiven, dear child."
"I have not been a good or dutiful daughter," said Anne slowly. "I have lived in a strange, foolish dream all my life, but I see all clearly now—how you have forgiven and borne with and pitied me all the time I was fancying myself so superior and learned and wise—so far above all the rest of you. But, father, I did try to serve God—"
"I know you did, daughter. I knew it all the time," said her father.
"You have been the best of fathers to me, and you will have your reward," continued Anne dreamily. "Father, what became of the little book I sent Jack?"
"I do not know, my love. I suppose he took it with him."
"That book finished the work which Agnes began," said Anne. "I fought against it—I fought against my own conscience, with all my might, but God would not let me be lost. Father, if you are ever able, I pray you, for my sake and Jack's, to read and study the Gospel. Never mind what men may say or how they may treat you. The truth is worth it all, and the truth shall make you free."
These were the last words she said. Cicely would have sent for a priest, but even while she was speaking of it, all was over. The weary overworked body and the wounded spirit found repose.
Toward the close of a pleasant day in the latter part of May, 1538, a gentleman rode through the street of Bridgewater, looking around him with great interest, not so much like a stranger as like one who, having been long away, takes cognizance of things which have happened in his absence. He was a scholarly-looking man of perhaps six or eight and twenty, well dressed and riding a good horse. He turned into Bridge Street and alighted at the door of "John Lucas, white and brown baker and dealer in sweetmeats and spices," as was set forth on a huge signboard decorated with a most ramping lion.
"I see no changes here, save that the old lion has been regilt and painted since my day," said the horseman, deliberately surveying the front of the house. "And as I live, I should say there was the very same old cat sitting on the end of the counter. But that can hardly be. I do not see my father, but he may be out."
A stout, respectable-looking journeyman came forward to attend to the stranger, who looked at him with attention, and then asked courteously—
"Are Master Lucas or any of his family within?"
"Not at present," was the reply. "My master and mistress have gone to hear the Bible reading, and Dame Cicely has gone out also. Will it please you to sit down and await their return?"
"To the church, to hear the Bible reading!" repeated the stranger with a smile. "That would have been a strange sound years ago, when I left this place. Do they then have regular Bible readings in the church?"
"Ay, sir, every afternoon."
"And do many people attend to hear?'
"Oh, yes, sir. My master hardly ever misses, and, beside that, he reads in the Bible to his family every morning. You may see the great book lying yonder beside his chair."
"Is your master well in health?"
"Ay, sir, extraordinary well and stout for a man of his age, specially since he married my mistress."
"So he is married!" exclaimed the visitor. "And who is the new dame?"
"I do not know her right name," returned the shopman. "She used to live here years ago, and then we called her Madam Barbara. She was a nun once in the same convent with poor Mistress Anne, or so I have heard. Anyhow, she is a good mistress and makes my master a very happy home. But will you not sit down, sir? They will soon be home."
"I thank you, but I will walk toward the church and meet them," said Jack Lucas; for as our readers have guessed, it was none but he. "I have been long abroad, but I was bred here and know all the streets of the town well."
A few minutes after, Jack entered the church of St. Mary, where a tolerable congregation was assembled. The great Bible, chained safely to its stand, was placed in the open space in front of the chancel, and a young man whom Jack recognized as a former schoolmate was reading from the Gospel of St. John. Around him were grouped people of all classes: gentlemen and ladies, citizens with their wives and children, and sailors from the river, all eagerly listening to the Word of God, while at the edge of the crowd stood two or three priests with scowling brows, evidently highly displeased with the whole affair.
"Oh, Father William, could you but have lived to see this day!" thought Jack. "But you gained your martyr's crown in good time."
Jack had no difficulty in finding out his father, who, with his family, was seated very near the reader. Master Lucas had grown old within ten years, but still looked hale and hearty.
His wife, bright and cheerful as ever, sat by his side, and next her was a very old man in the dress of a priest, who sat leaning his two hands on the head of his staff, and listening evidently with the closest attention. Jack looked at the group, and the tears rose to his eyes as he thought of one who should have been with them. He waited till the reader ceased and the congregation rose to depart, and then drew near his father, who was helping the old man to his feet.
"Let me give you a helping hand," said he, as if speaking to a stranger. "The venerable father seems infirm."
"He can walk very well when he gets to his feet," said Master Lucas. "He is very old, but nothing will keep him from the Bible readings in the church."
"Yes, yes, I am an old man—I am almost ninety years old," said the father, in a feeble but cheery voice. "I am an old man, but I am very well—and everybody is good to me."
"That is the burden of his daily song," said Master Lucas. "Truly, it is a privilege to be allowed to tend him in his age, and I love him like a father."
"It is much to say," returned Jack in an unsteady voice. "I have ever found a father's love the warmest and truest in the world!"
Something in the tone caused Master Lucas to look round suddenly. At the same moment his wife exclaimed—
"Surely, surely—this is our Jack come home. Master Lucas, do you not know your own son?"
We pass over the greetings and questionings, the exclamations and rejoicings on the part of the whole household. Jack soon found himself seated at the family supper table, bountifully spread as in old days, with as many of his favorite dishes as Cicely could provide at such short notice.
