The Project Gutenberg eBook of The hidden treasure
Title: The hidden treasure
or, Found at last
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: March 4, 2024 [eBook #73099]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1891
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
He looked hastily and angrily round. There stood Anne,
with a lamp in her hand. Frontispiece.
The Hidden Treasure
Or
Found at Last
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "THE FOSTER-SISTERS," "WINIFRED," ETC.
NEW EDITION
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
VIII. JACK GOES HOME FOR A VISIT
XIII. "THEY THAT SOW IN TEARS."
THE HIDDEN TREASURE
CHAPTER I.
THE GOLD MEDAL.
It was growing toward evening on a mild day of early spring in the year 1527. The sun, which had been hidden all day, peeped out of a rent in the curtain of gray cloud, and did his best to make beautiful the town of Bridgewater, by gilding the tops of the houses and the tall tower of the beautiful church of St. Mary, lighting up the boats and vessels in the river, and sending his rays on all sorts of frolicsome errands through the streets and alleys of the sober old town.
In pursuance of these errands, a set of bright beams found out and entered the shop of John Lucas, the well-known master baker in Bridge Street, and finding therein abundance of well-scoured boards, bright earthenware and burnished pewter, did so disport themselves, that at last they attracted the attention of Master Lucas himself, who was knitting his brows over certain crabbed-looking accounts, apparently trying to extract some meaning from them, by the help of a huge pair of horn spectacles. The moment Master Lucas raised his head, the aforesaid frolicsome beams at once forsook, as it seemed, all their former playthings, to dance about his portly person, light up his gray hair, and make little mimic suns in his eyes and glasses. And certainly they might have gone a long way, and have seen nothing pleasanter than the old man's face.
"Heyday!" he exclaimed. "Here is the sun at last, to be sure, and a welcome sight after all the cloudy days we have had of late. Well, well! The sun always shines at last, that is one comfort. Eh, Mary Brent?" he added, addressing himself to a pale and poorly clad woman who had just entered the shop.
The poor woman shook her head sadly. "I suppose it does, somewhere," said she, "but little of it comes my way of late years."
"And that is true," said the baker kindly. "You have had your troubles and trials these many years; but your children will soon be growing up to help you, that is one comfort; and nobody ever had an ill word for you, that's another. You will be wanting one of my new brown loaves now. Here, Simon, a brown loaf for Dame Brent."
"Not so, Master Lucas," replied Mary Brent. "You are very good, but I dare not take the loaf. I owe you more now than I shall ever be able to pay—"
"Nonsense, woman!" interrupted the baker. "The children must eat."
"And I came to ask you if you would just wait on me a little longer. I hope my son will be home and bring me some money next month; he is a dutiful lad for all they say of him; and till then we must rub on somehow."
"Look here, dame!" said the baker, in a somewhat angry tone. "Have I ever asked you for my money?"
"No, Master Lucas, you have been very forbearing, but—"
"But me no buts!" interrupted Master Lucas. "Take the loaf and go your way, woman, unless you will stop to supper with us; and as for the money, when I want it, I will ask for it."
"I thank you with all my heart," said the woman, evidently relieved from some great anxiety. "My poor children must needs have gone supperless to bed, but for your bounty."
"How then?" demanded the baker. "Did you not get your share of the dole at the convent gate this morning? I saw old Margery carrying home a fine beef-bone, and surely you have as good a right as she—the old mumping beggar that she is!"
"Nay," replied poor Mary, smiling sadly. "I get nothing now from the convent, less or more. The fathers were so angry with poor Davy for preferring rather to go to sea than to become a lay brother, that they say they will do nothing for me. And that is not the worst either. They say my husband was a believer in the new doctrines, and accuse me of the same, though there is no one in Bridgewater who keeps her church more closely than I. New doctrines or not, he was a good husband to me, and never let me want, or lost a day's work through drink or idleness."
"And that is more than many of them can say," returned the baker. "Out on them one and all for a set of lazy crows, preying on other folks' substance!"
"Well, I am surprised to hear you say as much, Master Lucas. I had thought you were ever a favorer of the religious houses. Mistress Cicely told me that your Anne was to enter the convent where she had her schooling, and that she was a wonder for her gravity, her penances, and piety; and also that your son Jacky was likely to follow the same course."
