A SORROWFUL PARTING.
That evening Jack went, as he had proposed, to consult Father William
about Sister Barbara.
Father William had lately made full profession of his faith, and
preached the reformed doctrines openly in his church by the waterside,
whither hundreds flocked to hear him—some urged by personal affection,
for Father William was by far the most popular priest in Bridgewater;
some from curiosity, to hear what was beginning to make such a noise
and stir; and a few moved by earnest desire to hear and understand
the truth. As yet, no disturbance had arisen in consequence of his
preaching.
The other priests, indeed, were furious, and the preaching friars
thundered unsparing denunciations against the heretic and all who
heard demonstrating to their own satisfaction, at least, that he was
possessed with ten devils, and would certainly be torn in pieces by
them some day. The priest of St. Mary's was an infirm, easy-going
old man, of the same school as Father John of Holford, and the prior
of the convent was engaged in an active warfare with another convent
concerning certain tan-yards and mills which they owned in common.
Moreover, it was pretty well-known that the bishop of the diocese was,
if not in reality a favorer of the gospel, yet nowise inclined to
interfere with those who were.
Under all these favoring circumstances, Father William remained
unmolested for the present, and he improved the time by preaching every
day in his own church, and instructing in the truth those persons—and
they were many—who came to unburden their minds and consciences to him.
Jack found him sitting at his frugal supper table, not eating, but
leaning back in his chair; and he could not but remark how worn and
thin the good man looked.
"You are killing yourself with this constant labor, dear father," said
he; "you must take some rest."
"I must work the work to which I am sent, while it is yet day," said
Father William. "The night cometh apace, in which no man can work.
Unless I am greatly mistaken, this calm which we now enjoy is like to
be of short duration, and I must use it diligently to win souls to my
Master, and plant seed which may spring and grow when I am laid low.
Besides," he added, with a sorrowful smile, "why should I save the body
for the hangman or the stake? I should esteem myself blessed, indeed,
if I might but die at my work. But what can I do for you, my dear son?"
Jack briefly opened his business.
"The danger is imminent, as you say," said priest when he had heard
the story. "It would be certain death for the lady to return to the
convent, and she may be called to do so any day—especially if she be
suspected of heresy."
He mused a little while, and Jack almost thought he had forgotten the
subject of conversation, when he roused himself from his abstraction.
"I think I see my way," said he. "I know a gentleman's family among the
hills, yonder, where I think she would be welcome, both for her own
sake and the gospel's. It is a wild and rocky nook—they say the sun is
scarce seen there in winter, for the height of the hills which surround
it—and there are abundance of places where, if need were, an army might
be concealed. I shall be going that way tomorrow, and will see the lady
and break the matter to her."
Sir William was as good as his word, and in two or three days, he told
Jack the result of his mission. The lady was overjoyed at the thought
of having such a companion in her solitude and such a teacher for her
daughters, and the squire was ready to afford succor to any one who
came to him in the name of the gospel.
"They are but rustic folk," said the priest, "and, though of gentle
blood, far behind our town burghers in refinement and luxury. Sister
Barbara must be content to rough it not a little, but that is a small
matter. Any home, however rude, is better than a prison."
The result of these negotiations was communicated to Sister Barbara. At
first she was distressed at the thought of leaving her school and her
new friends, but a little consideration showed her that flight was the
best course.
"I care nothing for roughing it," she said; "the good father well says
that any home is better than a prison, and doubtless I can find ways to
make myself useful to the lady and her daughters."
"And if this storm blows over, as I still hope it may, you will return
to us, dear madam," said Master Lucas. "Truly the house will seem empty
and dreary without you. Meantime, let no word of this matter be dropped
in the household—before Anne, least of all."
"I cannot make up my mind to distrust Anne," said Jack.
"No person is to be trusted whose mind and conscience are wholly in the
keeping of another," said Master Lucas. "I pray you, let me manage the
matter my own way."
"So Madam Barbara is going to leave us," said Cicely, a few days
afterward. "Father William has discovered some friends of hers off
among the hills who desire a visit from her, and she is to go to them.
We shall miss her more than a little."
"I hope to return, one of these days," said Madam Barbara. "I am sure I
shall never find a happier home than this or a kinder friend than you
are, dear Cicely, if I go over the world to look for them; but this
lady is very lonely, and she has daughters to educate, and, moreover,
there are other reasons which make my going desirable."
"Well, well; every one knows his own business best, and blood is
blood—I don't deny that," said Cicely, "and I can't but think one's own
relations were meant to be nearer than other folks, for all Anne says
about it. But it must be a wild, dreary place—especially in winter."
"The more need for sunshine in the house, and I am sure Madam Barbara
carries that with her wherever she goes," said Jack.
Anne heard of the intended departure of Sister Barbara with little
regret. There had, of late, been no sympathy between them. Anne felt
that Sister Barbara wholly disapproved of her conduct to her father and
brother; and dead as she believed herself to be to all earthly things,
she could not endure even an intimation of that blame she was so ready
at all times to bestow on others. Moreover, she was jealous. It was
impossible to live with Sister Barbara and not love her, and though
Anne did not and would not take any pains to make herself agreeable
or beloved, yet it angered her to the soul, to see another taking the
place which belonged of right to herself.
Anne's life, at this time, was one of sheer inconsistency. She was
fighting in behalf of a faith in which she, in her heart, scarcely
preserved a shadow of belief; she was determined to crush out all
earthly ties, and at the same time she was able to endure the thought
of not being first in her father's house; and though she had told her
brother that she should feel perfectly justified in betraying him,
she was yet fiercely indignant at him for withholding his confidence
from her. All this inward conflict did not tend to make her the more
amiable, and while she revenged upon herself by renewed penances any
failure in "holy humility," she was deeply hurt and indignant if any
one in the least degree reproved or resented her bursts of temper.
She asked no questions as to Sister Barbara's plans, and hardly
returned her expressions of affection at parting, yet she stood at the
door watching the party as far as she could see them, and then, going
up to her room, she wept long and bitterly—partly over the parting,
partly over the disappointment of the hopes with which she had welcomed
her former friend, and a good deal, it must be confessed, from mere
hysterical fatigue consequent upon fasting and watching for sixteen or
eighteen hours.
Jack and his father rode with Madam Barbara to within some ten miles of
her destination, when they were met by Mr. Hendley, who gave the lady a
hearty welcome, and to her friends an equally hearty invitation to come
and see him and his wife, and stay any number of days or months.
Then, seeing the lady mounted on a pillion behind her protector, they
took their leave of her, and turned their faces homeward. Taking
advantage of a late moon, they had set out long before day to avoid any
prying observations or questions from the neighbors, and it was still
early when they returned home. As they turned into their own street,
Jack uttered a vehement exclamation of surprise, at the sight of a
stout elderly gentleman, in a cassock, descending with apparent pain
and difficulty from his mule.
"What now?" asked his father.
"It is Father John, from Holford, as sure as you live, father!"
exclaimed Jack. "What miracle or earthquake can have brought him so far
from home?"
"We shall soon hear," replied his father.
"Yes, if the poor man have any breath left to speak," said Jack, as
he threw himself hastily from his own beast. "I should think that
doubtful."
"Well, we must give him all the welcome and refreshment in our power,"
said the master baker, dismounting more leisurely. "Your reverence is
heartily welcome to my poor dwelling," he added, addressing the poor
old priest, who had dropped exhausted on the first seat. "I would we
had been at home to receive you in more fitting form. I pray you to
walk into the parlor."
The old man rose with some difficulty, and, accepting the support of
Master Lucas's arm, he made out to walk into the sitting-room. Jack ran
before to bring forward the easiest seat and place a footstool before
it, and then to bring a cup of ale, which Father John drank without a
word.
