ANNE.
Anne retired to her room and locked herself in, a precaution which she
might have spared, for nobody came near her except one of the maids to
bring her some food. The girl, though she did not speak, looked at Anne
with an expression of wonder and reproach, which went to her heart.
"Where is my father, Dorothy?" she asked, feeling as if she must say
something.
"Your father has gone out with the old priest who was here last night,
Mistress Anne," was the short reply.
And Dorothy, who was usually disposed for a gossip at the smallest
encouragement, retired and shut the door without another word.
Wicked and base as was the action she had committed, in itself, Anne
was very much to be pitied. Her mind had for weeks been utterly
unsettled.
As Jack had said, she was, in her heart, almost entirely convinced that
her brother was right, and that she was wrong. In spite of herself, as
it were, she could not help recalling all that she had heard and read
with Agnes Harland, which was a great deal more than she had told Jack.
In spite of herself, when she was listening to the harangues of the
preaching friars against heresy, her mind would persist in bringing up
and arranging arguments on the other side. When she repeated, as she
did daily, her long litany of invocations to the saints and the Virgin
Mary, something kept constantly telling her that it was a useless
labor, and making such suggestions as these:
"How do you know that these saints can hear you? They were, and are,
but finite beings like yourself, and cannot possibly be present in all
places and at all times at once."
These were but a few of the distractions which beset her night and day,
destroying her peace of mind, humbling her pride, and undermining her
faith in those things wherein she had made her boast.
But Anne would not listen. She said to herself that they were but
temptations of the enemy, such as had beset all eminent saints, and
were to be banished by the proper means. So she fasted and scourged
herself, and lay on the bare floor, and repeated ten times more prayers
than ever. She had been fed upon "Lives of the Saints" from the time
she could read, and for years, her cherished ambition had been to
become a saint, on the model of Elizabeth of Hungary, or St. Bridget:
to be looked up to as a pattern of holiness and austerity; to found a
new order of nuns, more self-denying even than the "poor Clares," more
contemplative than the Carmelites; to rule them while she lived, to be
made a saint, and have miracles worked at her grave, when she was dead
and buried.
Father Barnaby had cultivated these notions, seeing in the girl
material which might encouraged her to believe made useful, and had
believe that in the course of a few years she might be placed at
the head of a sisterhood of her own founding. Anne had plenty of
imagination, and hundreds of times she had gone over the whole matter
in her own mind, arranging the rules and services of her house, and the
very dress of the sisters. She fancied herself like St. Hilda, giving
counsel and advice to abbots and priests, even to bishops and heads of
the Church; as helping to stay the tide of heresy by her prayers and
writings; as educating girls to perpetuate the doctrines and ways of
her new order.
And was all this to be given up? Was she to abandon all her cherished
ambitions and be content with the life of a daughter at home or a
mere commonplace mother of a family? Or, still worse, was she to run
the risk of open shame and disgrace and punishment, of being despised
and held up as a warning, instead of an example, by those over whom
she had hoped and expected to rule? Was she to confess that all her
righteousness, her prayers and penances and sufferings, were worse than
worthless in God's sight, and receive the gift of salvation as a free,
wholly undeserved alms? Was her only title to heaven to consist in the
fact, not that she was a saint, but a sinner? It could not be true—it
should not be true! It was a work of the devil tempting her to abandon
her vocation and all the great things she had planned.
And then came the thought—was it not her own fault after all? Had she
not by weakly yielding to family affection—those fleshly ties from
which she had been told again and again she must tear herself loose—had
she not given the Tempter a handle against her? Ought she not to do
all in her power to prevent the spread of heresy, and had she not, by
yielding to her regard for her only brother, and concealing his fault,
made herself a partaker therein? Would not her peace of mind return,
if she were once to make the sacrifice? Would not that sacrifice be
an additional and most precious jewel in the crown of martyrdom she
coveted?
Yes, it must be so, and the sacrifice must be made. Once done, the deed
could never be recalled. She would be held up as a bright example of
piety, and she should again find her former peace, and satisfaction in
prayer and penance and saintly reveries, and the doubts which disturbed
her would depart forever.
Then there was Sister Barbara—Sister Barbara whose coming she had
expected and prepared for, with so much pleasure, who had been one of
the elders of the order, and a pattern of sanctity. There had long
existed not even the semblance of confidence between them, but Anne had
no doubt she was as bad as Jack, every whit. She had seen a book in her
hands which was no prayer-book—she was sure of that—and she was always
reading it while her "Hours" and her rosary lay neglected day after
day. Sister Barbara and Jack were always talking quietly together and
exchanging smiles and glances. Besides, did she not go to hear Father
William preach even after he had refused to celebrate masses for the
dead, and declared his opinion that it was lawful for priests to marry
if they saw fit?