Master Lucas shook his head. "It is by no good will of mine, dame, that Anne turns her thoughts towards the cloister. The girl is well enough, if she would but laugh or speak or do anything else in a natural way, and not go round like a waxen image or an animated corpse. As for Jack, poor fellow, I much fear he will not be long for this world in any vocation. Look at him now coming along the street, so pale and spiritless, never looking above or around him. When I was of his age, I should have raced all the way, and come in as hungry as a wolf. I much fear the lad will die in a waste like his mother before him."
"Why now, Jack, what ails thee?" he continued, as a delicate, pale boy of fifteen came slowly into the shop and dropped his strap-load of books on the counter. "Art thou ill, or have the examinations gone so much against thee? Fie, never take it to heart, lad! Better luck another time. One failure is no such great matter to break one's heart about. Many a man goes well enough through the world who never learned to know great A from little B."
"But I have not failed, dear father," said John, smiling, and, leaning on his father's broad shoulder, he drew from his breast a gold medal, and held it up before him. "See, I have gained the prize!"
"Gained the prize!" exclaimed the baker, starting. "Not the gold medal, and over the heads of all thy fellows! That can never be, surely!"
"But it is even so," replied Jack. "See, here it is. Sir William says in another year I shall be able to go to college."
"Bless the boy! And have you won the prize, and come home to tell of it with such a step as that?"
"I am so tired!" said Jack wearily. "I can think of nothing but resting just now. It seemed ten miles from the schoolhouse to the head of our street."
"And you are as pale as new-bolted flour," said his father. "Sit you down in my great chair. Here, Cicely—Anne—where are you? Bring the lad a glass of ale, Cicely—or, stay, wine be better. A glass of wine, Cicely; and Cicely, bring the smallest of the pies was baked this morning. Here, Anne, my girl, do you see what has happened? Your brother has won the gold medal."
Anne came slowly forward from the back room, where she had been sitting, busily engaged in needle work. She was a tall, fair girl, with regular features, blue eyes, and a face which would have been both handsome and engaging but for its formal, repressed, and self-conscious expression. She looked like one who would never make a natural or spontaneous movement, or speak a word without thinking over all its possible consequences at least twice beforehand. She presented the greatest possible contrast to her jolly, cheerful father, as well as to her maiden cousin Cicely, who now came bustling in, carrying a goodly pasty, which, if it were the smaller of two or three, spoke well for the size of Master Lucas' oven. She was thin and wrinkled as a last year's russet apple, but her somewhat hard features were lighted up with good-humored smiles, and the roses of her youth were well dried into her cheeks.
"Lackaday!" she exclaimed, in a clear, high-pitched voice. "And so our lad has gained the prize. Lady! But who would have thought it, and he so mum and quiet about it all the time! Well, well! Would his dear mother had lived to see the day! But doubtless it is better as it is. What shall I do with the pasty, Master Lucas?"
"Pop it in Mary Brent's basket, to be sure," replied the baker. "What better place could there be? Nay, dame, you must needs take it, or you and I shall fall out. Yourself and the young ones must keep Jack's feast—eh, my lad?"
Mary Brent said no more in opposition, but withdrew with a far brighter face than she came in.
"And that's just like you, Master Lucas, and a good deed too," said Cicely. "Poor woman, I fear she often has short commons at home these days."
"Well, I must say, I wonder my father should give so largely to her—a woman whose husband died without the sacrament, and suspected strongly of heresy," said Anne.
"And suppose her husband was a heretic, is that any reason his widow should starve?" demanded her father with some heat. "Or is there any reason why I should not do what I will with mine own, or why my own daughter should take me to task in the open shop?"
Anne colored deeply. "I meant no offence, father, only—"
"Only thou art a peevish wench, and I am a fool to be ruffled by thee," said the baker, recovering his good humor. "Come, look at Jack's medal."
Anne regarded the medal with a mournful expression, not as if she were at all interested in it, but as obeying a command of her father's. "Tis a great honor, no doubt," said she, "but the honors of this world are hardly worth striving after."
"By'r Lady! But they are," said her father. "Another such victory makes Jack an Oxford scholar, and that is worth striving after in more ways than one. But thou art ever a wet blanket," he muttered between his teeth, "taking no pleasure thyself, and doing all thou canst to damp that of other people. Come, son, drink your wine and eat this manchet therewith, to stay your appetite till supper. And do you, Cicely, provide us with right good cheer this night, and send the 'prentice boy to bid my old crony, Master Luttrell, and his wife, to sup with us. They will be glad to hear of Jack's good fortune—eh, my lad? But you look worse and worse. Cicely, bring some of the cordial I got from Captain Davis."
"I should like to go to bed, father, if you please," interrupted Jack, trying to rouse himself. "My head is so heavy and drowsy, I shall be no good company for anybody. I dare say I shall feel better after a good night's rest."
"To be sure, dear lad. Sleep is everything—worth all the doctors in the world. Anne, get your brother's room ready, and make his bed comfortably. Yes, go to bed, my son, and sleep well, with thy father's blessing upon thee," added Master Lucas, laying his broad hand on the boy's head, while an expression of gentle benignity made his honest, open face still more attractive. "This I will say for thee, that from the day of thy birth till now thou hast never wittingly grieved thy father's heart, or given him a moment's uneasiness."
Jack took his father's hand in his own thin fingers and kissed it. "I should be a wretch indeed, to grieve you, father. You have been father and mother both to me ever since my mother died. I only wish I could do more for you in return."
"Tut, tut, lad! What could any one expect of you more than you have done? Only get well and strong, and never fear but you will do enough. Anne, why do you not see to the lad's chamber, instead of standing there like an image of stone?"
"It is nearly time for evensong, father," replied Anne. "Betty can make Jack's bed as well as I."
"Tell me not of evensong, girl! It is quite time you should learn that your father's word is not to be disputed. Go and do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you. There, I meant not to be over-sharp, Anne, but you must learn, my maid, that so long as you are under your father's roof, his word is your law."
"Dear father, do not be sharp with poor Anne," pleaded Jack, when his sister had left the room. "She means no harm, poor girl, only they have taught her at the convent to think nothing is of any account in comparison with church observances; and they are right, for aught I know, if it is as the priests tell us."
"It was an evil day when I let her go to the convent at all," said the baker. "She has never been the same joyous girl since. And now, I warrant, you too will be thinking of the church—mayhap of the cloister—and I shall be left alone, a childless old man."
"Never, never, dear father!" exclaimed Jack, starting up and speaking with an energy which brought a flush to his pale cheeks. "Never will I leave you for the sake of becoming a lazy drone, like the monks yonder, or a proud priest like their prior, who rides abroad in such state upon his mule, and grinds the faces of poor men, and robs widows and orphans as he does. I would rather be a shepherd on the hillside all day like my old uncle Thomas, or a sailor like Davy Brent, or a miner underground, than live such a life!"
"Well, well, boy, I am glad on't with all my heart, but you need not speak so loud or put yourself in such a heat about it. The priests are not all alike neither. Never was a better man than our Sir William."
"That is so, father; and yet I would not be in his shoes. I hear the others are complaining that he preaches too much, and that he sets a bad example in not exacting all his dues. They say he would not take the last dues from Prudence Wither when her husband died, though she offered it. 'Nay, dame,' he said, 'it were more fitting I should give to you than you to me.' And he will take no christening gifts or marriage fees, because he says the sacraments should be free to all."
"'Tis a wonder if they do not accuse him of heresy before all is done!" muttered the baker.
"Well, here comes cousin Cicely to tell us that your room is ready, and I dare say she has brewed a fine posset for you—eh, old girl?"
"That have I, that have I, John Lucas!" replied the cheery old woman. "And made up his bed with clean well-lavendered sheets to boot. So come along, Jacky, if you will not sit up to supper—and truly your eyes are rarely heavy."
"You will spoil me among you," said Jack, gratefully. "I am not worth so much care. Well, good-night, dear father. I dare say I shall be well enough in the morning."
CHAPTER II.
THE SHEPHERD.
Jack's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. For many days, he tossed restlessly on his bed, or crept from it only to recline in the great armchair which had been placed in his room.
In vain did Cicely prepare her most tempting delicacies, and brew her choicest sleeping draughts—he could neither eat nor sleep. In vain did Anne, more awake to sublunary matters than she had been for a long time, try to divert him with legends of saints. He could not care for them any more than for the news of the school and the town which his playmates brought him.
He grew thinner and weaker day by day. The physician talked learnedly of degeneration of the animal spirits, and so on, but confessed that he could do no good. He feared there was a hereditary tendency to consumption, which nothing would counteract, and being a wise and humane man, he forbore to torment his patient with useless drugs.
One day, Sir William Leavett, the parish priest, came in to see him. Jack had been rather better for a day or two, and had managed, with his father's help, to creep down into the sunny shop, where he sat or rather reclined in his father's armchair, pleased with the change from his dull chamber and languidly amused by the bustle in the street and the people coming and going; for it was a market-day, and Bridge Street was unusually thronged.
"Why, this is well, my son," said the priest, kindly. "I am glad to see you down-stairs. Nay, sit still," he added, as Jack would have risen from his seat. "I will take the will for the deed."
So saying, he drew up a stool and sat down by the side of the sick boy. He was a kindly-looking middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair, and a face full of benevolence, but sad and somewhat puzzled in its expression. He took Jack's hand, felt its pulse, and questioned him as to his feelings.
"You have no pain, you say?"
"No father, at least very little," replied Jack. "I seem to be tired all the time. If I could only be rested, I should feel well."
"You are overwrought, my son. You worked too hard for the medal, I fear."
"I did not know how hard I was working, not till afterwards," said Jack. "No one was more surprised at my getting it than I was. I never thought it possible."
"So much the better, so much the better, my son!" said the priest. "You worked for the learning, which was its own reward, and which will last you, it may be, when this same bit of gold is rust and dust."
"Shall we then carry our learning with us into other world?" asked Jack, abruptly.
The priest smiled. "Who can tell that, my on? Yet it may be so. That which we truly earn becomes, as it were, amalgamated with our minds and a part of them, even as the food we eat becomes a part of our bodies. Have you not found it so?"
"Indeed I have, father," said Jack. "I cannot forget, if I would."
"Well, then, since our minds and souls are immortal, why should not this same learning, which has become a part of them, be immortal too? But these are deep themes, far beyond the reach of us mortals. This much I think we may rest assured of, that we shall forget nothing which it is profitable for us to remember. Master Lucas, good-day to you," as the baker entered the shop. "I am glad to see our young scholar better and able to be down-stairs."
"He is not much to boast of yet, poor child!" replied Master Lucas sadly. "I would give all his school learning to see his cheeks as round and rosy as yonder shepherd lad's. Nothing can make up for the want of health."
"Ay, ay!" said the priest musingly, looking over Jack's head into the street. "And speaking of shepherds, Master Lucas, why do you not send this lad out into the fields to try what country air and country fare can do for him? They work wonders sometimes. Has he no relations or friends to whose care you could commit him for the summer?"
"I have been thinking of that same thing, Sir William," replied the baker; "but where to send him I know not, unless it be to his mother's uncle, old Tommy Sprat at Holford. He is a good man, though plain and somewhat austere perhaps in his manners, and wonderful sparing of his words in general, as I think indeed shepherds are apt to be."
"Ay, their occupation, by its silence and solitariness, doth naturally dispose them, if they be at all men of parts or understanding, to contemplation and musing. Hence, perhaps, the favor shown them of old in making known to shepherds the first news of the Birth at Bethlehem. David, too, the great king and sweet singer of Israel, was a shepherd."
"Was he really?" asked Jack, much interested, "that King David who made the Psalms?"
The priest assented.
"And was he the same you told us of in school one day, the young lad who killed with his sling and stone the fierce giant who defied the king's armies so long?"
"Even so, my son," answered the priest, smiling at the boy's eager interest. "King David was for many years a shepherd lad, and wandered over the hills and plains with his father's flocks and herds, even that same David who wrote:"
"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"
"Our Lord, too, is called the shepherd of His people."
"'I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for
the sheep.'"
"'My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me, and none is able
to pluck them out of my hand.'"
"'He shall feed flock like a shepherd, He shall carry the lambs
in His bosom.'"
The priest seemed to have forgotten where he was, as he repeated these words, and then became silent, looking out of the window with a rapt and joyful expression, as if he saw more than met the eyes of others.
Jack and his father exchanged awe-struck glances, but did not venture to speak.
It was whispered among his flock, that the pure and saintly life of William Leavett had not been unrewarded even in this world, that he had more than once been favored with visions of heavenly things, and that angels had visited his dreams.
"I crave your pardon, Master Lucas. I fear I am unmannerly," said the priest, at last, coming out of his abstraction, with a sweet smile. "I am somewhat absent-minded, you know, and I think that the infirmity increases upon me with years. My advice, Master Lucas, if I may venture to give it unasked, is, that you send our scholar here, to keep sheep with this uncle of his in the country, and see if the June air which blows over the hills will not bring the color to his cheek and the light to his eyes."
