CHAPTER XII.

AN EXPLANATION.

Sir William Leavett caught with avidity at the proposition of Madam Barbara, as she came presently to be called, to teach a girls' school in Bridge Street. A room was found in a house belonging to Master Lucas and suitably arranged; and here did Madam Barbara set up her sceptre over her kingdom of about twenty little maids of all ages from three to twelve, to whom she taught the arts of sewing, knitting, spinning, and reading, promising to advance the best scholars as far as white seam, cut-work, and carpet-work, and possibly even to writing.

Her school soon became very popular, as well with pupils as with parents. The mothers rejoiced in the manifest improvement in the manners and appearance of their little girls and their advancement in all useful arts, and were flattered that their children should be taught by a "born lady." The children themselves learned to love their teacher and to feel themselves exceedingly comfortable under her gentle but decided sway. It was certainly true, as Master Lucas had said, that Madam Barbara had a natural talent for managing children. She knew how to combine the most absolute authority with great indulgence and kindness. She knew that the youthful human heart has many avenues of approach, and that as much might be done by praises and rewards as by reproof and punishment. She possessed the inestimable art of prevention—she knew that it was a great deal better if possible to keep children from being naughty, than to punish them afterwards. Her sway was so gentle, as compared with that of Master Crabtree over the boys, as to arouse some murmurings among the latter, that the girls should be so much better off than they were.

"Yes, Peggy may well like to go to school," said Mary Brent's boy Peter, in reply to his mother, who had been holding up his sister to him as an example. "It is a very different thing. Madam Barbara is always kind and gentle. She hardly ever punishes the girls, and when they do well she gives them cakes and comfits; and praises them beside. Master Crabtree hardly ever says a good word to a boy, no matter how much pains he may take; and if he does the least thing out of the way, whack comes the strap across his back or hand. If Peggy went to Master Crabtree, she wouldn't be in such a hurry to get to school, I can tell you."

"No, that I shouldn't," agreed little Peggy, heartily sympathizing with her brother. "I wish Peter could go to Madam Barbara, only she doesn't take boys."

"As though I would go to school with a parcel of little maids," growled Peter; but in his heart he wished so too.

Jack meantime fell very much into his old ways, helping his father with his accounts, playing with his old schoolmates, and going to Sir William Leavett for a Greek lesson twice a week; for, to his own disappointment as well as to that of Master Crabtree, his father firmly refused to let him go into school at present.

"He will lose all he has gained if he once gets back into that close room, and with Master Crabtree to drive him with whip and spur," said Master Lucas. "I am willing to have him learn what he can at home, since Sir William is so kind as to help him; but to school he shall not go for a year."

And as Master Lucas, with all his kindness and gentleness, was an absolute monarch in his family, Jack was fain to submit, especially as he found upon making the trial that he could not bear the confinement for any length of time. So he gave up the thought of going to school this year and to Oxford the next, and contented himself with what he could do at home. He was especially anxious to get on with Greek, as Master Fleming promised him a copy of Erasmus' Greek Testament as soon as he was able to read it intelligently; and with the help of Sir William Leavett, he made great progress.

Master Fleming still remained in Bridgewater at the house of his cousin, now and then making an excursion into the country, especially to the houses of Lord Harland and the knight of Holford, with whom he seemed to be on terms of great intimacy. He had been invited to the tables of most of the substantial citizens of Bridgewater; but while he was always ready for a friendly chat upon London matters, trade in general, or any other topic, he was anything but a boon companion and frowned most decidedly upon any light or loose conversation. He visited much among the poor of Father William's congregation, especially among the sailors' families down by the waterside, and gave a large present in money to the fund of the almshouses for the widows of mariners, which had been endowed by the will of a wealthy ship-owner some years before.

He was often to be found in Master Lucas' shop, sometimes under the pretext of storing his pockets with cakes and sweets for the school-children, sometimes merely to have an hour's talk with the kind genial old man; and he and Jack took long walks into the country on pleasant evenings, talking of everything in heaven and earth; Jack asking endless questions, and Master Fleming listening and answering with that patient kindness and sympathy which often produces in an intelligent young person of either sex, a sort of adoring reverence for an older companion. In short, Master Fleming won golden opinions from all sorts of people, from the prior of the convent, whom he informed as to the best way of supplying his house with almonds and figs, wax candles and fine cloth, to Mary Brent and her little children, to whom he gave cakes and toys and more substantial comforts.

Mary Brent's condition had considerably improved since we first met her in Master Lucas's shop at the beginning of this tale. She had recovered from her injury, and thanks to the long rest enforced by her sprained ankle, and to the generous diet provided by Dame Cicely, she found herself in better health than she had been since the death of her husband. She was thus enabled to take in the fine washing and ironing in which she excelled, and which was then a profitable business, owing to the great quantity of laces worn by both sexes.