These and other indications convinced Anne that Sister Barbara was as
bad as Jack—nay, worse, for was she not a nun, and had she not been a
person in authority? Then there was her school! Was she to be allowed
to pervert the children under her charge?
The morning that Sister Barbara went away, Anne went to the Priory
church, determined, as she said, to decide the matter one way or
the other before she came home. The first person she met was Father
Barnaby. In her excited state of mind, this encounter seemed a
supernatural sign sent for the confirmation of her wavering resolution,
and she did not rest till she had told him all. She could not indeed
tell the place where Sister Barbara had taken refuge, for she did not
know it, but she told all she did know about the matter.
Father Barnaby was well pleased. He had come down, as Father John said,
armed with a special commission for the searching out and destruction
of heretical books and the suppression of heresy, and he was determined
to carry through his work with an unsparing hand. It was a good
omen to be thus met at the beginning, and served in some degree to
counterbalance the chagrin he had felt at discovering that his chief
prey had escaped him.
Father William had set out only the day before his return, on a visit
to London, and there was too much reason to fear that by the connivance
of friends, he might escape to Germany. But here was a notable prey to
be taken at once, and he was not the man to let the grass grow under
his feet. He commended Anne for her faithfulness, though he gave her
less praise and paid less attention to the rest of her confession than
she thought she deserved. However, he told her she had taken the best
means to get rid of her trouble of mind, and confirmed her in the
idea that it had all been owing to her having wickedly concealed her
brother's errors. A watch was at once set upon Jack's movements, and he
was apprehended, as we have seen.
Anne returned to her home with a strange feeling of exultation. She
had done the deed. She had sacrificed what was nearest to her, and
shown plainly that nothing was so dear to her as the cause of the
Church and true religion. Surely, surely all must now be right with
her. There would be an end forever of these haunting doubts, these
wild temptations to go to Jack, own herself convinced, and beg for
instruction. This feeling lasted her all day and till she saw her
brother finally carried away to a fate which she knew too well, and
heard her father's voice commanding her to her chamber. Thus she went
to her room.
Lo! Her enemy was there awaiting her, armed with tenfold power.
She had done the deed. She had betrayed her brother to shame and death,
she had incurred her father's hatred and curse, which was withheld
only for the sake of his son; and all for what? Was she any nearer to
the quiet of mind she had so ardently desired? She did not find it so.
Instead thereof, her doubts returned with tenfold power. They were no
longer doubts, they were certainties—demonstrated truths. She did not
reason upon them; she could not.
She felt, rather than knew, that it was Jack who was the martyr for
the truth, and she was the Judas who had betrayed him. She had denied
her Lord, belied her own conscience, and sacrificed her family to a
monstrous lie. What would she not have given to recall the events of
the last few hours? But it was too late—forever too late; and the
thought filled her with inexpressible anguish and despair.
Anne rose at last from the floor, where she had thrown herself at the
foot of the crucifix, and in the sheer restlessness of misery wandered
into Jack's room. There were all his treasures; his strings of birds'
eggs, his shells and other foreign curiosities derived from traders
and sailors, his Latin books and exercises. The blackbird and squirrel
he had brought from the country were hopping about their cages, and
seemed to wonder why they were neglected. Anne took down the cages and
ministered to the wants of the occupants. The action, simple as it was,
seemed to bring her some relief, and as the blackbird tuned up its
mellow whistle, she leaned her head beside the cage, and wept long and
bitterly.
The little cupboard where Jack had hidden his precious books stood
open. Anne bent down, and looking into it she saw something in a far
dark corner, for the recess extended deep into the wall beside the
chimney. She drew it out, and looked at it. It was a small copy of
the New Testament. Arthur had received from London a number of these
new books, and had given one to Jack. Jack had put it away with the
rest, but it had been overlooked by the searchers in their haste and
triumph at finding their great prize. Anne stood looking at it for a
few minutes, and then returning to her room and once more fastening her
door, she sat herself down to read, nor did she move from her place
till it was too dark for her to see.
At dark, Cicely herself brought her a light.
"Where is my father?" Anne ventured to ask.
"He is below, poor dear man!" returned Cicely sobbing. "He has been to
the prison to see—" here her voice was lost in tears. "Your brother is
better lodged than we had hoped," she continued presently, "along with
old Thomas Sprat and some of the townspeople, and we are permitted to
send him bedding and refreshment. Your father says you are to use your
pleasure as to staying in your room or coming down to supper. He does
not desire to make a prisoner of you!" added Cicely, with emphasis.
"Return my thanks to my father," said Anne sorrowfully but calmly, "and
say to him that, with his good leave, I will remain here. Tell him I
thank him for his goodness, and if he will but add this much, to pray
for me, I can ask nothing more."
Cicely repeated the message, adding that she hoped Anne was not going
out of her mind, or meditating anything desperate, for she looked as if
she had seen a ghost.