"You did not expect to find a step-dame, did you, Jack?" asked his father.
"Why, no, not exactly," replied Jack. "And yet I was no ways surprised, but greatly pleased to find that you had taken our good Madam Barbara to wife. You know I always liked the notion."
"You see the house was very lonely, latterly," said Master Lucas; "and we were both growing older. Then the convents were all broken up, and the nuns had leave to do what they would, so I even broke the matter to the lady, and she was content to take up her living with us. Then our good Father John grew infirm and lonely in his house at Holford, and so we brought him home here, where he is as happy as the day is long. His mind hath grown somewhat dazed the last year, some time ago, and, above all things, he loves the Bible readings. Father John, do you not know our Jack—Jack Lucas, whom you did so much for?"
"Ay, ay," returned the old man readily. "I remember Jack Lucas. A towardly boy he was, and full of good gifts, though he was careless in throwing stones, I remember. They said he was a heretic and that the devil carried him off, but I never believed that."
"If he did, he brought him back," said the baker, laughing, "for here he sits, as you see."
"But Jack was only a lad, and this is a grown man," returned the old priest in a puzzled tone.
"He will get hold of the matter presently," said Dame Lucas, as we must now call her. "I would not trouble him. Never mind, dear father, you will understand all by and by."
"And where have you been all this time, that we have not heard from you?" asked Master Lucas. "We have written again and again, but have heard nothing, and had almost given you up for lost."
"I have been in many lands," replied Jack. "I have been hearing medical lectures in Padua and Milan, and travelling all over Germany—even so far as Hungary and Bohemia. But I have my diploma now, and can settle where like; so I have even come to see whether this town of Bridgewater can afford a living to a poor surgeon."
"You are just in the nick of time, for old Master Burden is dead and there is no one to take his place," said his father. "But do you really mean to settle down here? I thought you would be for going to London or Bristol."
"I wished to be near you, father," said Jack; "and, besides, my chances are better here than in London, where doctors are far more plenty than blackberries."
"Did you see Master Fleming as you came through?" asked Dame Lucas.
"Oh yes, mother—if you care to be called mother by such a well-grown son."
Dame Lucas smiled and nodded, while his father looked greatly pleased.
"I abode a week with the good gentleman, and he hath sent you all various tokens of good will, which are in my mails."
"I warrant he rejoices in the new times," remarked Master Lucas.
"He rejoices, though with trembling, as do all who live near the court," said Jack gravely. "He does think the times are not at all settled, and that the King may yet lay on us a yoke as heavy as that of the Pope. But we will not talk of these things here or anticipate evil. How are the family at Holford?"
"Well and hearty, all that are left. The old knight is gone, but my lady survives and rejoices over the birth of her grandchild."
"What has been done with Uncle Thomas's cottage?"
"Nothing. Old Margery stayed there as long as she lived, and since her death, it has been shut up. Sir Arthur hath ever considered it your property, and he also holds quite a sum of money which Uncle Thomas left you. Sir Arthur is not strong, and I fear will not live many years."
"I will ride out and see him soon," said Jack. "Are the Brents well?"
"Well and flourishing. Davy has a fine vessel and is growing a rich man, and here is Peter to speak for himself," as the tall journeyman entered the room; "and a fine fellow he is, too, as ever kneaded up a batch of dough. He hath been more like a son than a servant to me, and I have used him accordingly. I suppose you heard all about poor Sir William from Master Fleming?"
"Yes, and received the remembrance he left me," replied Jack. "I could but wish as I entered the church this afternoon that he were there to see and hear."
"He is in a better place, if ever man was," said Master Lucas. "His memory is green in this place, I can tell you. When the news came of his death and the manner of it, the people were ready to break their hearts. But it grows late, and the good father is already asleep. I dare say Cicely has your old room ready for you."
A few days after his return, Jack rode over to Holford to visit his friend Sir Arthur, and the place where he had first learned to know and value the Scripture.
"You will find everything as it was in the old man's time," said the steward, as he gave Jack the key of the cottage, "save that the storm last night has somewhat shattered the tree at the house end."
Jack found the place unchanged, as the steward said. A high wind the night before had blown down part of the great old oak, which, no doubt, had been a tree in the time of the Saxons, exposing a hollow in the trunk.
Jack drew near and examined it. Suddenly uttering an exclamation, he put in his hand and drew forth a good sized square bundle wrapped in leather and carefully secured with thongs of the same. Jack carried his prize into the cottage, and undoing the wrapper with some difficulty brought to view a large volume written on parchment, well bound and clasped with iron.
Reverently, he opened the book. It was the Bible of Wickliffe—the very Bible which had been hidden away a hundred years before, and which had given the crown of martyrdom to both Thomas Sprat and his father.
The Hidden Treasure of the old cottage had become the treasure of all England.
There is little more to add. Father John lived to be a century old, and died, carefully tended by his adopted children, and murmuring with his latest breath that everybody was good to him.
Master Lucas died soon after, leaving his business to Peter Brent, who had long managed it for him.
Madam Barbara lived to teach reading and embroidery to Jack's little girls, cherished as a mother by himself and his wife.
Jack himself survived many perils to see the Protestant religion firmly established in the reign of Elizabeth.
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME