JACK'S ERRAND.
"Is my father up, Simon?" asked Jack, as he entered the shop, which the
journeyman was just putting to rights.
"I think not, Master Jack. I have not heard him stirring, and he
usually calls me to come truss his points for him."
"I will myself go up and help him to dress," said Jack, and he went
softly up-stairs to his father's room. Master Lucas was just awake.
"So you have come home betimes," said he, rubbing his eyes. "You have
had a long watch and will be for taking a good nap, I dare say, though
you do not look very sleepy either," he added, looking in his son's
face. "You seem as if you had heard some good news."
"And so I trust I have," said Jack. "I want to consult you, dear
father, about a matter of moment."
"Give me my gown, then," said his father. "It is time I was up. Now let
me hear the story."
Jack sat down on the side of the bed, and told his father of the
discovery he supposed himself to have made, with the grounds of his
belief. Master Lucas listened with attention.
"But supposing this young man to be the heir of Holford," said he, "do
you think his father would receive him again?"
"I have good grounds for thinking so, which you shall hear," said Jack,
and he repeated his reasons, which we already know.
"Poor gentleman! My heart aches for him," said Master Lucas. "But what
is it you propose to do? You cannot take Master Arthur to his home,
weak as he is, even if he were quite willing to go."
"No; and, therefore, I propose to bring his home to him," said Jack.
"I propose to ride to Holford, see the knight, and tell him all that I
have told you. Then he can act as he pleases."
"Have you said aught of your intention to Master Arthur—or Paul, as he
calls himself?"
"Not a word, dear father. I thought it best to be silent. Paul—his name
is Paul as well as Arthur—Paul is in doubt as to his reception at home.
He says he has brought shame and disgrace on his honorable house, and
he knows not whether he ought to return—"
"So had the youth Father William preached about yesterday, brought
shame and disgrace on his family," interrupted the baker. "Yet he
returned, and his father received him gladly."
"And if the poor prodigal had been ill and starving, repentant, and
longing above all things for a sight of his father's face, yet too weak
and too fearful to go to him," said Jack, eagerly, "do you not think
that he and his father both would have been thankful to that man who
had brought them face to face, who had carried news to the father that
the son was languishing, perhaps dying, within his reach? Make the case
your own, dear father, and tell me."
Master Lucas turned and looked at his son with tears in his honest blue
eyes. "Jack, you are a strange lad for your years. I cannot understand
what has made a man of you so suddenly. Even do as you will, and manage
the matter your own way, my son. I cannot see what harm can come of it.
If the knight should refuse to see his son, the poor young gentleman
will at least be prevented from a bootless journey."
"He will not refuse," said Jack. "Then, with your leave, dear father, I
will set out directly."
"As soon as you have rested a little and taken a good meal, my son.
Nay, I must insist upon that much, or we shall have you ill again.
Remember you are all the son, I had well-nigh said all the child, I
have in the world. Get you down and send Simon to engage for your
neighbor Fulford's pony. It is an easy beast to ride, and faster than
my mule. It is a market-day, and the roads will be full of people, so
you will have nothing to fear from robbers, or I would send Simon with
you."
"I do not need him," said Jack. "Nobody would think of robbing a lad
like me; and besides I doubt Simon would be no great safeguard. He
has not the heart of a chicken. Father," added Jack, earnestly, "I do
heartily thank you for trusting me so fully."
"When I see aught to distrust in you, it will be time to begin," said
Master Lucas. "My blessing upon thee, dear lad. Thou hast never yet
wilfully given thy father a heart-ache."
A pang shot through Jack's own breast, as he remembered how soon he
might be called upon to do and suffer that which would wring his
father's heart with anguish through no fault of his own. "Oh, if it
were only myself," he reflected, as he sought his own chamber, "how
easy it would all be to endure." And, dearly as he loved his father,
Jack almost felt like praying that the good old man might be taken away
from the evil to come, before the storm burst which Master Fleming had
foretold.
Calmed and refreshed by his morning reading and prayers, Jack came down
to his breakfast dressed for his journey, his sober, resolute face
showing that his determination was unshaken.
