SEED BY THE WAYSIDE.
From this day forward Jack had a new interest and a new object in
life—to find the old Bible. Day by day, he explored every possible
hiding-place, turning things upside down in all directions, and
rummaging, old Margery declared, worse than a rat or than the goblin
which haunted her father's barn. Over and over again, did he take the
false bottom out of the little footstool, where the book had once been
concealed, and gaze into the empty space, as if he thought he might
somehow have overlooked the cumbrous volume, and might perhaps find it
by more careful search.
The book haunted his very slumbers. Often did he dream of finding it,
and once the dream was so vivid, that he went before sunrise to the
little dell where he had seemed to discover it under a flat stone.
But, alas! There was no such stone to be seen, and he came sadly back
a little ashamed of his own credulity, and having gained nothing but a
prodigious appetite for his breakfast.
Jack had but one consolation, and that indeed was a great one. He
made the shepherd repeat to him all that he could remember of Holy
Scripture. The old man's memory, though somewhat impaired as to late
occurrences, was as vivid as ever for all those things which had
happened in his youth, and he was able to repeat whole chapters of
Wickliffe's version of the Bible, which, rude and imperfect as it was,
had been as a savor of life unto life to many hungry souls.
Jack was astonished at the things he heard, and still more at those
he did not hear; and not a little grieved to find that some of his
favorite legends of saints had no place in the Scripture at all.
"Tell me of St. Anne, our Lady's mother," he said one day.
"There is only one place about St. Anne," replied the shepherd, and he
repeated the story of our Lord's presentation in the temple.
"Is that all?" asked Jack in a disappointed one. "I do not see that it
says a word about her being our Lady's mother."
"Nothing at all," answered the shepherd.
"Perhaps the story is in some other place," Jack suggested.
But the old man shook his head.
"I have read the New Testament all through," he said. "There is not
a word said about our Lady's mother, and very little about our Lady
herself."
Jack looked startled. "But do you think it could have been the true and
right Gospel, Uncle Thomas?" he said. "The priests tell us more about
our Lady than about our Lord himself; and I am sure that Anne says ten
prayers to her for one that she says to our Lord."
The old man did not answer immediately, and Jack repeated his question,
"Do you think it could have been the true Gospel after all?"
"I have been thinking, Jack—" said the shepherd, after a little
silence, and without answering or seeming to hear the question, "I have
been thinking that I have perhaps done wrong in this matter."
"How?" asked Jack.
"Because the knowledge I have given you, may bring you into danger.
Because the questions I have raised in your young mind will not be
lightly laid again. And how shall I answer it to your father, if
anything happen to you?"
"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, after a little silence, "your father
did not fear to expose you to the danger."
"No, because my father was fully persuaded in his own mind. He esteemed
the true knowledge of God and his truth worth every danger which could
befall. I well remember his words to me, whispered in my ear as he gave
me his last embrace, 'My son, remember the words of our Lord: Fear not
them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do;
but fear him who is able to cast body and soul into hell!'"
"I cannot but think he was right," said Jack, with decision, after a
little pause. "I cannot but think the truth must be worth any danger
that can come upon us for its sake. Nor can I yet understand why
reading God's Word should make men heretics. The priest at the convent
says it is because ignorant men know not how to use it, and that it is
like a poisonous drug which can be safely touched only by a physician."
"Ay, I have heard that story often enough," said the old man; "and how
that the giving the Scripture to the common folk is a casting of holy
things to the dogs and pearls before swine. A pretty saying indeed, to
call those for whom Christ died, dogs and swine!"
"Do they then christen little whelps and pigs?" asked Jack, shrewdly.
"Methinks that were as great an abuse of holy things as reading the
Bible to the vulgar people."
The shepherd smiled. "Thou art a shrewd lad. Take care that thou make
thy wit keep thy head instead of losing it."
"I will take care," replied Jack, with all the confidence of fifteen.
"But, uncle, according to all that you tell me, the holy apostles were
but common men like ourselves. St. Peter and St. John were fishermen
and worked for their bread; and yet our Lord's sayings were spoken to
them."
"Yes, I have often thought of that," replied Thomas Sprat. "Those they
called the Pharisees were learned men, it would seem, and yet our Lord
did not call His apostles from among them. He even told them that the
publicans and the harlots should go into the kingdom before them.