Mary Brent was judged to be the neatest hand at a lace or cut-work falling band, or a lady's stiffened coif and pinners, of any one in Bridgewater; and thanks partly to Cicely's active patronage and recommendation, she found plenty to do. She was able to put in order her house, which had once been a good one, and to help pay her way by letting lodgings now and then to the better sort of sea-faring men. Peter and Peggy both went to school, and Master Lucas promised to take Peter for an apprentice so soon as he should be a little older, while Peggy was learning under Madam Barbara to do the fine sorts of needlework which would insure her a superior place whenever she should wish to go to service.

Moreover Mary had received letters and money from her son in foreign parts more than once—not a great deal, to be sure, but enough to be a help to her and (what she valued still more) to show that her Davy was not the scapegrace that his former masters would have made him out. In short, as Master Lucas had once prophesied, the sun was beginning to shine on her side of the hedge, and she could well afford to dispense with the charity which had been so grudgingly dealt out to her at the convent gate.

There was one person with whom Jack did not "get on" at all, and that was his sister Anne. Jack had always loved his sister dearly, it must be confessed on slight encouragement, for Anne's system of religious belief led her to look on all natural family affection with suspicion, as a thing savoring of "the world," and a hindrance to that ascetic sanctity to which she aspired. For a time during Jack's long and severe illness she had seemed to thaw toward him, and to be disposed to give him her confidence, especially after the conversation relating to Agnes Harland; and Jack had looked forward with affectionate impatience to seeing her again. But he found her, to his great disappointment, frozen up ten times stiffer and colder than ever.

At first he was unwilling to accept this state of things, and accused himself of jealousy and unkindness, but he soon came to see that it was no fancy of his own. Anne avoided him as much as possible: she would not sit down in the room alone with him, and seemed actually afraid of him.

Jack felt very much distressed, for aside from his strong natural affection toward his sister, his heart was full of the first love and joy of a genuine religious experience; and he would fain have been on good terms with all the world. He made many attempts to put matters on a better footing; but without success. Anne seemed to shrink into her shell more and more as Jack tried to draw her out of it.

At last, one day finding her alone in her room, he entered it and closed the door behind him.

"Now, Anne dear, let us have it out," said he. "Do not let us go on in this uncomfortable way any longer. Tell me at once and plainly, what have I done to offend you and make you so cold to me?"

Anne, looked round like a frightened hare for a chance to escape, but seeing none, she seemed to control herself and resume her usual icy composure with a great effort. "You have done nothing to offend me," replied she coldly. "What makes you think so?"

"Your whole air and manner," replied Jack frankly. "You avoid me at all times as though my presence carried the plague with it. You never speak to me if you can help it, and I tell you freely, sister Anne, I cannot think it right. Even if I have displeased you, it is not the part of a Christian to bear malice. The Scripture rule is, 'If thy brother trespass against thee, tell him his fault between him and thee alone.'"

"The Scripture!" said Anne, starting. "What do you know of Scripture?"

"I know that much at all events, and so do you, because Father William preached from it only last Sunday."

"I did not hear the sermon," replied Anne. "I was praying in our Lady's Chapel. It would be well, brother, if you prayed more and minded sermons less."

"And I cannot but think, sister, that it would be well for you, not perhaps to pray less, but to seek instruction more."

"I seek instruction where sound teaching is to be found," said Anne, coloring. "I do not run after novelties and novelty-mongers like Father William."

"You have no right to speak in that way of Father William," said Jack, coloring in his turn. "But we will let that pass. One of two things I am sure of," he added, fixing his eyes upon Anne; "either you think I have wronged you or that you have wronged me. Which is it?"

Anne's color grew yet deeper and then faded to paleness. She dropped her eyes, but did not speak.

"Anne, did you tell Father Barnaby that I was curious about heretical books?" asked Jack.

"That is no affair of yours," replied Anne, trying to speak in her usual tone, though she trembled visibly. "My confessions are between my confessor and myself."

"In faith, it is my affair, and is like to be an affair of moment, if your confessions are such as may bring me to the stake," returned Jack. "Father Barnaby may be your confessor, but he is not mine; and you have no right to talk of my affairs to him."

Anne grew paler and paler. She sat silent for a moment, and then whispered, "I could not help it."

"Could not help it," repeated Jack. "Could you not tell him the truth, at least? When did I ever say to you that I would like to read heretical books?"

"You said you would like to read the Bible," said Anne.

"And is the Bible an heretical book? Is not the Bible the Word of God? And how then can it be heretical?"

"There is no use in going over all that again," returned Anne. "You know as well as I that it is wrong and presumptuous for lay and common people to desire to read the Scripture. You know what comes of it."

