THE SHEPHERD.
Jack's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. For many days, he
tossed restlessly on his bed, or crept from it only to recline in the
great armchair which had been placed in his room.
In vain did Cicely prepare her most tempting delicacies, and brew her
choicest sleeping draughts—he could neither eat nor sleep. In vain did
Anne, more awake to sublunary matters than she had been for a long
time, try to divert him with legends of saints. He could not care for
them any more than for the news of the school and the town which his
playmates brought him.
He grew thinner and weaker day by day. The physician talked learnedly
of degeneration of the animal spirits, and so on, but confessed that
he could do no good. He feared there was a hereditary tendency to
consumption, which nothing would counteract, and being a wise and
humane man, he forbore to torment his patient with useless drugs.
One day, Sir William Leavett, the parish priest, came in to see him.
Jack had been rather better for a day or two, and had managed, with
his father's help, to creep down into the sunny shop, where he sat or
rather reclined in his father's armchair, pleased with the change from
his dull chamber and languidly amused by the bustle in the street and
the people coming and going; for it was a market-day, and Bridge Street
was unusually thronged.
"Why, this is well, my son," said the priest, kindly. "I am glad to see
you down-stairs. Nay, sit still," he added, as Jack would have risen
from his seat. "I will take the will for the deed."
So saying, he drew up a stool and sat down by the side of the sick
boy. He was a kindly-looking middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair,
and a face full of benevolence, but sad and somewhat puzzled in its
expression. He took Jack's hand, felt its pulse, and questioned him as
to his feelings.
"You have no pain, you say?"
"No father, at least very little," replied Jack. "I seem to be tired
all the time. If I could only be rested, I should feel well."
"You are overwrought, my son. You worked too hard for the medal, I
fear."
"I did not know how hard I was working, not till afterwards," said
Jack. "No one was more surprised at my getting it than I was. I never
thought it possible."
"So much the better, so much the better, my son!" said the priest. "You
worked for the learning, which was its own reward, and which will last
you, it may be, when this same bit of gold is rust and dust."
"Shall we then carry our learning with us into other world?" asked
Jack, abruptly.
The priest smiled. "Who can tell that, my on? Yet it may be so. That
which we truly earn becomes, as it were, amalgamated with our minds and
a part of them, even as the food we eat becomes a part of our bodies.
Have you not found it so?"
"Indeed I have, father," said Jack. "I cannot forget, if I would."
"Well, then, since our minds and souls are immortal, why should not
this same learning, which has become a part of them, be immortal too?
But these are deep themes, far beyond the reach of us mortals. This
much I think we may rest assured of, that we shall forget nothing which
it is profitable for us to remember. Master Lucas, good-day to you," as
the baker entered the shop. "I am glad to see our young scholar better
and able to be down-stairs."
"He is not much to boast of yet, poor child!" replied Master Lucas
sadly. "I would give all his school learning to see his cheeks as round
and rosy as yonder shepherd lad's. Nothing can make up for the want of
health."
"Ay, ay!" said the priest musingly, looking over Jack's head into the
street. "And speaking of shepherds, Master Lucas, why do you not send
this lad out into the fields to try what country air and country fare
can do for him? They work wonders sometimes. Has he no relations or
friends to whose care you could commit him for the summer?"
"I have been thinking of that same thing, Sir William," replied the
baker; "but where to send him I know not, unless it be to his mother's
uncle, old Tommy Sprat at Holford. He is a good man, though plain and
somewhat austere perhaps in his manners, and wonderful sparing of his
words in general, as I think indeed shepherds are apt to be."
"Ay, their occupation, by its silence and solitariness, doth naturally
dispose them, if they be at all men of parts or understanding, to
contemplation and musing. Hence, perhaps, the favor shown them of old
in making known to shepherds the first news of the Birth at Bethlehem.
David, too, the great king and sweet singer of Israel, was a shepherd."
"Was he really?" asked Jack, much interested, "that King David who made
the Psalms?"
The priest assented.
"And was he the same you told us of in school one day, the young lad
who killed with his sling and stone the fierce giant who defied the
king's armies so long?"
"Even so, my son," answered the priest, smiling at the boy's eager
interest. "King David was for many years a shepherd lad, and wandered
over the hills and plains with his father's flocks and herds, even that
same David who wrote:"
"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"
"Our Lord, too, is called the shepherd of His people."
"'I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for
the sheep.'"
"'My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me, and none is able
to pluck them out of my hand.'"
"'He shall feed flock like a shepherd, He shall carry the lambs
in His bosom.'"
The priest seemed to have forgotten where he was, as he repeated these
words, and then became silent, looking out of the window with a rapt
and joyful expression, as if he saw more than met the eyes of others.
Jack and his father exchanged awe-struck glances, but did not venture
to speak.