Strange how the words come back to me more and more!" continued the
old man, in a musing tone. "I would not have thought I could repeat so
many: 'But the Holy Ghost shall teach you, and shall bring all things
to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you.' I well remember how
my mother repeated to me those words when I first went from home to the
Stonehill farm. I was deploring my fate in being obliged to go away
where I could no longer hear and read the Word of God, and saying that
I feared that I should forget all that I had learned."
"'My son,' said she, 'remember that you carry with you a teacher who is
able to make you wise, even without the words of this book, and without
whom even the book itself can teach you nothing. I mean the Holy Spirit
of God. Our Lord promised this Spirit of truth to His disciples, and
said:'"
"'"He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your
remembrance, whatsoever I have told you."'"
"'Ask constantly for this Spirit, my son, and it shall be given you.'"
"And so verily have I found it. I have been exposed to many dangers
and temptations in my long and wandering life, and, woe is me! I have
sinned often and grievously; but in times of the greatest trial, there
have been brought to my remembrance words of my father's book which
have kept me back from sinning, or encouraged me to return when I had
wandered away."
"And do you think," asked Jack, in a tone of awe, "that it was the Holy
Ghost which brought these words to your mind?"
"I cannot but think so, my son."
"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "is it not—"
"I believe I know what you would say, my son," said the old man, as
Jack paused. "You would ask if it is not presumption to suppose that
God Himself teaches and governs us. I cannot think so. It would be so,
doubtless, if He had not given us warrant for it in His Word; but so
long as He says, He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that
ask Him than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children,
I think we are bound to believe Him."
"'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children,
how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them
that ask Him?'"
"Jack," added the old man with energy, "I thank God that I have been
led to open my heart to you, for the repeating of the Scriptures to
you has so refreshed my memory of them, as I could not have believed
possible."
"And I am thankful too," said Jack. He sat musing for some minutes, and
then added, "Yes, I am thankful, and shall always be thankful, even
though the words of Scripture should bring me to such a fate as they
did poor Agnes Harland."
"Who is Agnes Harland?" asked the shepherd.
Jack started.
"I am wrong," said he. "I promised Anne I would never tell the tale
again. It was something which happened in the convent."
The shepherd nodded sagaciously. "Ay, ay. I can guess," said he, "but
say no more, dear boy. Remember that a promise broken without great
necessity is a lie told, and beware, of all things, of lying. But
this is the conclusion of the matter: God is always ready to hear the
prayers of His children, and to help them at their need."
"But, Uncle Thomas, suppose one should wish to pray for something, and
should not know any prayer which said what he wanted."
"Then I suppose he must make a prayer for himself, as David did, and as
other saints have done. I know no other way."
That night when Jack went to bed, he prayed that God would show him
where the old Bible was hidden, or send him another.
A few days after this conversation, Master Lucas made his appearance at
the shepherd's cottage, mounted on his easy ambling mule, and followed
by his man Simon.
"Well, well," he exclaimed, with his usual jolly laugh, as Jack ran to
help his father dismount. "Why, this is fine, to be sure! This is a
sight for sore eyes. Uncle Thomas, you are worth all the doctors and
wise women in Bridgewater. Bless thee, boy, thy father's heart is glad
to see thee again."
"It is but little that I have done," said Thomas Sprat. "The credit of
Jack's cure belongs to the fresh air of the hill far more than to me.
But come in, come in, cousin Lucas. You must be in need of refreshment.
You do not often ride so far from home."
"Why, no, not of late years," replied the baker, bowing his head to
enter the low door of the cottage. "I do grow too stout for journeying.
Ho! Dame Margery, how goes all with you? Why, you look so young and
well-favored, we shall have you fitted with a gay bridegroom next."
"Fie, fie! Master Lucas!" replied the old woman, chuckling nevertheless
at the compliment. "Well-favored is far past my time of life. But you
yourself are looking purely, Master Lucas, and your voice is like the
knight's hunting horn. 'Tis not often I hear any one so plainly."
"Come now, I cannot have you young folks bandying fine speeches," said
the shepherd. "Bestir yourself, Margery, and provide refreshment for
Master Lucas and his man and for the beasts."
"Don't trouble yourself about the beasts," said Master Lucas. "The fine
fresh grass will be a treat to the poor things. I have brought thee
some linen and such like, my lad, and Cicely has packed a whole pannier
of good things. Bid Simon bring them into the house."
"And Anne, dear father?" asked Jack. "How is Anne?"
