MARY BRENT'S LODGER.
"I am glad he is gone," said Sister Barbara to Jack, when she heard of
the afternoon's visitor. "I could not be easy so long as he was about.
He is a terrible man."
"And I am glad as well, and that for more reasons than one," answered
Jack; "one of which is that poor old Father John will be left in peace.
I have no fears of his disturbing other folks for heresy or anything
else, so long as he is left to himself. But there is that sacristan,
who is a prying, eavesdropping fellow, and men say a spy of Father
Barnaby's."
"I grow very weary of all this concealment," said Sister Barbara. "I
sometimes feel as if I must speak, come what may."
"Father William says the same, and I suppose it must come to that
shortly," said Jack. "He has scruples about celebrating masses for the
dead, and I think he will declare himself before long. He is not the
man to act against his conscience. Do you think, madam, the time will
ever come when the people of this realm will dare to speak out, and
when the Scripture will be read in the churches?"
"It may come in your time, but I fear not in mine," said Sister
Barbara, sighing, "and there will be terrible times first. The bishops
and priests will not give up their claims on the people without a
fierce struggle, and nobody can guess the side the King will take. You
heard the sermon the priest of St. Mary's preached last Sunday about
those who presume to read the new Gospel?"
"Yes, madam," said Jack laughingly. "He is a learned man. He said
that Greek was a heathen tongue, and asked if it were likely that the
Scripture would be written in the language of heathens, while Latin
was the tongue of our Holy Father the Pope. He said Hebrew was the
speech of unbelieving Jews, and therefore not fit even to be named by
Christians. ¹ I could hardly forbear laughing."
¹ This is a fair sample of the eloquence of the preaching friars.
"Laugh while you can," said Sister Barbara sadly. "I greatly fear we
shall all laugh out of the other side of our mouths ere long. Just
think what a power this man and others like him hold in their hands;
how they penetrate the inmost secrets of families and individuals.
Jack, there are hard, troublous times before us, and we do well to be
sober, wary, and sad."
"Sober and wary if you please, but by your leave, dear lady, not sad,"
said Jack. "Since all our fate standeth not in the hands of these
men, but in the power and will of our Lord who can overrule all their
designs for the good of His children, and make, as the Psalm says, even
the very wrath of man to praise Him. He says to His disciples, 'In the
world ye shall have tribulation,' but He adds in the same breath, 'Be
ye of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'"
"You are right, and I am wrong and faithless," said Madam Barbara;
"but oh, dear brother, you are young, and you have never seen what I
have seen. You have lived under the pure and peaceful shelter of your
father's roof, and your priest, Sir William, is one of a thousand. But
I have grown up in a convent; I have been behind the scenes and have
been trusted. I saw the condemnation and punishment of Agnes Harland,
who was murdered, if ever a sweet saint was murdered in this world for
her boldness in speaking the truth."
"Murdered!" said Jack, starting. "I thought she died a natural death."
"And so she did in one sense, that is to say, she was not killed by any
regular execution. No, it was by slow, hard, unrelenting tyranny, by
exclusion from light and air and nourishing food, ay, often even from
sleep itself for days together. Father Barnaby persuaded the prioress
that such severity would overcome her obstinacy and bring her back to
her duty; but he did not know with whom he had to deal. I have seen
the prioress weep bitter tears after she had, at his instigation,
given orders for some new hardship to the poor prisoner; and I believe
she would never have consented to what was done, had she not verily
believed she was acting for the good of Agnes herself. At last Agnes
fell ill, so ill that all thought she must die. Then the reverend
mother could bear it no longer. She was a spirited lady and used to
rule, and she had her own way in spite of the confessor. She had Agnes
removed to a more comfortable place, and appointed me to attend on her,
because she said she knew I would be kind to her and that I was in no
danger of being perverted. She little knew what was going on. But Agnes
died at last. They persecuted her almost to the last minute to recant,
but she was firm as a rock, and died peacefully, with the name of our
Lord on her lips."