Then turning a lack-lustre and piteous eye upon his cupbearer, he
ejaculated—
"Alack, my dear son!"
"I trust nothing unpleasant has chanced to bring you so far from home,
father," said Jack, fearing he knew not what. "It must have been a
toilsome journey for your reverence."
"Alack, you may well say so. I did not believe I should ever ride so
far again—and it is all for your sake. I would I were safe home again,
that is all. These vile footpads would as soon rob a priest as a
layman, I believe, and I am shaken to a very jelly."
"Your reverence must not think of returning to Holford to-night," said
Jack.
He was dying to learn the good man's business, but he knew by
experience that to try to hurry him was only to throw his brains into a
hopeless confusion.
"I am sure my father will not be willing to have you leave us so
suddenly, now that you have honored us with a visit."
"No, indeed, good father!" said Master Lucas heartily. "You must sup
with us, and give me time to thank you for all your kindness to my boy."
"Tut, tut! That was nothing," returned Father John. "The young rogue! I
could find it in my heart to wish I had never seen him, for he hath so
wound himself round my heart as I could not have believed possible."
"Is my good uncle well, sir?" asked Jack.
"Well—why, yes, for aught I know," replied the priest, rather
hesitatingly; "and yet—Is any one within hearing? I must speak to you
in private."
Jack went out of the room and presently returned to say that Cicely and
Anne had gone to evensong, that Simon was busy in the bakehouse, and he
had set little Peter, the 'prentice, to watch the shop door.
"It is well," said Father John; "but yet we will speak low. My business
is this: Father Barnaby has returned from his travels somewhat
suddenly, and, it is said, with extraordinary powers from the Cardinal,
to search out heretical books, and apprehend the owners thereof."
Jack looked at his father in dismay.
"Now I know not that this concerns you, my dear son," continued the
priest, laying his hand on Jack's arm, and looking earnestly at him. "I
hope, with all my heart, that it does not, and that for many reasons;
but I know you are intimate with Arthur Brydges who makes no secret of
his opinions, and there are other reasons: Father Barnaby is a hard
man, and especially bitter against heresy; and I would not, to be made
Abbot of Glastonbury, have any harm happen to you."
"And you have taken this long journey to give me warning," said Jack,
much affected, and kissing the old man's hand. "Truly, I know not how
to thank you, dear father."
"But you must not say so, for the world, my dear son," said Father John
hastily. "Remember, I am not supposed to know anything of this matter,
and have come to consult your father on the investing of certain moneys
left me by my brother, lately dead. I would not hear a word—supposing
there were any such thing to hear—lest I should be called on to
testify. Do you understand?"
"We both understand, reverend sir, and feel your kindness," said Master
Lucas. "Believe me, I shall never forget it—"
"Tilly-vally, tilly-vally!" interrupted the priest. "It is naught!
I have lived, I fear, a selfish life, and I would fain do some good
before I die. I love not these new-fangled ways better than Father
Barnaby himself. I am sure a parish priest's life is hard enough as it
is, and they say the Lutherans are for having sermons every Sunday,
and Scripture readings, and what not. No, I love no new fancies in
religion, but I do not hold with all these burnings and imprisonments
and the like. I think kindness and good treatment far more likely to
bring men back to the truth."
"Why, there was Father Thomas, the librarian at Glastonbury; in his
youth he was greatly taken with such of these new notions as were
current—Lollardism, men called it then—and some of the brethren were
for having him hardly dealt by."
"'Let him alone, let him alone!' said the abbot—that was Abbot John,
not the present Abbot Sylvester—'Let him alone,' says the abbot. 'Let
me deal with him.'"
"So he calls Brother Thomas, and after some talk, he makes him his
secretary, and custodian of all the books."
"'And, Brother Thomas,' says he, 'I would have you take especial care
of the Latin authors, and cause some new copies to be made of Cicero
his Offices, and of Virgil and Horace, and spare no expense upon them.'"