"I know what will come of it one day, and that will be the downfall and ruin of those who so presumptuously keep it from them to whom it rightfully belongs," said Jack, forgetting his prudence. He might have said more had not Anne herself checked him.

"Jack, if you have any mercy on me or yourself, hush, and say no more such things. You will not only destroy your own soul, but mine, if you go on. If you knew all that I have borne and am bearing for your sake, you would be more pitiful to me."

"But why should you bear anything on my account, dear Anne?" asked Jack, softened at once by his sister's look and tone of distress.

"Because I would save you if it were possible," returned Anne, weeping; "because I would—but oh, it is of no use!" she sobbed, bursting into a flood of bitter tears. "I would have saved the other. I would have saved Agnes, if a whole life spent in prayer and penance would have done it—if it would have availed for her even after ages spent in purgatory; but all is of no use. Father Barnaby says she was an incurable heretic, and as such doomed to hell without remedy; and he says my love for one like her is a sin for which all my penances will hardly atone. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Oh, if I could see any way of escape, any ray of hope; but no, there is, there can be none!"

Jack hesitated a moment, and then came to his sister's side. He felt that he must speak, that to keep silence would be that denial of which Master Fleming had warned him to beware at all hazards.

"Anne, believe me, there is another way, an easy and safe way to mind and spirit, whatever it may be to the body in these evil times," said he. "God is far, far more merciful than you think. All these labors which are wearing out your life are none of His appointing. They are but the cunning devices of men. He hath provided a way by which we may be saved, even by simple faith in His mercy through the blood of His Son."

"Dear Anne, our Lord hath done all for us already. He hath borne our sins in His own body on the tree; it is by His stripes we are healed, and not by those we lay on ourselves; the Scripture says so. They are the words of St. Peter himself. He came into the world not to condemn, but to save it, and whosoever believeth in Him hath everlasting life and shall never come into condemnation. He is ready to save, His ear is always open. Oh, dear Anne, come to Him—see and know Him. Leave all these devices of men which are separating you from your family, and driving you into your grave, and be at peace."

Anne looked at her brother for a moment with wide-open eyes as if she had seen a ghost. Then she said in a husky whisper—

"What do you mean? Who has been saying these things to you?"

"It is the Lord Himself who says them, Anne," replied Jack. "He tells us so in His Word, that very word which supported Agnes Harland when she was despitefully used for reading and believing it. Anne, I am putting my life in your hands by telling you these things; but I cannot see you suffering as you are without trying to help you. Oh, sister, only read for yourself—only hear—"

In his eagerness, he had thrown himself on his knees at his sister's side and seized her hand.

Anne pushed him away.

"How dare you speak so to me?" she said angrily. "Is it not enough then that you should destroy yourself without trying to destroy me?"

"It is because I would save you that I speak. Only look for yourself. Anne, I tell you, as sure as you are alive, there is no other way of salvation but through faith in Christ. If your merits were as great as those of St. Peter himself, they could avail nothing so far as that is concerned. Our Lord has Himself paid all the price of our redemption, and we have but to accept it as a free gift at His hands. Oh, sister, the way is so easy!"

"Easy! Yes, the way to hell is always easy," said Anne, with bitterness. "It is the other way that is hard. How dare you come bringing your heresies into this room where our mother died? How dare you speak them to me who am the promised bride of Christ? How dare you tell me that all my prayers and penances are worth nothing in God's sight, after all these years that I have striven to earn His favor and love?"

Jack was silent for a moment, startled by Anne's burst of passion so unlike her usual self-restraint.

Then he said gently, "His favor and love are yours already, Anne, if you will but take them. They are a free gift. The gift of God is eternal life through His dear Son."

"Oh, it is too hard—too hard," cried Anne, bursting into a fresh passion of tears. "I have heard all these things before. They rang in my ears for weeks and months after Agnes was taken from me; and now, just as they had ceased to haunt me day and night, you awaken the memory of them again. I will go far away. I will to the nunnery again—to the strictest order that I can find, and there in the darkest cell I will—" Anne's words were choked by her sobs.

Jack, much distressed, would have taken her hand to soothe her, but she repulsed him violently, and then as if her strength were exhausted by the effort, she fell back fainting in her chair.

At that moment, Sister Barbara opened the inner door which communicated with her room.

"Hush, dear lad," said she, gently and quietly. "Help me to lay your sister on the bed, and then leave her to me. She will be better presently, poor thing."

"I fear I have been to blame," said Jack, as he lifted Anne in his arms and felt shocked to discover how emaciated she was. "I have distressed when I meant to help her."

"I know, I know," whispered the good nun. "Say no more, but go and pray for her and all of us. I will bring her to herself, and she will be better."