"They blamed me much for weeping for an obstinate heretic," continued
Sister Barbara, wiping her eyes. "They buried her in an obscure corner
of the graveyard, all overgrown with nettles, and without any sacred
rites. The sisters were always afraid to approach the place, because
others had been buried there before, nuns who had broken their vows,
and one who was an heretic like Agnes. They said the place was haunted;
but to me it seemed like holy ground."
"You will hardly wish to return to a convent to live, madam," said
Jack, after a pause.
Sister Barbara shuddered. "I will never do so unless I am compelled by
force," said she. "I had not been three weeks under this roof, before I
felt that it would break my heart to leave it; but now that I know more
of the matter, my mind is made up. I will remain in your good father's
family and teach my little school as long as I am allowed to do so. I
love my children, and they love me, and I hope I am doing some good in
the world."
"And if they require you to return to the convent?" said Jack.
"Then I shall refuse; and if I am pressed I shall tell my reasons,"
said Sister Barbara; "and after that, things must be as they will, or
rather, as the Lord pleases. Each day's trouble is sufficient for the
same day. I shall always be thankful that I was allowed to learn what a
Christian home was like."
"I am sure it was a blessed day that brought you here, madam," said
Master Lucas, who had entered the room in time to hear the last words.
"You have been like sunshine in the house ever since you came into it.
I would all religious persons were like you, and above all that you
could put some of your own bright spirit into my poor Anne. I know not
what to do with her. I do not like to find fault, and besides it does
no good; but it hardly seems fair that she should spoil the comfort
of the whole family as she does. But as for you I do trust, madam,
that you will never think of lodging elsewhere, so long as you can be
content with such accommodations as simple folk like us have to offer."
"There is no fear of that, Master Lucas; I am only too happy here,"
replied Sister Barbara, smiling and sighing. "I never knew there were
such kind people in the world as yourself and Dame Cicely. I only wish
I could do aught to requite your kindness."
"And so you do, madam, so you do. To say nought of anything else, you
have added much to my profit the last six months, by your skill in
confectionery. But I am forgetting my errand. Son Jack, can you leave
your books long enough for a walk this fine evening?"
"Surely, and with great pleasure, dear father,"' replied Jack. "It is
not often you find time to walk with me."
"Nor have I the time now, for Simon has gone to Master Mayor's with the
manchets and cold baked meats for the feast to-night; and I must be at
home to send off the other matters. But here is little Peter come from
Mary Brent to ask you to come down and see her lodger who lies very
ill. Peter says he hath no infectious disease, but suffers from the
effects of hardship and famine. It seems Davy's captain took him off a
wreck on which he was floating, a few days before they came to port. He
was very ill and all but starved; and Davy, like the good fellow he is,
brought the poor man home to his mother's house."
"Has Davy returned, then? I am right glad to hear it," said Jack. "He
was always a good lad, though he would go to sea in spite of the prior."
"I think none the worse of him for preferring to work and help his
mother," observed the master baker. "But Mary would like you to come
down and see the poor man; and hark ye, lad, you might as well carry a
little basket with you, just some biscuits and manchets, and a jellied
fowl. I had reserved two or three for ourselves, but we can well spare
one, and it is just the meat for a sick man."
"And a pot of my spiced confection of cherries," added Madam Barbara.
"They are very cordial to a weak stomach. But mayhap Master Jack is too
fine a gentleman to carry such a large basket through the streets."
"I would cuff his ears soundly, if I caught him in any such foppery,"
said Master Lucas.
"And I give you full leave to do so," returned Jack, laughing. "Do but
have the matters ready, and I will set out without delay."
As I have said before, Mary Brent's circumstances had greatly improved
of late. She had repaired her house, which had once been a good one,
and frequently took lodgers. These were generally of a very profitable
kind, being ship-masters and mates, who spent their money freely, ate
and drank of the best, and made many a valuable present to the gentle
retiring widow and her pretty little daughter. She was standing on her
own doorstep as Jack came up, talking with a neighbor who seemed to be
rather out of humor.
"Oh, very well! Mighty well, Neighbor Brent!" she said, as Jack came
up. "If you can afford to take a penniless stranger into your best room
and keep him for goodness knows how long without the least hope of any
pay, why, 'tis no concern of mine."