Cicely exclaimed against his setting out on such a ride after he had
been watching all night.
But Master Lucas made her a sign, and she said no more, except to
entreat her darling to eat and drink heartily, and to put a comfortable
morsel in his pocket, that he need not be faint by the way.
She was dying with curiosity to learn the object of his journey
undertaken so suddenly, but she knew of old, that unless Master Lucas
chose to tell there was no use in asking.
Anne was not so discreet. She came in when breakfast was half over,
from the priory church, where she had been praying since four o'clock.
Kneeling on cold stones for three hours on a stretch without one's
breakfast is not likely to improve the temper, whatever other spiritual
graces it may impart. Anne felt weak, exhausted, and wretched, and all
ready, as her father said, to take the poker by the hot end.
"What is Simon doing, walking that horse up and down before the door?"
she asked, as she sat down. "Have some of Jack's grand friends come to
visit him so early?"
"I did not know that I had any grand friends," said Jack.
"I thought it might be Master Fleming," pursued Anne. "He seems to use
our house as his own at all times."
"If he does, he is no more free than welcome," said her father. "I ever
esteem his visits an honor as well as a pleasure. But you are wrong
this time. The pony is for no less a person than our Jack, who is about
to ride into the country for some miles."
"Indeed!" said Anne. "And what takes him into the country?"
"Business," replied her father briefly. "Business of importance, which
no one can well do but himself. Ask no questions, sweetheart, for more
I cannot tell you."
"I do not mean to ask any questions," said Anne, flushing. "I know well
that I am the last person to be trusted, especially by Jack."
"Do you say so, Anne?" asked Jack, turning full upon her, as his father
left the room. "Methinks I have trusted you already farther than you
were willing to have me, farther than I had reason to do, considering
all things. But I do not mean to reproach you, dear sister," he added,
repenting, the next moment, as he saw how Anne winced. "The business I
go upon is not mine, or you should know all about it."
"Nay, I have no desire to penetrate it," said Anne, coldly, but with
eyes that flashed an angry fire. "I desire to enter into none of your
secrets. I can guess its nature well, and will not even presume to warn
you, though I know the terrible risk you are running. You are working
to bring down ruin upon yourself and your father's house, fancying that
you are having your own wilful way, while all the time you are being
made a tool and a cat's-paw of, by craftier heads than your own."
No lad of sixteen likes to be called a tool and a cat's-paw. Jack had
his share of pride as well as Anne, and he had to bite his lip hard to
repress an angry answer. He did repress it, however, and after a moment
of silence answered quietly, "Anne, would you like to have anyone speak
to you in that manner? Would you like it, for instance, if I were to
call you a cat's-paw and spy of Father Barnaby?"
"You have no right to call me so," said Anne. "I am no spy, and I will
not submit to be called one."
"You have no need to submit, for I have no intention of calling you a
spy or any other disagreeable name," said Jack, smiling. "I only put
the case for your consideration. As to my business, all this secrecy
which nevertheless is needful at present, is just making a mountain out
of a very small molehill. Come, Anne, do not let us quarrel just as I
am going away. Why should we not be loving and gentle to one another as
brother and sister should be?"
"Because you are a heretic," replied Anne. "It is my duty to try to
bring you back to the faith, and failing that to treat you as—"
"As Agnes Harland was treated, perhaps," said Jack, interrupting her.
Then repenting the next moment, "Dear Anne, forgive me; I am wrong. I
should not have said so much."
He would have taken Anne's hand, but she repulsed him.
"Yes, as Agnes Harland was treated," said she sternly. "Even so. You
have no right to expect any thing else at my hands. I have had many
regrets, many misgivings, as to this matter, but I will allow them to
influence me no more. The Church is more to me than father or brother
or friend. I am the vowed bride of Christ, and I will be faithful to my
vow—ay, though I had to walk over the dead body of every friend I have
in the world. I will be faithful to my vows and to my conscience. Now
you know what you have to expect."
