"THEY THAT SOW IN TEARS."
Jack left the house and went out to walk, feeling the need of solitude
to compose his thoughts. He was distressed at his sister's condition,
and a little frightened when he thought of the way in which he had put
himself in her power; and yet, in considering the matter, he did not
see how he could have done otherwise. He was so deep in thought that he
started on being spoken to, as if a bolt had fallen from the sky.
"A fair evening, my young brother," said Master Fleming. "Yet you do
not seem to be enjoying it greatly. Your eyes are on the ground as if
your thoughts were heavy."
"They are so in truth," said Jack. "I am right glad to meet you, Master
Fleming, and would willingly have your advice and opinion on a grave
matter."
"Both are at your service," said Master Fleming. "I trust nothing
unpleasant has chanced."
In reply Jack told him the whole story, to which Master Fleming
listened with grave attention.
"I cannot see that you have done wrong," said he at last. "You might
perhaps have used more caution, and yet caution is not always best. You
say no one heard you but your sister?"
"Nobody unless Madam Barbara might have caught a few words," replied
Jack. "Her room is next my sister's. I hardly think she could have done
so, or she would not have spoken so kindly and gently to me."
"What did she say?" asked Master Fleming.
"She bade me go pray for Anne and myself—pray for us all, were her
words, I think. She is always a kind lady; but, methinks, as I remember
it, there was an unusual tenderness in her voice and glance."
"That is strange, if she did really overhear you," said the merchant.
"You do not think your sister would betray you?"
"Never, if she were left to herself," said Jack, warmly; "but you see,
there is just the rub. She will not be left to herself. I have good
reason to think that she has told tales of me already, from what Father
Barnaby said to me at Father John's house in Holford."
"How was that?" asked Master Fleming.
Jack repeated the story, to which the merchant listened with attention,
laughing heartily as Jack recounted with considerable humor his
encounter with Father Barnaby, and the way in which he had been thrown
off the scent by means of Horace and the Babylonian numbers.
"Well, my brother, you certainly owe Horace a debt of gratitude," said
he, when Jack had finished the story. "You say you have not seen the
priest since that time?"
Jack replied in the negative.
"I see nothing that you can do but to wait in hope and trust for the
result," said Master Fleming. "It may be that your words will be
blessed to your sister after all, and that she may have grace to turn
to the only source of comfort and light. Poor young maid, my heart
is sad for her. Meantime I need not tell you to treat her with all
kindness and forbearance, and to pray earnestly for her."
"I never mean to be out of patience with her," said Jack, "and yet she
does anger me sometimes so that I can hardly forbear speaking sharply
to her—not for my own sake, but for that of my father and my Cousin
Cicely. She is such a continual grief to them."
"There is nothing gained, but a good deal lost by that, my young
brother," said the merchant kindly. "I dare say your good father does
not lose patience with his unhappy daughter."
"Not often," replied Jack. "He treats her always with the greatest
forbearance and kindness, puts up with all her ways, and indulges her
in everything; and yet she does not seem to have the least notion of
it."
"I dare say not; few people have," said the merchant dryly. "But do you
take pattern by your father, and remember that you have a double call
to exercise kindness and love. Let me tell you what to do. When your
patience seems like to fail, do not dwell upon and aggravate in your
own heart the offence of your sister (as I know by my own experience
one is apt to do), but lift up your heart in prayer for her, and then
recall to mind your own offences against God, and His gracious and free
forgiveness, and remember our Lord's saying, 'not till seven times, but
till seventy times seven.' Above all pray that your heart may be filled
with love to God and man, for therein lies the great remedy for sin in
every form."
"I will," said Jack, brushing the tears from his eyes. "Oh, what shall
I do for a counsellor when you are gone? I wish you could abide with us
always."
"That can hardly be," replied Master Fleming. "I must go back to London
before long. But I trust some friend will be raised up to you."
"I wish I could go with you," said Jack. "It would be so much easier to
be good with you."
"It is not the part of a good soldier to choose the easiest way,"
replied Master Fleming, smiling. "Besides, Jack, it is usually a
mistake to think that you could serve God and do better in some other
place than the one where He has put you. It is this very error which
has driven so many into the cloister. Others it has led out into the
dangers of the world, for which they were wholly unfit. Many a one is
sick of home, and fancies he would do better in a wider sphere, while
he is failing in every relation of life in the place assigned him by
Providence. Be content where you are; few lads have a better or more
cheerful home, though all may not be as you desire."
"I know that indeed," said Jack eagerly. "I should be a villain to
cherish discontent, while I have my father and dear good Cousin Cicely
to make much of me. I am rather afraid my way will be made too soft and
easy."
"Never fear," said Master Fleming. "That is a misfortune which I
venture to say never yet happened to one who was honestly trying to
serve God with all his heart. Our Father loves to see His children
happy, but He is sure to send them all the crosses they need.
Enjoy your peaceful sunshiny home while it is yours, for these are
threatening times, and we may not long be left in peace. The sun shines
just now, you see," he added, looking toward the vest where was piled
up a gorgeous mass of thunder-clouds, "but it will soon set, and I hear
already the growling of the coming storm. The sun will rise again,
we know, but before that time many a fair barque may be wrecked, and
gallant sailor drowned. Let us pray that we may be able to endure all
these things, and to stand at last before the Son of man."