Mary looked as though she were decidedly of the same opinion, but she
answered gently—
"It is no more than I should like to have some woman do for my boy, if
he were wrecked and landed in a strange place, neighbor."
"All that is mighty fine," said Dame Higgins, tossing her head. "What I
say is, 'let every herring hang by its own head.' If you don't look out
for yourself, nobody will look out for you. Take care of number one, is
my motto; and it has served me well so far. Take my advice, let this
man be carried and laid where he belongs, at the convent door, and let
the monks take care of him."
"I shall do no such thing," said Mary Dean. "Much beholden to you for
your advice, neighbor; but I am not yet so poor as to turn a poor
shipwrecked sailor out of my house. I wonder you dare think of such a
thing after the sermon Sir William preached to us only yesterday about
the poor man that fell among the thieves."
"Oh, Sir William, Sir William," returned the woman, scornfully. "Sir
William had better look out for himself. He is an arrant Gospeller and
Lutheran, unless he is much miscalled; and we all know what that comes
to. Just as you like, but you are a fool for your pains. The next time
your children want bread, don't come to me, that's all."
"I am not likely to do so, since the only time I ever asked you for
anything you gave me a flat refusal," said Mary Brent. "I trust my
children will never be the poorer for my kindness to this poor lad, but
if they are, I can't help it."
"And if they should be, you have enough of warm friends who will not
let them or you want, my good Mary," said Jack, who had stood quietly
listening to this conversation.
Dame Higgins started violently, as did Mary herself, for in the heat
of discussion and the gathering twilight, they had not noticed Jack's
approach.
"Is that you, Master Jack? I am right glad to see you," said Mary. "I
felt sure you would come, or I should not have been so bold as to send."
"You did quite right," said Jack. "The folks at home have sent some
delicacies for the sick man, and also something for your own table. Let
me carry it in for you, the basket is heavy."
"Good lack, so it is," said Dame Higgins, casting an envious eye on
the contents of the basket, as Jack lifted the clean white cloth which
covered it. "What luck some folks have, to be sure! Such baskets never
come to our house."
"But I thought your motto was that every herring should hang by its own
head," said Jack, as he entered the house.
Dame Higgins only replied by a prodigious sniff, and some remarks;
apparently spoken to the air, concerning folk who knew which side their
bread was buttered, and how to turn their charities to good account.
"Dame Higgins is out of humor," observed Jack.
"She is seldom anything else, save when she has made an uncommonly good
bargain, or some unexpected gain hath come to her," replied Mary Brent.
"She and her husband seem to care for nothing but saving and making
money. I have been poor enough, as you know; but I never saw the day
I would exchange lots with Joan Higgins; with all her wealth, she is
poorer this day, than ever I was in my worst times."
"She would always be poor, if she had the revenues of the cardinal
himself," said Jack. "But what is this about your lodger?"
"Oh, poor young man, he is in a sad case enough," replied Mary Brent.
"They found him floating on a kind of raft pinned together with bits
of wreck, and took him off. He says the ship foundered, as nearly as
he can tell, about twelve days before he was rescued, that there were
two men and a young boy on the raft with him at first, but they died
one after the other, till there was no one left but himself. He is a
well-made but slender youth, and does not look like a regular sailor;
indeed, I think he hath all the air of a gentleman born; but he is not
willing to give any account of himself, and there is no use in teasing
him till he gets stronger. He wanders a deal at times, but more from
weakness than from fever, I think, and then his talk is always about
Holford; and Davy and I thought that as you had been so long at Holford
of late, you might perhaps find out something from him. He may have
friends, perhaps a mother who is wearying for news of him."
"I will see what I can do," said Jack. "I had almost forgot to wish you
joy of Davy's return. I hear he has done very well."
"Yes, indeed, Davy is second mate, which is great promotion for one so
young," said Mary. "He earns good wages besides what he can make by
trading on his own account, and he has brought me home a good sum of
money, besides presents of foreign stuffs far too fine for me to wear,
and many curious outlandish toys for the children. I know you will be
glad to hear as much, for your folks have always taken his part," added
Mary, wiping the glad and proud tears from her eyes; "but thank God,
nobody can call my Davy a scapegrace any more."