"I believe your reverence is right, and I will set about the matter this very day," said Master Lucas. "I dare say Uncle Thomas will be in town, as it is a fair day, and very likely he may look in upon us. And in good time, here he comes!" he added, as a rustic-looking man presented himself at the shop door. "Come in, come in, uncle! The sight of you is good for sore eyes, as the saying goes. Craving your reverence's pardon," he added, in a lower voice, "if you would but stop and sup with us, the old man is good company, and Cicely has a fine pair of fowls."
"I would gladly do so," replied the priest, smiling and inclining his head in answer to the shepherd's greeting; "but I have promised to go and see Mary Brent, and only looked in on my way thither. The poor woman has had a bad fall, and I fear it may be a long time before she walks again."
"Poor soul! Poor dear soul! And she with all those children. Cicely must go see her, and I will send the lad down with bread and meat for their suppers. I trust your reverence to let me know if aught else is wanted. You know I esteem it a favor when you call on me."
"Ay, truly, 'tis a favor I do not spare you, Master Lucas," and bestowing his blessing upon the company, he left the shop.
"There is a priest now, worth bowing to!" said the baker. "A true shepherd, and no hireling fleecing the poor sheep to the very bones, ay, eating their flesh and drinking their blood to supply his own greed and luxury. If there were more like him, we should not hear such complaints of the decay of religion, and the spread of heresy. No man was ever the worse for him, nor woman either, and he hath ever a kind word and a blessing for the poorest and youngest, as well as for the rich and great."
"Yet I hear he is no favorite with his brethren," said Jack.
"Ay, that is because they are rebuked by his poverty and his industry. But come in, come in, Uncle Thomas; I have matters of importance about which to consult you, after supper, that is. We will not talk of business, fasting. Sit you down and talk with Jack, while I draw the ale and see to the mulling of the wine."
The shepherd was an old man, somewhat bent with years and rheumatism, but still tall and stately, with white hair and beard, clear, somewhat dreamy blue eyes, and a firm and kindly mouth.
Jack felt attracted toward him directly, and was delighted to hear him consent at once to the proposed arrangement.
"My house is but a plain place, and my fare coarse and homely compared to yours, Master Lucas; but I can give the lad good beef, bread and milk, and mayhap the change itself will be well for him. My housekeeper, Margery, though somewhat of the deafest, is yet clean and a good cook, and I will care for Jack as if he were my own. More I cannot say."
"And more need not be said," answered the baker heartily. "I know you well, Thomas Sprat, for an honest, godly, and kind-hearted man, and I shall feel as easy about my lad as if he were in his own chamber. So then we will consider the matter settled, eh, Jack? And thou shalt learn to keep sheep, like the king the good priest was telling us of, he that wrote the Psalms—what a head I have, to be sure!"
"King David," said Jack. "But there will be no giants to fight at Holford, I am afraid."
"There are giants to fight everywhere, dear lad," said the shepherd, "yes, and dwarfs, too, worse than the giants."
"Dwarfs and giants in Holford! What does the man mean?" said the baker. "Oh, I see—this will be some of your parables!" he added, with a jolly laugh. "I am but a plain man, and don't understand such matters. You and Jack will suit exactly, I dare say. Well, then, it is settled, and as soon as the lad is able to ride so far I will bring him out to you."
"There is one thing for which I should like to be a priest," said Jack the next day.
He was lying at length on the settle in the sitting-room, and Anne sat sewing at the window.
"Only one?" said Anne.
"Only one that I know of now. I should like to be a priest, that I might read the Bible. Did you ever see a Bible in the convent, Anne?"
"No, never," replied his sister. "I dare say there might be one in the library, for they had great store of books both written and printed; but no one ever meddled with them, except that the librarian used to take them out and dust and air them once or twice a year."
"But what did you do?" asked Jack. "You must have had a great plenty of time."
"Not so much as you think. There were the daily services, and the hours of silence, and the embroidery, and the making of sweetmeats and comfits for sale and for feast-days, and other things besides. There was very little time for reading."
"But you had reading at meals," persisted Jack. "What did they read to you?"
"Homilies, and lives of the saints, and such like," replied Anne.
"And were not some of those taken from the Bible?"
"How should I know, when, as I told you, I never saw a Bible?" asked Anne, in a tone of some little irritation. "The Bible is not for common folks and laymen like you and me. Father Barnabas said it was by reading the Bible in the vulgar tongue that the rebellion was got up long ago in the days of Lord Cobham and the Lollards."
