AN EXPLANATION.
Sir William Leavett caught with avidity at the proposition of Madam
Barbara, as she came presently to be called, to teach a girls' school
in Bridge Street. A room was found in a house belonging to Master Lucas
and suitably arranged; and here did Madam Barbara set up her sceptre
over her kingdom of about twenty little maids of all ages from three to
twelve, to whom she taught the arts of sewing, knitting, spinning, and
reading, promising to advance the best scholars as far as white seam,
cut-work, and carpet-work, and possibly even to writing.
Her school soon became very popular, as well with pupils as with
parents. The mothers rejoiced in the manifest improvement in the
manners and appearance of their little girls and their advancement
in all useful arts, and were flattered that their children should be
taught by a "born lady." The children themselves learned to love their
teacher and to feel themselves exceedingly comfortable under her gentle
but decided sway. It was certainly true, as Master Lucas had said,
that Madam Barbara had a natural talent for managing children. She
knew how to combine the most absolute authority with great indulgence
and kindness. She knew that the youthful human heart has many avenues
of approach, and that as much might be done by praises and rewards
as by reproof and punishment. She possessed the inestimable art of
prevention—she knew that it was a great deal better if possible to keep
children from being naughty, than to punish them afterwards. Her sway
was so gentle, as compared with that of Master Crabtree over the boys,
as to arouse some murmurings among the latter, that the girls should be
so much better off than they were.
"Yes, Peggy may well like to go to school," said Mary Brent's boy
Peter, in reply to his mother, who had been holding up his sister to
him as an example. "It is a very different thing. Madam Barbara is
always kind and gentle. She hardly ever punishes the girls, and when
they do well she gives them cakes and comfits; and praises them beside.
Master Crabtree hardly ever says a good word to a boy, no matter how
much pains he may take; and if he does the least thing out of the way,
whack comes the strap across his back or hand. If Peggy went to Master
Crabtree, she wouldn't be in such a hurry to get to school, I can tell
you."
"No, that I shouldn't," agreed little Peggy, heartily sympathizing with
her brother. "I wish Peter could go to Madam Barbara, only she doesn't
take boys."
"As though I would go to school with a parcel of little maids," growled
Peter; but in his heart he wished so too.
Jack meantime fell very much into his old ways, helping his father
with his accounts, playing with his old schoolmates, and going to
Sir William Leavett for a Greek lesson twice a week; for, to his own
disappointment as well as to that of Master Crabtree, his father firmly
refused to let him go into school at present.
"He will lose all he has gained if he once gets back into that close
room, and with Master Crabtree to drive him with whip and spur," said
Master Lucas. "I am willing to have him learn what he can at home,
since Sir William is so kind as to help him; but to school he shall not
go for a year."
And as Master Lucas, with all his kindness and gentleness, was an
absolute monarch in his family, Jack was fain to submit, especially as
he found upon making the trial that he could not bear the confinement
for any length of time. So he gave up the thought of going to school
this year and to Oxford the next, and contented himself with what he
could do at home. He was especially anxious to get on with Greek, as
Master Fleming promised him a copy of Erasmus' Greek Testament as soon
as he was able to read it intelligently; and with the help of Sir
William Leavett, he made great progress.
Master Fleming still remained in Bridgewater at the house of his
cousin, now and then making an excursion into the country, especially
to the houses of Lord Harland and the knight of Holford, with whom he
seemed to be on terms of great intimacy. He had been invited to the
tables of most of the substantial citizens of Bridgewater; but while
he was always ready for a friendly chat upon London matters, trade in
general, or any other topic, he was anything but a boon companion and
frowned most decidedly upon any light or loose conversation. He visited
much among the poor of Father William's congregation, especially among
the sailors' families down by the waterside, and gave a large present
in money to the fund of the almshouses for the widows of mariners,
which had been endowed by the will of a wealthy ship-owner some years
before.
He was often to be found in Master Lucas' shop, sometimes under
the pretext of storing his pockets with cakes and sweets for the
school-children, sometimes merely to have an hour's talk with the kind
genial old man; and he and Jack took long walks into the country on
pleasant evenings, talking of everything in heaven and earth; Jack
asking endless questions, and Master Fleming listening and answering
with that patient kindness and sympathy which often produces in an
intelligent young person of either sex, a sort of adoring reverence for
an older companion. In short, Master Fleming won golden opinions from
all sorts of people, from the prior of the convent, whom he informed
as to the best way of supplying his house with almonds and figs, wax
candles and fine cloth, to Mary Brent and her little children, to whom
he gave cakes and toys and more substantial comforts.
Mary Brent's condition had considerably improved since we first met
her in Master Lucas's shop at the beginning of this tale. She had
recovered from her injury, and thanks to the long rest enforced by her
sprained ankle, and to the generous diet provided by Dame Cicely, she
found herself in better health than she had been since the death of her
husband. She was thus enabled to take in the fine washing and ironing
in which she excelled, and which was then a profitable business, owing
to the great quantity of laces worn by both sexes.