"He is a brave good lad, and I always thought so," said Jack, "and to
my mind has shown himself a far better Christian by going to work to
help you and the children than he would have done by becoming a monk
and leaving you to shift for yourselves or live on charity. But it
grows late. Shall I go up and see this stranger?"
"If you will," said Mary. "He lies in my best room."
The stranger was as Mary had described him, a dark slender young man,
sunburnt and emaciated, yet having the air of a gentleman. He was
comfortably accommodated in his hostess's best bed, and Mary had combed
his dark curling locks and trimmed his beard, evidently wishing to set
him off to the best advantage.
The moment Jack's eyes fell upon him, he was puzzled by a resemblance
to some very familiar face, but whose he could not tell.
"If I have never seen you before, I have certainly seen somebody very
like you," was his first thought.
"See here, Master Paul," said Mary in a tone which was both
affectionate and respectful. "Here is young Master Lucas come to see
you."
"He is very kind," said the invalid faintly smiling. "I am no great
sight, I am afraid, but any friend of yours is welcome, my kind nurse."
"I did not come to stare at you, but to see what I could do for you,"
said Jack, seating himself by the bed. "My father has sent you some
nourishing food, and bid me ask what else we could do for you. You seem
very ill and weak."
"I have gained a little, I think, since I came here," said the invalid.
"It is such a wonderful blessing to be among kindly English folk once
more and to lie still in a clean and decent bed."
"I am sure you are heartily welcome," said Mary Brent. "But I will
leave Master Jack to sit by you if he will be so kind, for I have
matters to attend to below stairs."
Mary went away, and Jack remained quietly sitting by the side of the
invalid, who seemed to have fallen into a doze. The more Jack looked at
him, the more certain he became that he had seen him or some one like
him before.
Presently the stranger opened his eyes and asked for drink. Jack
supplied his wants and arranged his pillow comfortably.
"Do you live in this place?" asked the stranger whom Mary Brent had
called Paul. "You do not look like a town-bred lad."
"I am so nevertheless," replied Jack; "but I have been keeping sheep
all the summer with my good uncle at Holford."
"At Holford!" repeated Paul with a little start.
"Yes, my uncle is shepherd to the good knight of Holford."
"What, old Thomas Sprat! Is he alive still?" asked Paul with interest.
"He is alive and well," said Jack more puzzled than ever. "Do you then
know my uncle and the family at the Hall?"
"Yes—that is, I was once in the family of Sir John for a time," said
Paul with evident embarrassment. "Is the good knight well?"
"He is well, or was so last week," said Jack. "I saw him in the
market-place a few days since. He hath grown very gray of late years,
but still holds his own."
Paul sighed. "And my—I would say, my lady—have you ever seen her?"
"Oh, yes, often while I was at Holford," replied Jack. "She goes about
among the poor people a great deal, but rarely visits among the gentry
since her son's death."
"She believes him dead then," murmured the stranger so low that Jack
could but just catch the words.
He answered them as if they had been addressed to him quietly, but with
his heart beating fast as a wild idea occurred to his mind.
"My lady thinks him dead, and has caused many masses to be sung for
him; but the knight will not believe it. They say he keeps his son's
room in the same order in which the poor young gentleman left it, when
he went to college, and he will not suffer his son's old dog to be
killed, though the poor old beast can hardly crawl from the hearth to
the hall door. I have often marvelled much how the young master could
leave such a kind father."
"Because he was a fool," said Paul vehemently, "a gull, a thrice-sodden
ass; an ape who must needs mimic what others did, and ruffle it in silk
and gold with the sons of court favorites and noblemen."
"Then you knew the heir of Holford?" said Jack, his first idea growing
stronger the more he heard.
"Yes—that is, I knew him at college," replied Paul, making an evident
effort to control his agitation. "He was a foolish boy, and unworthy of
so good a home."