Awed and yet comforted, Jack turned his steps homeward. He found nobody
in the shop but Simon the journeyman.
"Where is my father, Simon?" he asked.
"Your father and Dame Cicely have gone to see poor Dame Higby in her
trouble," replied Simon, "and they did talk of stopping to supper
with your cousin Master Luttrell. Madam Barbara is in the other room,
waiting supper for you, and Mistress Anne is above."
"I did not think it so late," said Jack. "I am sorry I have kept the
lady waiting. I will be with her as soon as I wash my hands."
"Your sister is ill at ease and keeps her chamber," said Madam Barbara,
in reply to Jack's somewhat timid question. "I did not like to leave
her, but she begged me to do so, and I thought perhaps she would be
best alone."
Jack felt himself somewhat ill at ease at the prospect of a tête-à-tête
with Madam Barbara; but the lady chatted on as usual about all sorts
of matters. Jack could not help thinking, however, that there was
something peculiar in her tone, and once or twice fancied that her eyes
rested on him with unusual tenderness.
When the meal was finished and cleared away, Sister Barbara went up
to Anne, and Jack sat down to occupy himself with his books. He did
not find Horace very congenial to his present feelings, and was just
wishing that he dared take out his Bible, when Sister Barbara again
entered the room, closing the door after her, and came toward him.
Jack rose, but she made him a sign to be seated, and sat down near him.
Jack's heart beat, for he felt that something was coming; but he kept
silence and waited to be spoken to.
"Jack," said Sister Barbara, in a low tone, "will you forgive me? I
listened to what you said to your sister this afternoon. I came into my
room while you were talking, and I could not help listening. Will you
forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive, dear lady," said Jack, recovering
himself, for he was considerably startled. "I said nothing wrong to
Anne, nothing I would take back. I know they were dangerous words, but
they were true, and I am sure you will never betray me."
"I would not betray you unless I betrayed myself," said Dame Barbara,
in a still lower tone. "Jack, I have so longed to hear words like those
once more. I have heard them before from the lips of one who paid
clearly for them."
Jack felt fairly giddy with astonishment. A new light seemed all at
once to dawn upon him, which made clear a hundred little things which
had puzzled him.
"Do you mean, from Agnes Harland?" he asked. "Did you hear them from
her?"
"Hush!" whispered the lady. "Yes. However you heard the tale, it is
true. It was from that poor child, that I learned to know the truth
of what you said to Anne this afternoon. After she was secluded from
the family, she was very ill and the heart of our prioress was moved
with pity for her. She had always a pitiful heart, dear lady, and
would fain have saved the poor girl, and got her away to her friends
before the matter came out; but it could not be. However, she pitied
her as I said, and at last got her moved from the prison cell to a more
comfortable place where she could at least see the light of day. Father
Barnaby consented on condition that she should see none of the family,
and that I alone should attend upon her; for he thought I had grown
up in the house, as indeed I had, and that I was too steadfast to be
moved. Agnes did not live many weeks; but she lived long enough to tell
me wonderful things, and to convince me that she was right; and when
she died, she gave me this book, one of those which she had brought
from home, and which, being small, she had managed to conceal about her
person."
Madam Barbara drew from her bosom a small, thin, and much-worn book,
and put it into Jack's hand. Feeling as if he were in a dream, Jack
opened it and looked at the titlepage. It was an English translation
of Luther's commentary on Galatians, with the text. On the margin was
traced in trembling characters, "Fear not them which kill the body,"
and again, still fainter, "My peace I do give unto you."
"That is all of Scripture I have ever seen," continued Dame Barbara.
"Agnes had the Gospels also, but they were discovered and taken from
her when she was imprisoned. I have read and read this book again and
again, and I prize it more than life; but I do so long to read the
whole Gospel, the words of our Lord himself. When I heard your speech
this afternoon, I was sure you had read them, and I determined at all
hazards to ask you. Have I done wrong?"
"No, indeed, madam," replied Jack, recovering himself. "You have done
well, and right thankful am I that I can bring you to a sight of the
Gospel. I will lend you the book at once, and it may be that I can
procure a Testament for you from the same friend who gave me mine. But
you know it is a dangerous possession."
"I know that," said Sister Barbara. "Have I not jealously guarded this
treasure of mine for two long years? But I am growing tired of secrecy,
and I should like to speak out before I die."
"I am often troubled myself about this same secrecy," said Jack. "It
seems a kind of denial of the Master; and yet, for the present I see no
other way."
"Hush!" said Madam Barbara, "Here comes your father."
"So! I find you in good company, son," cried Master Lucas with his
usual jolly laugh. "I have been thinking you would be lonely. But where
is poor Anne? Not at the church or chapel in this storm, I trust?"
"Anne is not well, and is lying down, dear father, and Madam Barbara
was kind enough to come and sit with me," said Jack. "How you find Dame
Higby?"
"Why, poorly—but poorly," replied Master Lucas, his sunny face clouding
at remembrance of the grief he had witnessed. "You see, her poor man
died suddenly and without the sacrament—some say he refused them, but
that I do not believe; and he hath left her but poorly off. I doubt
when all the expenses of the funeral are paid, she will have little
left to live upon. We must remember her, Cicely, and not let her want."
That night Jack put his Testament into Madam Barbara's hands, and the
next day, he brought her a small copy from Master Fleming's store, now
getting low.