Master Lucas's face clouded at mention of his daughter. "Why, well in
health—that is, think she would be well if she would let herself alone
and live like the rest of us; but she is wearing herself into her grave
with her penances. 'Twas but the other day, I found out that she slept
on the hard boards every night, and, not content with that, she must
needs strew ashes on them. I know not what to do with her, and that is
the truth. But there is great news about the gray nuns' convent where
she learned all these ways. It is to be put down by order of my lord
cardinal, along with many others—some forty, they say—all small ones
like this."
"For what reason?" asked Jack.
"I do not understand, exactly. For the founding of some college or
other. Anyhow he has the order from his Holiness the Pope, and so the
nuns must budge, will they nill they. Poor old girls! I wonder much
what will become of them all. I don't love them too well, but it pities
me to think of them turned out all among strangers, and I have told
Anne if she has any special friend among them she may ask her to stay
with us till she can have time to turn herself."
"You are the very best man in the world, father!" said Jack. "I do
believe there never was such another."
"Tut, tut, lad! I trust there are many better in our good town. I will
say for Anne, she was very grateful, and thanked me prettily enough,
poor child. But you and I have lived to see many changes, Uncle Thomas.
'Tis but a little while since folks were wondering over hearing the
Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Commandments said in English in the
churches. Who knows what may come next? We may live to hear the whole
Bible read, as they say the Lutherans do."
"Not in my time, I fear," replied the shepherd. "But is not this a
strange move of my lord cardinal's? There is much discontent already
with the religious houses, and the monks complain everywhere of the
disrespect with which they are treated. To my mind, this measure is a
little like showing the cat the way to the cream."
"Maybe so! Maybe so! I fear me the cat will find her way to that
cream-pot without showing, some of these days," said the baker. "But
anyhow, the gray nuns must troop, bag and baggage, and there is talk of
my Lord Harland buying the house and lands. They say he brought home
much treasure from the Low Countries, and some pretend to affirm that
he is a favorer of the new doctrine. Anne, poor maid, went off into a
fit of weeping when she heard the story. I suppose it is but natural
she should be grieved at seeing the place go into secular hands."
Jack thought he understood better the cause of his sister's grief. He
remembered the sad tale of Agnes Harland, and could not help wondering
whether she were still alive and whether the suppression of the convent
might prove her release.
"But even if she be living, they will doubtless make sure work with her
before that day comes," he thought. "She will have secured her martyr's
crown before this time."
Meantime Dame Margery's exertions had spread the board with a hearty
and substantial meal, to which the travellers did full justice. Master
Lucas praised everything, declared that such milk and butter were
well worth the ride, and shouted compliments to Margery till the old
woman fairly blushed. He was one of those happy people who are always
disposed to see the bright side of everything, and who come like a
broad beam of sunshine into every house they enter.
"Well, we must even be jogging homewards," he said, at last. "My mule
is not swift at best, as how could she be, poor creature, with such a
load on her back? We must not be late, or the women will imagine all
sorts of dangers and horrors."
"And indeed, I would not have you out after dark," said Thomas Sprat.
"The waste here harbors many vagrants—gypsies and the like, who bear
none too good characters."
"I will go with you a part of the way, father," said Jack. "I suppose
Simon can foot it a mile or so, and I will ride his beast and walk
back."
"That can I, indeed, and will do so with a right good will," said Simon
the journeyman, who, truth to say, was something the worse for his
unusual equestrian exercise, if so it could be called, and who looked
forward with no great pleasure to mounting his mule again. "I would
gladly walk half the way back to Bridgewater."
In a short time the mules were saddled, the last good-bys said, and
Jack and his father were riding soberly side by side on the road to
Bridgewater, while Simon trudged after them on foot, keeping at such
a distance as not to overhear their conversation, yet as near as was
consistent with "manners." Their talk was of home matters and of the
news of the town.
Jack begged his father to send him some of his books. This the old man
at first flatly refused to do, saying that if Jack had his books he
would spend his time poring over them and would soon be as bad as ever
again; but upon farther entreaty, and on Jack's representation that he
should have to be out of doors with the sheep all day, at any rate, and
that he should forget all he had learned, his father so far gave way as
to say he would consult Sir William about the matter, and if he thought
best, the books should be sent; and with this promise Jack was fain to
be content.
Presently they met and passed a man mounted on a serviceable riding
hack, and followed by a mule loaded, as it seemed, with merchandise.
The traveller was dressed like a merchant, and Jack did not fail to
notice that he held a small book in his hand, which at their approach,
he put into his pocket.