"I have heard that the men blamed the knight for having been
over-strict with him, and that the young gentleman himself laid his
wrong-doing to the same cause."
"That is not true," said Paul almost fiercely. "He never sunk so low as
that. He would have been the basest hound that ever lived, had he done
so."
"I am glad to hear that," said Jack. "I can never think much of those
who strive to excuse themselves by laying all their faults on the
shoulders of others. I wish he would come back to his home. I am sure
the good knight would receive him joyfully—even as the prodigal in the
parable was received by his father. But you are talking too much for
one in your weak state," he added. "Let me give you some food or a
cordial, and then do you try to sleep."
"I am indeed weary," said Paul. "But must you go away?"
"Not if you need me," replied Jack. "I will stay all night if you
desire it. I can easily send word to my father, and I am sure he will
make no objection to my doing so."
Paul said something about it being too much to ask of a stranger, but
he was so evidently pleased by the proposition, that Jack at once
decided to stay, and went down-stairs to seek a messenger.
Davy willingly undertook the office.
"And what do you make of him?" he asked.
"Very little as yet," replied Jack, unwilling to mention his
suspicions. "He has been at Holford at some time, I dare say in the
train of some gentleman who came to visit at the Hall—and his mind runs
on it. He is very feeble, and his mind is disturbed, but he seems to
like to have me beside him."
"I am sure you are very kind," said Davy. "What shall I say to your
father for you?"
"Only that I am going to watch by the stranger's bedside, with his good
leave," said Jack; "and you may, if you please, ask Dame Cicely for my
warm doublet, for the nights are growing chill."
"And that reminds me that I may as well kindle a little fire in the
room," said Mary. "A blaze is a cheerful companion, and, as you say,
the nights are growing chill. But, Master Jack," said she, detaining
Jack for a moment, after Davy had gone on his errand, "I want to
consult you about a certain matter, and that is, as to whether I should
send for a priest?"
"Has the young man asked for a priest?" inquired Jack.
"No, that he has not," replied Mary. "He shook his head when I asked
him at his first coming whether he would have one; and when I did but
hint at it again, he said right sharply, 'No, no! No priest,' and Davy
bid me not trouble him about the matter. But maybe he should have one
for all that."
"I would not trouble him at present," said Jack. "If he grows worse
we can send for Sir William, who will come any hour of the night, you
know."
"That he will, the good man," returned Mary. "Better man never lived,
for all they call him a Lutheran. But you know, Master Jack, my poor
husband died without the sacraments, and I would ill like to have such
a thing happen again in my house."
Jack quieted the good woman with renewed assurances that he would
send for Sir William if it became necessary. He reminded her that the
stranger was very weak, and it was not worth while to oppose his wishes
when a little thing might set him back and perhaps throw him into a
fever.
"I dare say you are right," said Mary. "I will get you some supper and
make ready a comfortable morsel to eat during the night, for you must
take care of your own health, you know, and you have been delicate of
late."
Jack was too much excited with the discovery he supposed himself
to have made, to feel hungry; but he was one who could put his own
feelings aside for the sake of other people. He consented to eat some
supper to satisfy Mary's hospitable thought, and found, as young people
are apt to, that he was hungry enough to do full justice to the savory
fare she had provided.
He then stole back to the sick man's chamber, where a cheerful little
fire was already burning, while a pile of wood and fagots offered the
means of replenishing it during the night. Mary Brent moved about
gently putting matters in order, and covering a little table in one
corner with refreshments for the watcher as well as the invalid.
Finally she beckoned Jack aside and, with rather a mysterious air,
opened a little cupboard, hidden by a piece of tapestry:
"Here are some books which belonged to my poor husband," said she. "I
found them when I was putting the house to rights, and hid them away
that the children might not see them, for I cannot read, and know not
whether they be good books or no. But I dare say they will not hurt
you, and they may serve to help you keep awake."