"That is curious, though," said Jack, meditatively.
"What is curious?"
"That reading the Bible should make men rebels and traitors. The priests say—at least Father William says—that the Bible is the Word of God to men, given them for their salvation; and I cannot see how reading and knowing the word of God should make men wicked."
"I'll tell you what, Jack, you are getting into a bad way, and meddling with things which don't concern you," said Anne, laying down her work. "Sister Alice asked some such questions of one of the elder nuns, and a fine penance she got for it. She had to kneel on the stone floor of the church all one winter's night."
"That must have done a great deal toward convincing her of her errors," said Jack, dryly; "though I should say it was more likely to give her the rheumatism."
"She had no business to need convincing," replied Anne; "that was what Father Barnabas said. Her duty was to submit to her spiritual superiors. I suppose the Bible is like medicine. Medicine is good to take when the doctor gives it to us, but if we should go to taking drugs at our own fancy, without knowing their qualities and uses, we should soon poison ourselves."
Anne delivered this illustration, which, indeed, was part of one of Father Barnabas' sermons, with a tone of authority which silenced Jack for a time. But he was not one quickly to let drop an idea which had taken firm hold of his mind, and later in the day he began again, upon another branch of the same great subject, which was indeed occupying many more minds than that of the baker's lad.
"Anne, did not somebody say that Mary Brent's husband was infected with the new doctrines?"
"Yes," said Anne. "So much the worse for him!"
"Why?" asked Jack.
"Because he died a wretched heretic without the sacraments, and was buried like a dog—as he deserved," replied Anne, bitterly. "Well for him that he fared no worse, as he would have done had Father Barnabas been the parish priest instead of Sir William Leavett."
"But Mary says her husband was a kind husband and a good man, and never let her want for anything," persisted Jack. "I wonder where he learned these new doctrines?"
"Among the sailors and merchants in Germany and the Low Countries, as I have heard," said Anne. "From the monster Luther himself, for ought I know."
"Did Luther believe in allowing people to read the Bible?" asked Jack.
Anne put down her work, and coming to the side of Jack's bed, she kneeled down and put her arm round him.
"Dear Jack, what has got into you?" she asked. "Who has been putting these notions into your head?"
"What notions?" asked Jack.
"These notions about reading the Bible, and this curiosity about heretics and about the new doctrines. Oh, brother dear, don't meddle with poison! Don't touch pitch lest you be defiled! Think of your immortal soul—of your friends and your father. Be warned in time—" Anne laid down her head on the bed, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
"Dear Anne, don't cry so!" said Jack, wondering at his sister's emotion. "What have I done to make you so unhappy? I have no notion of running after the new doctrines, and even if I did wish to read the Scriptures, why should that trouble you?"
"Because—because I know what comes of it!" said Anne, lifting her colorless face, and speaking in a low tone. "Jack, I had a friend in the convent—the dearest friend I ever had. She was one of the young sisters, and taught me to embroider and to write, and though she was of good family, and I but a baker's daughter, she took a liking for me, and I loved her with my whole heart."
"Well!" said Jack, breathlessly, as Anne paused, for there was something in his sister's tone which awed him.
"She went home for a few weeks," continued Anne. "When she came back she brought with her a certain book. It professed to be part of the Holy Scripture—Heaven knows what it was—but Agnes read in it every spare moment. She would have had me study the book with her, and I did read a few chapters. Then I grew frightened and would read no more, and I begged Agnes to burn the book, but she would not—ah, woe is me! She would not."
"Well!" said Jack again, as Anne made another pause.
"The poison entered into her soul," continued Anne, speaking in a still lower tone, and shivering as with horror. "She became infected, and she spoke profane and slighting words of the saints, and of our Lady herself, even declaring that there was no warrant in Scripture for asking her intercession. More she spoke that I cannot repeat—that I dare not think of. Oh, would that she had never spoken to me of the matter! Would it had not been my lot—"
"Anne, you did not betray her!" cried Jack indignantly. "You did not betray your friend?"
"What could I do?" murmured Anne, her face once more hidden. "I must needs go to confession, and answer the questions which were asked of me. I was her confidant, and the priest knew that, and questioned me shrewdly. I was obliged to tell, and—oh, woe is me! Woe is me! Why was I ever born? She was called before the prioress and the priest, all the sisters standing by, and there she avowed her heresy, and spoke out boldly. She was a modest, shamefaced girl in general, but she was fearless enough then. Never, never shall I forget her face and her voice. They dragged her away at last, and as she was going, I fell at her feet—I could not help it—and implored her forgiveness."