Mary Brent was judged to be the neatest hand at a lace or cut-work
falling band, or a lady's stiffened coif and pinners, of any one
in Bridgewater; and thanks partly to Cicely's active patronage and
recommendation, she found plenty to do. She was able to put in order
her house, which had once been a good one, and to help pay her way by
letting lodgings now and then to the better sort of sea-faring men.
Peter and Peggy both went to school, and Master Lucas promised to
take Peter for an apprentice so soon as he should be a little older,
while Peggy was learning under Madam Barbara to do the fine sorts of
needlework which would insure her a superior place whenever she should
wish to go to service.
Moreover Mary had received letters and money from her son in foreign
parts more than once—not a great deal, to be sure, but enough to be a
help to her and (what she valued still more) to show that her Davy was
not the scapegrace that his former masters would have made him out. In
short, as Master Lucas had once prophesied, the sun was beginning to
shine on her side of the hedge, and she could well afford to dispense
with the charity which had been so grudgingly dealt out to her at the
convent gate.
There was one person with whom Jack did not "get on" at all, and that
was his sister Anne. Jack had always loved his sister dearly, it must
be confessed on slight encouragement, for Anne's system of religious
belief led her to look on all natural family affection with suspicion,
as a thing savoring of "the world," and a hindrance to that ascetic
sanctity to which she aspired. For a time during Jack's long and severe
illness she had seemed to thaw toward him, and to be disposed to give
him her confidence, especially after the conversation relating to Agnes
Harland; and Jack had looked forward with affectionate impatience to
seeing her again. But he found her, to his great disappointment, frozen
up ten times stiffer and colder than ever.
At first he was unwilling to accept this state of things, and accused
himself of jealousy and unkindness, but he soon came to see that it was
no fancy of his own. Anne avoided him as much as possible: she would
not sit down in the room alone with him, and seemed actually afraid of
him.
Jack felt very much distressed, for aside from his strong natural
affection toward his sister, his heart was full of the first love and
joy of a genuine religious experience; and he would fain have been on
good terms with all the world. He made many attempts to put matters on
a better footing; but without success. Anne seemed to shrink into her
shell more and more as Jack tried to draw her out of it.
At last, one day finding her alone in her room, he entered it and
closed the door behind him.
"Now, Anne dear, let us have it out," said he. "Do not let us go on in
this uncomfortable way any longer. Tell me at once and plainly, what
have I done to offend you and make you so cold to me?"
Anne, looked round like a frightened hare for a chance to escape, but
seeing none, she seemed to control herself and resume her usual icy
composure with a great effort. "You have done nothing to offend me,"
replied she coldly. "What makes you think so?"
"Your whole air and manner," replied Jack frankly. "You avoid me at all
times as though my presence carried the plague with it. You never speak
to me if you can help it, and I tell you freely, sister Anne, I cannot
think it right. Even if I have displeased you, it is not the part of
a Christian to bear malice. The Scripture rule is, 'If thy brother
trespass against thee, tell him his fault between him and thee alone.'"
"The Scripture!" said Anne, starting. "What do you know of Scripture?"
"I know that much at all events, and so do you, because Father William
preached from it only last Sunday."
"I did not hear the sermon," replied Anne. "I was praying in our Lady's
Chapel. It would be well, brother, if you prayed more and minded
sermons less."
"And I cannot but think, sister, that it would be well for you, not
perhaps to pray less, but to seek instruction more."
"I seek instruction where sound teaching is to be found," said Anne,
coloring. "I do not run after novelties and novelty-mongers like Father
William."
"You have no right to speak in that way of Father William," said Jack,
coloring in his turn. "But we will let that pass. One of two things I
am sure of," he added, fixing his eyes upon Anne; "either you think I
have wronged you or that you have wronged me. Which is it?"
Anne's color grew yet deeper and then faded to paleness. She dropped
her eyes, but did not speak.
"Anne, did you tell Father Barnaby that I was curious about heretical
books?" asked Jack.
"That is no affair of yours," replied Anne, trying to speak in her
usual tone, though she trembled visibly. "My confessions are between my
confessor and myself."
"In faith, it is my affair, and is like to be an affair of moment, if
your confessions are such as may bring me to the stake," returned Jack.
"Father Barnaby may be your confessor, but he is not mine; and you have
no right to talk of my affairs to him."
Anne grew paler and paler. She sat silent for a moment, and then
whispered, "I could not help it."
"Could not help it," repeated Jack. "Could you not tell him the
truth, at least? When did I ever say to you that I would like to read
heretical books?"
"You said you would like to read the Bible," said Anne.
"And is the Bible an heretical book? Is not the Bible the Word of God?
And how then can it be heretical?"
"There is no use in going over all that again," returned Anne. "You
know as well as I that it is wrong and presumptuous for lay and common
people to desire to read the Scripture. You know what comes of it."