"There's a man after your own heart, son Jack," said the baker. "He
reads as he travels along the highway. Good-day to you, sir!" he
added, addressing the traveller as they came within speaking distance.
"Methinks your horse must be a steady one, since he allows you to study
upon his back."
The stranger smiled and bowed courteously. "My horse and I are old
companions and well acquainted," he replied. "Nevertheless, I do not
often make a reading chair of my saddle. I did but refresh my memory as
to a passage on which my mind was running. May I crave to know if this
is the road to Holford and the house of Sir John Brydges?"
"You are just in the road," said Jack, "but the knight is not at home.
He went up to London the day before yesterday."
A shade of disappointment passed over the stranger's grave face. "Then
we have passed each other on the road. I am very sorry, for my business
is somewhat pressing. Do you know, my young sir, how long he will be
gone?"
"About a month, I heard them say at the Hall."
"Well, I must needs go on my way, nevertheless," said the stranger.
"Doubtless there is some house of entertainment in the village where I
can abide for the night."
"There is indeed, sir, and a very decent place, too, the Appletree Inn
kept by Widow Higgins. But if you go up to the Hall they will care for
you hospitably," said Jack. "They turn no one away, gentle or simple,
who comes before eight of the clock. Men say the knight's house is as
open as his heart and hand."
"Jack, Jack, how your tongue runs!" said his father. "I pray you pardon
the lad's forwardness," he added, addressing the stranger. "The knight
hath been kind enough to notice him, and he is one who thinks much of a
small favor."
"'Tis a small defect if it be one at all," replied the stranger kindly.
"And I am not disposed to find fault with the tongue which runs only
with good words. Good-day to you, sir, and the peace of God go with
you!"
"A grave and godly man, no doubt," said the baker, as they parted
company. "I wonder if he is really a merchant after all. He rode a fine
horse, and I noticed his gown was of superfine cloth, and trimmed with
costly fur; but these London merchants, many of them, are as rich as
the great lords, and live in far greater comfort and luxury than our
country knights and squires."
"I wonder what book he was reading," said Jack. "He must be a learned
man to carry a book in his pocket."
"I am not so sure of that," said his father laughing. "A man may not
certainly be a good baker because his coat is covered with flour."
"But he spoke like a scholar, father," said Jack. "Did you not think
so?"
"There was something uncommon about him, for certain," replied Master
Lucas. "He had the look of a man who is always thinking of great and
grave subjects. To my mind, his face had something the look of our Sir
William."
"Sir William had a cousin in London, I know," said Jack, struck by a
sudden thought. "Perhaps this might be the same."
"Like enough! Like enough. But, my son, you have gone far enough seeing
that you are to walk back. My blessing on thee, dearest lad. Take care
of thy health, be dutiful and obedient to Uncle Thomas, and learn all
that thou canst from him. Learning is light to carry about, and no kind
ever comes amiss. Remember thy duty to God and thy father; say thy
prayers every day, and thou wilt never go far astray."
Jack loaded his father with love and messages to all at home, from the
good priest and his sister down to the old cat, whose infirmities of
now and then helping himself out of the pantry and shop, he besought
his father to pardon.
"Never fear; never fear!" said his father, laughing. "The poor beast
shall live out his days in peace, I promise thee, for all me. He does
but act after his cattish nature, and we must keep temptation out of
his way. Once more, my blessing be upon thee."
Jack had begun to feel very manly of late, but all his manliness did
not prevent his shedding a few tears at parting with his father,
nor was Master Lucas free from a similar weakness, which, however,
disguised itself under a sharp criticism of the style of riding of poor
Simon, who, he averred, sat his mule like one of his own meal-sacks.
Jack had wiped the drops from his eyes, and was walking briskly on when
his foot stumbled on something at the edge of the footpath. He looked
down, and quickly picked up the object which had arrested him. It was
a small but thick book, bound in parchment and with brazen clasps, and
he had no difficulty in recognizing the book he had seen the stranger
reading.
He debated for a moment as to whether he ought to open it, but a new
book was a rare sight in those parts, and curiosity got the better
of his scruples, and he unclasped the volume. The first words he saw
arrested his attention, and he walked on reading till he was aroused by
some one speaking to him.
"So you have found my book, my fair son. I was coming back to look for
it, and am right glad to see it safe. But you seem greatly interested."
Jack looked up with wide-open eyes full of eager interest and a kind of
reverential awe.
"Oh, sir, please tell me—forgive me if I am forward—but do please tell
me, is not this book a Bible?"