"Well, that was the end of Brother Thomas's hankering after heresy."
Jack could not help smiling at the story, though it was, in some
respects, a sad one.
"And now I have discharged my errand, and you must make what use of it
you will," said Father John; "only, if you love me, let no word of the
matter go abroad. I have given them warning at the Hall, also—and, if I
have done wrong, the saints forgive me. Alack, my poor bones!"
"If your reverence will take some brief repose, we will have supper
ready directly," said Master Lucas; "here comes my good housekeeper.
Cicely, let our meal be prepared directly; and, let every thing be of
the best, since this good father is to be of our company."
"Nay, I know not if I ought to remain here," said Father John, who
had been solacing himself all through his long and, to him, arduous
journey, with the thought of the master baker's good cheer. "I ought,
perhaps, to go to the convent—"
"I am a villain, if you leave us this night," said Master Lucas
sturdily. "It were foul shame to me to let such a reverend father, and
my son's benefactor to boot, depart from my roof fasting. Make haste,
good Cicely, and do your best; and you, son Jack, attend me with the
lantern, that I may draw some good wine for our honored guest."
"What is to be done now, son?" asked Master Lucas, so soon as they were
alone in the cellar.
"Indeed, father, I cannot say," returned Jack. "I see not but I must
abide the storm."
"By our Lady, that shall you not!" said his father. "This good old man
has given us warning, and it were a mere tempting of Providence, not to
profit thereby. When will Davy Brent be sailing again?"
"Not under two weeks, he told me yesterday. But, father, how can I
leave you?"
"Better lose you for a little time, than altogether," said Master Lucas
sadly. "Son, son! It was an evil day when I sent you from me."
"Nay, my dear father, say not so," replied Jack earnestly. "Truly, this
cross is a heavy one, and hard for flesh to bear; yet I cannot regret
that I have taken it up. The truth as I have learned it, first from
Uncle Thomas, and afterward from the Scripture itself, is worth more to
me than all the world hath to offer. I only pray that I may have grace
to hold it to the end."
"Well, well! It skills not, arguing that matter now," said his father
rather impatiently. "The question now is, how are we to use the good
man's warning. You might go to Harrowdale where Madam Barbara is. I am
sure the squire would give you welcome—or you might go out to Holford."
"I doubt that would be stepping from the frying-pan into the fire, as
matters are at present," said Jack; "and yet I would fain see my uncle."
"Well, well, we will talk farther, presently, when the folks are abed,"
returned his father; "we must not remain longer here, or Anne will
suspect something. I would she were away."
"Father," said Jack earnestly, "I beg of you, and it were the last
favor I should ever ask of you, as it well may be—I pray you, be kind
and patient with Anne. She is very unhappy, and at times, I think, she
is hardly herself."
"If she be honest and true, I will be a kind father to her, as I have
ever been, I think," said the baker; "but if she prove a traitor, and
do aught to betray her brother—"
"She may not be able to help it," said Jack. "Do you not see, dear
father, that she must answer any questions the priest chooses to ask
her? With that engine of confession in their hands, the churchmen hold
the inmost keys of every man's house and family."
"A plague take the whole of them!" exclaimed Master Lucas.
"A plague is like to take them, and that before long, if all we hear
about the breaking up of the religious houses be true," said Jack. "It
is because they know how it will take the power out of their hands,
that the priests so oppose the spread of the true gospel. But I pray
you, father, be kind to Anne, for my sake."
"Are you and Jack going to stay in the cellar all night and catch your
deaths with the damp?" called Cicely from the top of the stairs. "Here
is supper all but ready, and you would but draw the wine and ale, and
I am sure you must need your food, as well as the good father yonder.
Marry, I was fain to give him a dish of cakes to stay his appetite till
supper was ready."