It was whispered among his flock, that the pure and saintly life of
William Leavett had not been unrewarded even in this world, that he had
more than once been favored with visions of heavenly things, and that
angels had visited his dreams.
"I crave your pardon, Master Lucas. I fear I am unmannerly," said the
priest, at last, coming out of his abstraction, with a sweet smile. "I
am somewhat absent-minded, you know, and I think that the infirmity
increases upon me with years. My advice, Master Lucas, if I may venture
to give it unasked, is, that you send our scholar here, to keep sheep
with this uncle of his in the country, and see if the June air which
blows over the hills will not bring the color to his cheek and the
light to his eyes."
"I believe your reverence is right, and I will set about the matter
this very day," said Master Lucas. "I dare say Uncle Thomas will be
in town, as it is a fair day, and very likely he may look in upon us.
And in good time, here he comes!" he added, as a rustic-looking man
presented himself at the shop door. "Come in, come in, uncle! The
sight of you is good for sore eyes, as the saying goes. Craving your
reverence's pardon," he added, in a lower voice, "if you would but stop
and sup with us, the old man is good company, and Cicely has a fine
pair of fowls."
"I would gladly do so," replied the priest, smiling and inclining his
head in answer to the shepherd's greeting; "but I have promised to go
and see Mary Brent, and only looked in on my way thither. The poor
woman has had a bad fall, and I fear it may be a long time before she
walks again."
"Poor soul! Poor dear soul! And she with all those children. Cicely
must go see her, and I will send the lad down with bread and meat for
their suppers. I trust your reverence to let me know if aught else is
wanted. You know I esteem it a favor when you call on me."
"Ay, truly, 'tis a favor I do not spare you, Master Lucas," and
bestowing his blessing upon the company, he left the shop.
"There is a priest now, worth bowing to!" said the baker. "A true
shepherd, and no hireling fleecing the poor sheep to the very bones,
ay, eating their flesh and drinking their blood to supply his own
greed and luxury. If there were more like him, we should not hear such
complaints of the decay of religion, and the spread of heresy. No man
was ever the worse for him, nor woman either, and he hath ever a kind
word and a blessing for the poorest and youngest, as well as for the
rich and great."
"Yet I hear he is no favorite with his brethren," said Jack.
"Ay, that is because they are rebuked by his poverty and his industry.
But come in, come in, Uncle Thomas; I have matters of importance about
which to consult you, after supper, that is. We will not talk of
business, fasting. Sit you down and talk with Jack, while I draw the
ale and see to the mulling of the wine."
The shepherd was an old man, somewhat bent with years and rheumatism,
but still tall and stately, with white hair and beard, clear, somewhat
dreamy blue eyes, and a firm and kindly mouth.
Jack felt attracted toward him directly, and was delighted to hear him
consent at once to the proposed arrangement.
"My house is but a plain place, and my fare coarse and homely compared
to yours, Master Lucas; but I can give the lad good beef, bread
and milk, and mayhap the change itself will be well for him. My
housekeeper, Margery, though somewhat of the deafest, is yet clean and
a good cook, and I will care for Jack as if he were my own. More I
cannot say."
"And more need not be said," answered the baker heartily. "I know you
well, Thomas Sprat, for an honest, godly, and kind-hearted man, and
I shall feel as easy about my lad as if he were in his own chamber.
So then we will consider the matter settled, eh, Jack? And thou shalt
learn to keep sheep, like the king the good priest was telling us of,
he that wrote the Psalms—what a head I have, to be sure!"
"King David," said Jack. "But there will be no giants to fight at
Holford, I am afraid."
"There are giants to fight everywhere, dear lad," said the shepherd,
"yes, and dwarfs, too, worse than the giants."
"Dwarfs and giants in Holford! What does the man mean?" said the baker.
"Oh, I see—this will be some of your parables!" he added, with a jolly
laugh. "I am but a plain man, and don't understand such matters. You
and Jack will suit exactly, I dare say. Well, then, it is settled, and
as soon as the lad is able to ride so far I will bring him out to you."
"There is one thing for which I should like to be a priest," said Jack
the next day.
He was lying at length on the settle in the sitting-room, and Anne sat
sewing at the window.
"Only one?" said Anne.
"Only one that I know of now. I should like to be a priest, that I
might read the Bible. Did you ever see a Bible in the convent, Anne?"
"No, never," replied his sister. "I dare say there might be one in the
library, for they had great store of books both written and printed;
but no one ever meddled with them, except that the librarian used to
take them out and dust and air them once or twice a year."
"But what did you do?" asked Jack. "You must have had a great plenty of
time."
"Not so much as you think. There were the daily services, and the
hours of silence, and the embroidery, and the making of sweetmeats and
comfits for sale and for feast-days, and other things besides. There
was very little time for reading."