"She looked down upon me with her sweet eyes full of tears. 'I forgive you, Anne, if there is aught to forgive,' said she. 'You could not help yourself, I suppose. These are the days spoken of by our Lord, when the brother shall betray the brother to death; but whosoever shall endure to the end shall be saved. Pray for me, dear Anne, as I shall for thee.'"
"Then they drew me away with bitter words of reproach, and I knew no more till I found myself in my cell, with kind old Mother Paula watching over me."
"And what became of Agnes?" asked Jack.
Anne shivered again. "That I never knew. I did venture to ask once of Mother Paula, but she only crossed herself and shook her head. She may yet be alive in some lonely cell, or her bones may be mouldering in the vault below the convent. I dare not ask or think."
"What did they say to you?" asked Jack.
"Father Barnabas was very hard upon me, and gave me many severe penances. I know not what might have been done, had the prioress not stood my friend. But she was a tender-hearted lady; more than that, she was a daughter of my lord, and a person of weight and authority, so she had her own way. She sent me home at last for a change, as she said, that I might recover my health and see somewhat of the world before taking the veil."
"Now, Jack, you know what nobody else knows outside the convent wall. You know why my life is one long prayer and penance. I would I could make it more so than it is. I would have gone a pilgrimage on foot—ay, on my knees to the Holy City, had not my father forbidden, if so might win forgiveness for myself and my friend. I would sleep in my grave every night—I do lie on ashes upon hard boards—I would perform the vilest offices for the poor or the sick; but when think of what Father Barnabas said—that he feared lest the lowest depths of purgatory should be too good for such as she—" Again Anne bowed her head and wept bitterly.
Jack would have given the world to comfort his sister, but he knew not what to say. He saw no comfort himself. He had been brought up to think heresy the worst of sins, beyond even the purifying fires of purgatory. Yet as he heard Anne's tale, and thought of the fair Agnes Harland betrayed by her friend, however innocently, perhaps to a horrible death, perhaps to a living grave worse than any death. As he saw, and understood at a glance, the whole explanation of Anne's conduct—her prayers and tears, and the penances which were wearing out her young life—his whole heart and mind rose in furious rebellion against the faith in which he had grown up. His soul demanded freedom from this intolerable yoke, while at the same time he saw no way of escape.
He turned, and groaned in anguish.
"I have done wrong to tell you this story," said Anne, recalled to some degree of calmness by her brother's agitation. "I have worried and excited you; but oh, dear Jack, if you will only take warning!"
"I am not likely to need the warning," said Jack, with a faint smile, "since I know not how or where I am like to get a sight of the Bible; unless, indeed, I become a priest, and that," said Jack, with sudden vehemence, "I will never do. I will rather keep sheep all my days, or go for a ship's boy, like Davy Brent."
"Hush!" said Anne, imperatively but yet kindly. "You must be quiet, dear Jack, or you will be worse, and my father will blame me. I am glad, in one way, to have told you this tale. I seem to have relieved my mind of a little of its intolerable load. But, dear brother, you must never breathe a word of what I have said, or you will bring me into terrible trouble."
"I never will—never," replied Jack, throwing his arms round his sister's neck and kissing her. "I am glad you have told me this tale, sad and horrible as it is, because it makes me understand many things which have troubled me and puzzled me. But oh! Anne, it does seem to me as if there must be some other way—some way of escape."
Anne held up her hand to check him. "Not a word of that. Let us say no more."
And, Dame Cicely coming in at the moment, Anne made her escape to her own room.
When Jack saw her again she was pale and calm, and seemed to have once more put on the icy mask of reserve which she had worn so long. But Jack had seen behind that mask, and had found out what it covered. Henceforth he was always ready to take Anne's part, to shield her from remark and blame, and to divert his father's attention when the old man, jovial spirit was vexed with his daughter's asceticism, and he was ready to break out into one those windy gusts of reproof which only made matters worse between the father and child. He would gladly have questioned Anne as to what she had read in Agnes Harland's book, but the only time he ventured to approach the subject with her, she showed so much distress and horror that he determined never to allude to it again.
CHAPTER III.
THE SHEPHERD'S TALE.
"Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "did you ever see a Bible?"
Jack Lucas was lying on the short, elastic grass on the side of Holford Hill, helping his great-uncle, Thomas Sprat, to watch the large flocks of Sir John Brydges, the greatest man in these parts. Four or five weeks of country air and country faire had done much to restore the roses to his cheeks and the strength to his muscles. He began once more to feel that life was worth having for the mere sake of living; to feel a keen enjoyment in climbing the steep hills, in following the sheep in their devious wanderings over the unenclosed pastures, and recalling to a sense of its duty any one of them which showed a disposition to stray too far.
The brown bread and milk, the boiled beef and greens, and ale, which deaf Margery set before him, had a flavor which he had not found for many months in the dainty cookery of his cousin Cicely. In those days the English peasants knew little, in ordinarily good seasons, of scarcity of food. Foreign travellers record their wonder and admiration at the "great shins of beef," the quantities of bread and animal food, consumed by the English yeomen and cottagers, and much of their superiority in battle was supposed to be owing to this circumstance.
Jack and his uncle suited each other very well. The old man was rather sparing of his words, but he was a pleased and indulgent listener to the boy's prattle, and when he did speak, it was always to the purpose. Sometimes in the evening, or when they were alone on the hillside, Jack would catechise the shepherd, and draw from him accounts of what he had seen in his younger days.
For the old man had not always been a shepherd on the hillside. He had followed his master to foreign wars, and helped to uphold the honor of England on more than one stricken field. He might have ended his days in peace and idleness in the knight's hall corner, for Sir John was a liberal and worthy man, and honored the old retainer of his father; but Thomas had no fancy for an idle life. He was hale and strong, and quite able to perform the duties of a shepherd, and he preferred living in the old cottage where his father and grandfather had lived before him.
Sir John was not one of those who insist on doing people good against their will or exactly in his own way and no other. He was content to let the old man please himself. Thus it came to pass that Thomas Sprat, had a home of his own to share with his great-nephew; and, as I have said, he made it very pleasant for the lad.
Anne's tale had produced a very different effect upon her brother's mind from what she had intended. Instead of putting an end to his curiosity and his mental questionings, she had given them a new impulse. Again and again, he went over in his mind the story of Agnes Harland. He recalled the words she had spoken, the account which Anne had given of the girl's constancy and bravery under trial, and wondered if it was anything in the words of the mysterious book which had given her so much courage, and whether that book was really a copy of the Holy Scripture.
And why should her superiors have been so angry with Agnes for reading the book, supposing it to be the Bible? Was it true that the word of God was so dangerous? Was it indeed like a poisonous drug, only to be touched by a skilful physician, and even then with caution? Or—Jack put away the thought with horror, but it returned again and again—was it true that the monks knew themselves condemned by its pages; that their pretensions to absolute authority over the mind and conscience of men had no ground or support in Holy Writ, and, therefore, they were afraid to put the book into the hands of the people? And, if this were true, how much more was true? What if Luther and the German heretics were right after all?
Jack's mind was like a seething caldron with these and similar thoughts and conjectures, and had been so, ever since he had heard the tale of Agnes Harland. He had never dared heretofore to mention the subject, and he hardly knew how he had ventured to begin upon it now. But there had already sprung up a very warm and intimate friendship between the old man of fourscore, grave, silent, and somewhat severe in his manners, and the fresh-hearted impulsive schoolboy, with his head full of the classical learning he had acquired at school, and the tales he had heard from his father and Cousin Cicely.
Deaf Margery remarked with some little jealousy, that Master Thomas said more words to Jacky in one day than he had done to her in a month; forgetting, poor woman, that Master Thomas might as well have tried to keep up a conversation with one of his own sheep.
Thomas himself was conscious of a new flavor, as it were, given to his quiet life by the advent of his young kinsman, which repaid him tenfold for any trouble he had taken in the matter.
On this particular day, Jack and his uncle were alone on the breezy side of Holford Hill, looking over a beautiful prospect of meadow, waste and woodland. The old man sat on a flat stone, leaning back against a great stunted oak tree which grew very conveniently just behind this his favorite seat, and, with his hands folded before him, seemed lost in meditation. Jack lay at full length on the thymy and springing turf, gazing up into the blue sky, and watching now the rooks, now the great sailing white clouds which passed over it. Suddenly he spoke out:
"Uncle Thomas, did you ever see a Bible?"