"Very well," said Jack. "My life is in your hands. But, Anne," he
added, looking fixedly at her, "are you sure that you are faithful to
your conscience? Are you sure your conscience is not telling you this
minute, that what you have heard from Agnes and from me is true, every
word true? Are you not at this very moment resisting the Spirit which
tells you that you have been mistaken and wrong hitherto; that shows,
you all your built-up righteousness to be more worthless than rags and
dust, and pleads with you to forsake your errors and turn to the truth;
to leave the broken cisterns hewed by man, and seek the fountain of
living waters? I believe it is so. Anne, Anne, beware! For me, I am
in God's hand, and no real harm can chance to me, but I tremble for
you. Anne, Anne, beware how you grieve the Spirit by resisting your
convictions of truth!"
"Time is wearing away, my son, and it were well you were on your road,"
said Master Lucas, entering the room. "The days are shorter than they
were. Shall you return to-night?"
"Yes, father, if I can finish my business," replied Jack; and then
desirous of diverting his attention from Anne, he said hastily, "I was
thinking whether there was any token I could carry to the old priest at
Holford. He is a good-natured old man and was kind to me, and I should
like to show that I remembered him."
"That is well thought on, my son. Do you get my saddle-bags, and I will
put up some sweetmeats and comfits for Father John's sweet tooth, and
also something for Uncle Thomas. We must not forget old friends."
Jack went for the bags, and while his father was filling them, he found
opportunity for another word with his sister.
"Anne, I am sorry if I have grieved you."
"Words cost very little," said Anne coldly. "Let me see you confess and
abjure your errors, and I shall know how to believe you."
"My errors, as you call them, shall be confessed with my latest breath,
if God gives me grace to hold fast to Him," returned Jack. "You would
not have known them, had it not been for my earnest desire to comfort
you in your trouble. Nor do I regret having spoken them, though by so
doing I have put a weapon in your hands to slay me withal. It seemed to
me that I must speak, whatever came of it. The Gospel says, 'Whosoever
shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be
ashamed when he shall come in the glory of his father and of the holy
angels.' And again, 'If we deny him, he also will deny us.' Dear Anne,
only listen to the Word and to the Spirit, only take up the cross and
follow the Lord, and all will be well."
Anne compressed her lips and made no reply, and her father coming in at
that moment, she escaped to her own room.
"Is all ready?" asked Jack. "Then give me your blessing, dear father,
and I will set out."
"Thou hast it, thou hast it, my son," said Master Lucas, laying his
hand on his son's head as he bent his knee before him. "May our Lord
and the saints prosper thy journey and bring thee safe home again!"
Jack's mind was at first hardly in a state to enjoy his ride. He had a
sharp battle with himself before he could subdue the anger and wounded
pride which stirred within him; and his conscience told him that he had
not been without blame. He had spoken harshly and scornfully to his
sister, and made an ungenerous use of the secret she had confided to
him.
Anne was deeply angered at him, that was plain; and he had, by
offending her, lessened his chance of influencing her for good. He
had another cause of disturbance. It seemed to him that much as he
had thought on the subject, he had never realized before, the trouble
he was likely to bring on his friends, especially on his father, by
accepting the new doctrines, as they were called. He said to himself,
as he rode along, that he might be taken up and thrown into jail any
day, and that there would be probably no release from prison for him,
save by the ignominious death of the stake, or the still more shameful
and fatal way of recantation.
He pictured to himself the stake and chain, the crowd of scornful
gazers and the blazing torch, or the scaffold set up in the
market-place where the apostate must stand bearing his fagot while a
monk preached from the pulpit over his head.
"It would kill my father in either case," said he to himself. "He would
never recover the grief and the disgrace. And if it should prove a
delusion after all! If Anne should be right and Master Fleming and the
others wrong!"
It was a fearful combat that Jack fought out with the Tempter that
sunny autumn day, as he rode over the heath and along the still green
hedgerows. The travellers he met saw in him some youth going out on a
holiday excursion, and marvelled at his sombre face and compressed lip.