"But you had reading at meals," persisted Jack. "What did they read to
you?"
"Homilies, and lives of the saints, and such like," replied Anne.
"And were not some of those taken from the Bible?"
"How should I know, when, as I told you, I never saw a Bible?" asked
Anne, in a tone of some little irritation. "The Bible is not for common
folks and laymen like you and me. Father Barnabas said it was by
reading the Bible in the vulgar tongue that the rebellion was got up
long ago in the days of Lord Cobham and the Lollards."
"That is curious, though," said Jack, meditatively.
"What is curious?"
"That reading the Bible should make men rebels and traitors. The
priests say—at least Father William says—that the Bible is the Word
of God to men, given them for their salvation; and I cannot see how
reading and knowing the word of God should make men wicked."
"I'll tell you what, Jack, you are getting into a bad way, and meddling
with things which don't concern you," said Anne, laying down her work.
"Sister Alice asked some such questions of one of the elder nuns, and a
fine penance she got for it. She had to kneel on the stone floor of the
church all one winter's night."
"That must have done a great deal toward convincing her of her errors,"
said Jack, dryly; "though I should say it was more likely to give her
the rheumatism."
"She had no business to need convincing," replied Anne; "that was
what Father Barnabas said. Her duty was to submit to her spiritual
superiors. I suppose the Bible is like medicine. Medicine is good to
take when the doctor gives it to us, but if we should go to taking
drugs at our own fancy, without knowing their qualities and uses, we
should soon poison ourselves."
Anne delivered this illustration, which, indeed, was part of one of
Father Barnabas' sermons, with a tone of authority which silenced Jack
for a time. But he was not one quickly to let drop an idea which had
taken firm hold of his mind, and later in the day he began again, upon
another branch of the same great subject, which was indeed occupying
many more minds than that of the baker's lad.
"Anne, did not somebody say that Mary Brent's husband was infected with
the new doctrines?"
"Yes," said Anne. "So much the worse for him!"
"Why?" asked Jack.
"Because he died a wretched heretic without the sacraments, and was
buried like a dog—as he deserved," replied Anne, bitterly. "Well for
him that he fared no worse, as he would have done had Father Barnabas
been the parish priest instead of Sir William Leavett."
"But Mary says her husband was a kind husband and a good man, and never
let her want for anything," persisted Jack. "I wonder where he learned
these new doctrines?"
"Among the sailors and merchants in Germany and the Low Countries, as I
have heard," said Anne. "From the monster Luther himself, for ought I
know."
"Did Luther believe in allowing people to read the Bible?" asked Jack.
Anne put down her work, and coming to the side of Jack's bed, she
kneeled down and put her arm round him.
"Dear Jack, what has got into you?" she asked. "Who has been putting
these notions into your head?"
"What notions?" asked Jack.
"These notions about reading the Bible, and this curiosity about
heretics and about the new doctrines. Oh, brother dear, don't meddle
with poison! Don't touch pitch lest you be defiled! Think of your
immortal soul—of your friends and your father. Be warned in time—"
Anne laid down her head on the bed, and her whole frame shook with
convulsive sobs.
"Dear Anne, don't cry so!" said Jack, wondering at his sister's
emotion. "What have I done to make you so unhappy? I have no notion of
running after the new doctrines, and even if I did wish to read the
Scriptures, why should that trouble you?"
"Because—because I know what comes of it!" said Anne, lifting her
colorless face, and speaking in a low tone. "Jack, I had a friend in
the convent—the dearest friend I ever had. She was one of the young
sisters, and taught me to embroider and to write, and though she was of
good family, and I but a baker's daughter, she took a liking for me,
and I loved her with my whole heart."
"Well!" said Jack, breathlessly, as Anne paused, for there was
something in his sister's tone which awed him.
"She went home for a few weeks," continued Anne. "When she came back
she brought with her a certain book. It professed to be part of the
Holy Scripture—Heaven knows what it was—but Agnes read in it every
spare moment. She would have had me study the book with her, and I did
read a few chapters. Then I grew frightened and would read no more, and
I begged Agnes to burn the book, but she would not—ah, woe is me! She
would not."
"Well!" said Jack again, as Anne made another pause.
"The poison entered into her soul," continued Anne, speaking in a
still lower tone, and shivering as with horror. "She became infected,
and she spoke profane and slighting words of the saints, and of our
Lady herself, even declaring that there was no warrant in Scripture
for asking her intercession. More she spoke that I cannot repeat—that
I dare not think of. Oh, would that she had never spoken to me of the
matter! Would it had not been my lot—"
"Anne, you did not betray her!" cried Jack indignantly. "You did not
betray your friend?"