Jack looked over the books, which were partly written and partly
printed. They formed an odd collection of Canterbury tales, lives
of saints, and one or two old romances. He turned them over and at
last discovered, hidden under the disguise of a volume of ballads,
a manuscript book carefully written out. He took it to the fire to
examine it, and read on the title—
"This boke ys the boke of the prophet Isiach, written out by me
from a boke of the Scripture which a man had in Antwerp, and ys
doubtless ye trew word of ye livinge God."
Underneath was written in the same hand—
"O Lord, how long."
Jack was overjoyed at the discovery. He had never seen any part of the
Old Testament except the Psalms, and could hardly believe in his good
fortune. He looked the books over once more, and found a part of St.
John's Gospel, evidently copied by the same hand.
Both books had been carefully studied, as was evident from the marks
and marginal notes they contained. Jack understood at once the secret
of David Brent's refusal to see the priest, and his dying, as his wife
said, without the sacraments, yet as peaceful and calm as a babe. He
felt, as he looked at the books written out with so much care by a hand
evidently unused to holding a pen, like one who comes unexpectedly on
the writing of a dear friend long dead; and he vowed that as long as he
lived, David Brent's children should never want anything that he could
do for them.
He trimmed the shaded lamp and sat down to read, but even the interest
of his new discovery could not divert his attention from the sick man.
Was he really Sir John Brydges's long-lost son? And if so, what was to
be done to restore him to his parents? Could he be persuaded to return
to his father's house? That would be best for all.
"But if he will not, the knight must come to him," Jack said to
himself. "I must bring the father and son face to face, and then I am
sure all will be well. I remember what the knight said on the terrace
at Holford the day I went to speak with Master Fleming. Oh, how I wish
he were here. But there is no use in speculating. I must wait and see
how matters will turn out."
Jack once more addressed himself to his book, and read till he was
aroused by the voice of the invalid. He rose and went to the bedside.
Paul had been sleeping quietly for some time, but he now began to
talk, though without opening his eyes; and Jack perceived that he was
wandering, between sleeping and waking. He held his breath not to lose
a word.
"Mother, mother," murmured the sick man. "Mother, I am not dead. I need
no masses, even if they were worth anything. Only take me home, and
lay me on my own bed, and let my father sit by me as he used to do in
old times. Father will forgive me for disgracing him when he knows I
am sorry for what I have done. 'While he was yet a great way off, his
father saw him.' Master Firth bade me return to my father and seek his
forgiveness. But a heretic!"
Jack started and drew nearer to the bedside.
"A heretic!" repeated Paul.
And then looking up, and seeing Jack bending over him, he added
eagerly, but yet with a certain wildness which showed his mind was
still wandering—"You have seen my father of late. Do you think he
would receive and forgive me if he knew that I had heard the Lutherans
preach—that I was of the new religion?"
"I am sure he would—quite sure," said Jack. "Some men say he is a
favorer of the new religion himself."
"But my mother—what would she say? She is a proud and devout lady, you
know."
"She is your mother," said Jack briefly, as though that were enough.
"But if she should refuse me when she knows the truth, if she should
turn her back upon me after all, it would go near to break my heart.
And you know I must needs speak the truth. 'He that loveth father or
mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.'"
Jack saw that his patient was becoming over-excited, and was likely to
do himself harm.
"Hush!" said he, with kindly authority. "You will do yourself a
mischief by talking so much, and I am sure your mother will not be
pleased with that. Let me give you some refreshment, and then I will
read to you, and you must try to sleep."
"But what will you read? Will you read from the Scriptures?" asked
Paul, looking eagerly into Jack's face. "But no, you must not do so, or
they will put you in prison and on the rack as they did me. See here,"
and he pushed up his sleeves and showed his emaciated wrists covered
with terrible scars, the sight of which made Jack's blood boil and his
fingers clinch involuntarily. "You must not read the Scripture, and
besides you do not know it."
"I do both know the Scripture, and will read it to you, dearest
brother," said Jack, striving to speak calmly, though he was thrilling
all over with excitement. "Do but lie down and be quiet, and I will
read as much as you will."
"But are you then a Lutheran?" asked Paul, looking wistfully into his
face, "Or are you laying a trap for me, as they did in Flanders? There
be no Lutherans in England."