It rarely happens in these days that any young person is called to
really give up all for Christ, to choose between His love and service
and the love and respect of all nearest and dearest friends; and when
it does so chance, there is usually everything in the sympathy of
Christians to make the task as easy as it can be made. Moreover such a
choice, though it may bring grief and estrangement, involves no actual
loss or disgrace.
But in the time whereof I am writing, the case was very different.
The man or woman who embraced the new doctrines, as they were called,
not only came out from all the dear old customs and sanctities of
the familiar home life, not only broke up "the old sweet habit of
confidence," but he brought shame and public disgrace into his own
family circle, if he did not entail upon his friends absolute pecuniary
loss and serious danger to life and liberty.
I have sometimes heard it said, that those martyrs by the stake and the
rack had an easier work to do, and deserved less credit therefore, than
those have who bear with the trials and vexations of every-day life. I
think those who say so forget one thing; namely, that the martyrs who
perished on the stake or rack, had just the same wearying, worrying,
every-day trials and cares that we have, in addition to the one great
trial.
Anne Ascue had her household vexations, and those no small ones; her
trials with husband and children and servants, lack of money, and
uncertainty as to the future. Tyndale and Frith had to contend with
misprints and misunderstandings, the stupidity and dulness of printers
and proof-readers unused to the language in which they worked, with
pirated editions, and all the other manifold annoyances which beset
authors and publishers nowadays. Were these, think you, any easier to
bear for the great trial which was always in the background? Were the
clouds any the more transparent because of the total eclipse which was
impending? I think not. How then were they borne?
I think the answer is to be found in this—that these men and women who
thus took their lives in their hands, and went forth to witness for
their Lord in the midst of an adulterous and perverse generation, lived
daily very near to God. They realized in a wonderful way God's love for
them, His constant care for them, His superintending providence which
would let nothing happen which was not for their good.
Master Garrett, at Oxford, when he was in danger of being apprehended,
kneeled down weeping in his chamber and read the tenth chapter of
St. Matthew, and the words were to him a living reality. These men
literally, and in no figurative or exaggerated sense, gave up all
for Christ. They literally left all and followed Him; and to them
was fulfilled in all its fulness the promise, "Ye shall have tenfold
more in this life, with persecutions, and in the world to come life
everlasting."
With many, the conflict was sharp and the victory sometimes doubtful;
but sooner or later the word was fulfilled and the strength given
according to the day. ¹
¹ I think any one will be convinced of the truth of this statement
who will read for himself the letters of the martyrs, especially those
written in prison.
So Jack Lucas found it, riding that soft autumnal day along the quiet
lanes and over the barn heath. For a time the conflict was fierce,
and the enemy strong—so strong that the young warrior more than once
groaned aloud in the bitterness of his soul, and was ready to cry out:
"I sink in deep waters; Lord, why hidest thou thy face in the needful
time of trouble?"
But by degrees, his mind grew calmer. He could not trust himself to
argue with the Tempter, or even to fight with him but, like Christian
in the dark valley, "he was forced to put up his sword and betake
himself to another weapon called All-prayer—so he cried, 'O Lord, I
beseech Thee, deliver my soul!'"
And so it was, that the Master he served was pleased to give him the
victory for that time. A wonderful calm and peace descended upon his
spirit, and he was able to enjoy the beauty around him, and to take
pleasure at being once more in the country.
He arrived at Holford in good time, and rode direct to the Hall. To his
great disappointment, he found that both the knight and his lady were
away. They had gone to visit a sick friend in the neighboring parish.
"But they will be home before evening," said the porter, as Jack
expressed his disappointment; "so, if your business is urgent, you
might as well wait for their return."
"I think I will do so," said Jack; "and meantime I will go to visit my
uncle and the good father at the village."
"Ay, the old man will be glad to see you, and his reverence as well,"
said the butler, who had come out to speak with Jack. "I promise you,
the father gave our knight a good character of you, for I heard him
myself. He said you had given him great help at a pinch, and had much
to say of your scholarship, especially of your Latin."
"It was no very great help I gave him," said Jack; "but he is a
good-natured old gentleman. Well, Master Butler, I will go down to the
hamlet and see the priest and my uncle, and return about the time the
knight is expected."