"I know what will come of it one day, and that will be the downfall
and ruin of those who so presumptuously keep it from them to whom it
rightfully belongs," said Jack, forgetting his prudence. He might have
said more had not Anne herself checked him.
"Jack, if you have any mercy on me or yourself, hush, and say no more
such things. You will not only destroy your own soul, but mine, if you
go on. If you knew all that I have borne and am bearing for your sake,
you would be more pitiful to me."
"But why should you bear anything on my account, dear Anne?" asked
Jack, softened at once by his sister's look and tone of distress.
"Because I would save you if it were possible," returned Anne, weeping;
"because I would—but oh, it is of no use!" she sobbed, bursting into
a flood of bitter tears. "I would have saved the other. I would
have saved Agnes, if a whole life spent in prayer and penance would
have done it—if it would have availed for her even after ages spent
in purgatory; but all is of no use. Father Barnaby says she was an
incurable heretic, and as such doomed to hell without remedy; and he
says my love for one like her is a sin for which all my penances will
hardly atone. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Oh, if I could see
any way of escape, any ray of hope; but no, there is, there can be
none!"
Jack hesitated a moment, and then came to his sister's side. He felt
that he must speak, that to keep silence would be that denial of which
Master Fleming had warned him to beware at all hazards.
"Anne, believe me, there is another way, an easy and safe way to mind
and spirit, whatever it may be to the body in these evil times," said
he. "God is far, far more merciful than you think. All these labors
which are wearing out your life are none of His appointing. They are
but the cunning devices of men. He hath provided a way by which we may
be saved, even by simple faith in His mercy through the blood of His
Son."
"Dear Anne, our Lord hath done all for us already. He hath borne our
sins in His own body on the tree; it is by His stripes we are healed,
and not by those we lay on ourselves; the Scripture says so. They are
the words of St. Peter himself. He came into the world not to condemn,
but to save it, and whosoever believeth in Him hath everlasting life
and shall never come into condemnation. He is ready to save, His ear
is always open. Oh, dear Anne, come to Him—see and know Him. Leave all
these devices of men which are separating you from your family, and
driving you into your grave, and be at peace."
Anne looked at her brother for a moment with wide-open eyes as if she
had seen a ghost. Then she said in a husky whisper—
"What do you mean? Who has been saying these things to you?"
"It is the Lord Himself who says them, Anne," replied Jack. "He tells
us so in His Word, that very word which supported Agnes Harland when
she was despitefully used for reading and believing it. Anne, I am
putting my life in your hands by telling you these things; but I cannot
see you suffering as you are without trying to help you. Oh, sister,
only read for yourself—only hear—"
In his eagerness, he had thrown himself on his knees at his sister's
side and seized her hand.
Anne pushed him away.
"How dare you speak so to me?" she said angrily. "Is it not enough then
that you should destroy yourself without trying to destroy me?"
"It is because I would save you that I speak. Only look for yourself.
Anne, I tell you, as sure as you are alive, there is no other way of
salvation but through faith in Christ. If your merits were as great as
those of St. Peter himself, they could avail nothing so far as that is
concerned. Our Lord has Himself paid all the price of our redemption,
and we have but to accept it as a free gift at His hands. Oh, sister,
the way is so easy!"
"Easy! Yes, the way to hell is always easy," said Anne, with
bitterness. "It is the other way that is hard. How dare you come
bringing your heresies into this room where our mother died? How dare
you speak them to me who am the promised bride of Christ? How dare you
tell me that all my prayers and penances are worth nothing in God's
sight, after all these years that I have striven to earn His favor and
love?"
Jack was silent for a moment, startled by Anne's burst of passion so
unlike her usual self-restraint.
Then he said gently, "His favor and love are yours already, Anne,
if you will but take them. They are a free gift. The gift of God is
eternal life through His dear Son."
"Oh, it is too hard—too hard," cried Anne, bursting into a fresh
passion of tears. "I have heard all these things before. They rang
in my ears for weeks and months after Agnes was taken from me; and
now, just as they had ceased to haunt me day and night, you awaken
the memory of them again. I will go far away. I will to the nunnery
again—to the strictest order that I can find, and there in the darkest
cell I will—" Anne's words were choked by her sobs.
Jack, much distressed, would have taken her hand to soothe her, but she
repulsed him violently, and then as if her strength were exhausted by
the effort, she fell back fainting in her chair.
At that moment, Sister Barbara opened the inner door which communicated
with her room.
"Hush, dear lad," said she, gently and quietly. "Help me to lay your
sister on the bed, and then leave her to me. She will be better
presently, poor thing."
"I fear I have been to blame," said Jack, as he lifted Anne in his arms
and felt shocked to discover how emaciated she was. "I have distressed
when I meant to help her."
"I know, I know," whispered the good nun. "Say no more, but go and pray
for her and all of us. I will bring her to herself, and she will be
better."