"May God so deal with me as I am dealing truly with you," said Jack,
solemnly. "There are some—yes many, in this place—who love the Gospel
and read it, but as yet secretly, for fear of the oppressors. Have no
fear, but down and rest, and I will read the holy Scripture to you as
long as you will."
Seemingly reassured, Paul lay down, and Jack began reading from the
book he had discovered. There was much of course that he did not in the
least understand, but he found enough which was plain to make him long
for more.
Paul now and then spoke a few words, but more and more dreamily, and
Jack had at last the satisfaction of seeing him fall into a sound quiet
sleep. He sat reading and thinking by the bedside till the gray dawn
began to steal in at the window. As he rose to replenish the fire, Paul
was roused and opened his eyes.
"Are you still here, my kind nurse?" said he, speaking faintly, but
with no appearance of wandering or bewilderment. "Is it not very late?
It seems as though I had been sleeping for a long time."
"It is very late, or rather very early. It is just growing daylight.
You have slept soundly for several hours. How do you feel?"
"Much better," replied Paul. "My dreams have been very sweet. Did I
dream it, or were you reading to me before I went to sleep?
"You were not dreaming, dear brother," said Jack. "Have you any
recollection of what read?"
"Why do you call me brother?" asked Paul, with a wondering look. "It is
a dear name, but I never knew I had a brother."
"I call you so because I cannot but think that in one sense we are
brothers," said Jack. "But tell me, do you remember what I read?"
"It could hardly be so," said Paul; "and yet—it seems to me as if you
had read to me from the Scripture. You are not a priest, are you?" he
asked, starting. "I fear I have been saying more than I ought."
"Have no fears," returned Jack. "I am no priest, or priest's tool, of
that you may be sure, and you have betrayed nothing. I did read from
the Scripture to you last night, because you desired it, and because I
myself love the Book. I could not betray you if I would, for I should
myself stand in the same peril."
"It is well," said Paul. "I am most thankful to have fallen into such
good hands. I do think I may trust you," he added, looking wistfully
into Jack's face. "But I have been so betrayed by those in whom I have
confided, that it has sometimes seemed to me that I could never trust
man again."
"Have you no family friends near here?" asked Jack gently. "I should
think you a Somerset man by your speech."
"No—yes—indeed, I know not what to say on that matter," replied Paul,
in an embarrassed tone. "I had once as kind friends as ever lived, but
I know not whether they would own me now."
"Never mind," said Jack, who did not wish to agitate or alarm his
patient. "We will talk of that when you are stronger, if you are
disposed to give me your confidence. At present, be sure you are among
friends who will do all in their power for you."
"I must think of it," said Paul, sinking back. "It is no mere question
of a shipwrecked sailor coming home in rags and poverty, you know. I
may tell you this: that my family are gentlefolk of condition, and that
they have good reason to be angry with me since I have brought upon an
ancient and honorable house not only trouble but disgrace. There are
more interests than mine to be considered, you see, and therefore I
must weigh the matter well. I would gladly die, if die I must, with my
head on my father's breast; but not even for that dear privilege would
I bring a new pang to rend his bosom."
"Think then, dear brother, think, but pray also," said Jack, deeply
moved. "You know the Apostle bids us, when we lack wisdom, to ask it of
God, nothing doubting, and it shall be given us."
"I will indeed do so," replied Paul. "Nobody knows more than I the
value of prayer. But do you go home now, and go to rest. I hear the
good people of the house stirring."
Jack went home, but not to rest. He walked through the quiet street in
the crisp morning air, thinking what he had better do. He did not know
a great deal about sickness, but he could see that Paul's state was
critical. A very little might turn the scale, so that there could be no
recovery; and how sad if he should die without being reconciled to his
father! From what he knew and guessed, Jack felt sure that there would
be no trouble between Paul and his father, on the subject of religion.
He walked three or four times up and down the street, but at last he
made up his mind.
"I will do it," said he. "I will do what lies in my power to bring the
father and son together. I will talk to my father, and if he is willing
I will borrow Master Felton's pony and set out without delay."