At supper, Father John was the merriest of the party. Like many
easy-going people he had the gift of putting far-off the evil day,
and persuading himself that what he wished not to happen, never would
happen. He had made what was for one of his habits a great sacrifice of
ease and comfort to warn his young friend, and he was inclined to take
the reward of his good deed. He praised Cicely's cooking, paid Anne
various old-fashioned compliments, and made her very angry by telling
her she was a foolish girl to wear out her youth in a nunnery. She had
far better marry some stout young fellow and bring up a dozen of sturdy
lads and maids to comfort her in her old age.
"I would you could persuade her to do so," said the baker.
"I have already told you, father, that I look upon myself as the vowed
bride of the Church," said Anne with more asperity of tone and manner
than altogether suited the character she avowed. "If I am to hear more
such discourse, I shall retire from the table."
"Hoity-toity!" said Father John; "Since when hath it been the fashion
for maidens to threaten their fathers either natural or ghostly in
such wise? But, come, I meant no offence. I did but say what I truly
think. I am an old man, my daughter, and, though I am a priest, I have
seen much more of life than you have, both in the cloister and out of
it; and I tell you, in all seriousness, that a woman who brings up
her children in honor and in the fear of God, does a more acceptable
work in His eyes—ay, and bears more pains and penances, too—than any
cloistered nun since the days of St. Bridget herself. Think you the
vigil is not as acceptable which is passed in soothing and tending a
sickly, suffering babe, as that which is spent in kneeling on a chapel
floor?"
"I should say so," said Cicely, much edified. "And yet nobody thinks
of there being any merit in a wife's or mother's care of her family,
because it just comes along in the course of life."
"That is to say, it comes in the course of God's providence," said
Jack. "The one state of life is God's appointment, and the other is
man's invention."
"I say not so much as that," said Father John hastily. "Doubtless the
cloister is His appointment for some, as the family is for others. But
come, Mistress Anne, since that is your name, be not displeased with
me, who am a man old enough to be your father, and a priest beside, but
pledge me in a cup of this sweet wine which is just fit for a maiden's
drinking."
"I thank you, but I drink no wine," said Anne coldly.
"Anne, you are scarce civil," said her father. "I pray your reverence
to pardon her ill manners."
"Oh, let her have her way," said the old priest. "Caprice is the
privilege of women, poor things, and it were hard to deprive them of
it. Young maids love to say No. Eh, daughter?" he added, with his jolly
laugh. "We all know what that means. The 'I will not' of a bishop-elect
and that of a maiden come to much the same thing in the end."
Good reason as they had for gravity, neither Jack nor his father could
forbear laughing at Anne's discomfiture.
"Come, come, never mind it, child, and do not spoil the evening by
peevishness," said her father. "Who knows how many more happy evenings
we may spend together? Father John, will your reverence take another
cup of wine?"
"No more, no more," replied the old man. "I am no toss-pot, my good
Master Lucas, though I love a social cup now and then. I would fain go
to rest, since you are so kind as to afford me a bed, for I am weary
after my ride."
"When did you and Anne go to church?" asked Jack as he returned, after
lighting the father to bed, to help Cicely put away the wine.
"Anne was not at church with me," replied Cicely, surprised. "I left
her at her prayers, in the little cabinet yonder, while I went to carry
some broth to Dame Higby."
Jack started.
Then Anne had, after all, heard the whole. What use would she make of
her knowledge? He could not guess. He went at once to his father's
room, and told him what he had heard from Cicely. Their conference
lasted long, but with no very satisfactory result, and at last it was
decided to wait till morning, and consult Sir William.
"The morrow is the feast of St. Michael's," said the baker. "They are
not likely to do anything on that day, and we shall have time to think
a little. But, Jack, if you have any of these books, I pray you hide or
destroy them this very night."
"I will do so," said Jack. "Give me your blessing and your forgiveness,
dearest father, before I leave you."
"Forgiveness is none when there has been no fault," said Master Lucas.
"From thy cradle to this time, thou hast ever been to me a dutiful and
good son. My blessing thou hast and wilt ever have, let this matter end
how it will."