"What could I do?" murmured Anne, her face once more hidden. "I must
needs go to confession, and answer the questions which were asked of
me. I was her confidant, and the priest knew that, and questioned me
shrewdly. I was obliged to tell, and—oh, woe is me! Woe is me! Why was
I ever born? She was called before the prioress and the priest, all
the sisters standing by, and there she avowed her heresy, and spoke
out boldly. She was a modest, shamefaced girl in general, but she was
fearless enough then. Never, never shall I forget her face and her
voice. They dragged her away at last, and as she was going, I fell at
her feet—I could not help it—and implored her forgiveness."
"She looked down upon me with her sweet eyes full of tears. 'I forgive
you, Anne, if there is aught to forgive,' said she. 'You could not help
yourself, I suppose. These are the days spoken of by our Lord, when the
brother shall betray the brother to death; but whosoever shall endure
to the end shall be saved. Pray for me, dear Anne, as I shall for
thee.'"
"Then they drew me away with bitter words of reproach, and I knew
no more till I found myself in my cell, with kind old Mother Paula
watching over me."
"And what became of Agnes?" asked Jack.
Anne shivered again. "That I never knew. I did venture to ask once of
Mother Paula, but she only crossed herself and shook her head. She may
yet be alive in some lonely cell, or her bones may be mouldering in the
vault below the convent. I dare not ask or think."
"What did they say to you?" asked Jack.
"Father Barnabas was very hard upon me, and gave me many severe
penances. I know not what might have been done, had the prioress not
stood my friend. But she was a tender-hearted lady; more than that, she
was a daughter of my lord, and a person of weight and authority, so she
had her own way. She sent me home at last for a change, as she said,
that I might recover my health and see somewhat of the world before
taking the veil."
"Now, Jack, you know what nobody else knows outside the convent wall.
You know why my life is one long prayer and penance. I would I could
make it more so than it is. I would have gone a pilgrimage on foot—ay,
on my knees to the Holy City, had not my father forbidden, if so
might win forgiveness for myself and my friend. I would sleep in my
grave every night—I do lie on ashes upon hard boards—I would perform
the vilest offices for the poor or the sick; but when think of what
Father Barnabas said—that he feared lest the lowest depths of purgatory
should be too good for such as she—" Again Anne bowed her head and wept
bitterly.
Jack would have given the world to comfort his sister, but he knew not
what to say. He saw no comfort himself. He had been brought up to think
heresy the worst of sins, beyond even the purifying fires of purgatory.
Yet as he heard Anne's tale, and thought of the fair Agnes Harland
betrayed by her friend, however innocently, perhaps to a horrible
death, perhaps to a living grave worse than any death. As he saw, and
understood at a glance, the whole explanation of Anne's conduct—her
prayers and tears, and the penances which were wearing out her young
life—his whole heart and mind rose in furious rebellion against the
faith in which he had grown up. His soul demanded freedom from this
intolerable yoke, while at the same time he saw no way of escape.
He turned, and groaned in anguish.
"I have done wrong to tell you this story," said Anne, recalled to some
degree of calmness by her brother's agitation. "I have worried and
excited you; but oh, dear Jack, if you will only take warning!"
"I am not likely to need the warning," said Jack, with a faint smile,
"since I know not how or where I am like to get a sight of the Bible;
unless, indeed, I become a priest, and that," said Jack, with sudden
vehemence, "I will never do. I will rather keep sheep all my days, or
go for a ship's boy, like Davy Brent."
"Hush!" said Anne, imperatively but yet kindly. "You must be quiet,
dear Jack, or you will be worse, and my father will blame me. I am
glad, in one way, to have told you this tale. I seem to have relieved
my mind of a little of its intolerable load. But, dear brother, you
must never breathe a word of what I have said, or you will bring me
into terrible trouble."
"I never will—never," replied Jack, throwing his arms round his
sister's neck and kissing her. "I am glad you have told me this tale,
sad and horrible as it is, because it makes me understand many things
which have troubled me and puzzled me. But oh! Anne, it does seem to me
as if there must be some other way—some way of escape."
Anne held up her hand to check him. "Not a word of that. Let us say no
more."
And, Dame Cicely coming in at the moment, Anne made her escape to her
own room.
When Jack saw her again she was pale and calm, and seemed to have once
more put on the icy mask of reserve which she had worn so long. But
Jack had seen behind that mask, and had found out what it covered.
Henceforth he was always ready to take Anne's part, to shield her from
remark and blame, and to divert his father's attention when the old
man, jovial spirit was vexed with his daughter's asceticism, and he was
ready to break out into one those windy gusts of reproof which only
made matters worse between the father and child. He would gladly have
questioned Anne as to what she had read in Agnes Harland's book, but
the only time he ventured to approach the subject with her, she showed
so much distress and horror that he determined never to allude to it
again.