CHAPTER XIII.

"THEY THAT SOW IN TEARS."

Jack left the house and went out to walk, feeling the need of solitude to compose his thoughts. He was distressed at his sister's condition, and a little frightened when he thought of the way in which he had put himself in her power; and yet, in considering the matter, he did not see how he could have done otherwise. He was so deep in thought that he started on being spoken to, as if a bolt had fallen from the sky.

"A fair evening, my young brother," said Master Fleming. "Yet you do not seem to be enjoying it greatly. Your eyes are on the ground as if your thoughts were heavy."

"They are so in truth," said Jack. "I am right glad to meet you, Master Fleming, and would willingly have your advice and opinion on a grave matter."

"Both are at your service," said Master Fleming. "I trust nothing unpleasant has chanced."

In reply Jack told him the whole story, to which Master Fleming listened with grave attention.

"I cannot see that you have done wrong," said he at last. "You might perhaps have used more caution, and yet caution is not always best. You say no one heard you but your sister?"

"Nobody unless Madam Barbara might have caught a few words," replied Jack. "Her room is next my sister's. I hardly think she could have done so, or she would not have spoken so kindly and gently to me."

"What did she say?" asked Master Fleming.

"She bade me go pray for Anne and myself—pray for us all, were her words, I think. She is always a kind lady; but, methinks, as I remember it, there was an unusual tenderness in her voice and glance."

"That is strange, if she did really overhear you," said the merchant. "You do not think your sister would betray you?"

"Never, if she were left to herself," said Jack, warmly; "but you see, there is just the rub. She will not be left to herself. I have good reason to think that she has told tales of me already, from what Father Barnaby said to me at Father John's house in Holford."

"How was that?" asked Master Fleming.

Jack repeated the story, to which the merchant listened with attention, laughing heartily as Jack recounted with considerable humor his encounter with Father Barnaby, and the way in which he had been thrown off the scent by means of Horace and the Babylonian numbers.

"Well, my brother, you certainly owe Horace a debt of gratitude," said he, when Jack had finished the story. "You say you have not seen the priest since that time?"

Jack replied in the negative.

"I see nothing that you can do but to wait in hope and trust for the result," said Master Fleming. "It may be that your words will be blessed to your sister after all, and that she may have grace to turn to the only source of comfort and light. Poor young maid, my heart is sad for her. Meantime I need not tell you to treat her with all kindness and forbearance, and to pray earnestly for her."

"I never mean to be out of patience with her," said Jack, "and yet she does anger me sometimes so that I can hardly forbear speaking sharply to her—not for my own sake, but for that of my father and my Cousin Cicely. She is such a continual grief to them."

"There is nothing gained, but a good deal lost by that, my young brother," said the merchant kindly. "I dare say your good father does not lose patience with his unhappy daughter."

"Not often," replied Jack. "He treats her always with the greatest forbearance and kindness, puts up with all her ways, and indulges her in everything; and yet she does not seem to have the least notion of it."

"I dare say not; few people have," said the merchant dryly. "But do you take pattern by your father, and remember that you have a double call to exercise kindness and love. Let me tell you what to do. When your patience seems like to fail, do not dwell upon and aggravate in your own heart the offence of your sister (as I know by my own experience one is apt to do), but lift up your heart in prayer for her, and then recall to mind your own offences against God, and His gracious and free forgiveness, and remember our Lord's saying, 'not till seven times, but till seventy times seven.' Above all pray that your heart may be filled with love to God and man, for therein lies the great remedy for sin in every form."

"I will," said Jack, brushing the tears from his eyes. "Oh, what shall I do for a counsellor when you are gone? I wish you could abide with us always."

"That can hardly be," replied Master Fleming. "I must go back to London before long. But I trust some friend will be raised up to you."

"I wish I could go with you," said Jack. "It would be so much easier to be good with you."

"It is not the part of a good soldier to choose the easiest way," replied Master Fleming, smiling. "Besides, Jack, it is usually a mistake to think that you could serve God and do better in some other place than the one where He has put you. It is this very error which has driven so many into the cloister. Others it has led out into the dangers of the world, for which they were wholly unfit. Many a one is sick of home, and fancies he would do better in a wider sphere, while he is failing in every relation of life in the place assigned him by Providence. Be content where you are; few lads have a better or more cheerful home, though all may not be as you desire."

"I know that indeed," said Jack eagerly. "I should be a villain to cherish discontent, while I have my father and dear good Cousin Cicely to make much of me. I am rather afraid my way will be made too soft and easy."

"Never fear," said Master Fleming. "That is a misfortune which I venture to say never yet happened to one who was honestly trying to serve God with all his heart. Our Father loves to see His children happy, but He is sure to send them all the crosses they need. Enjoy your peaceful sunshiny home while it is yours, for these are threatening times, and we may not long be left in peace. The sun shines just now, you see," he added, looking toward the vest where was piled up a gorgeous mass of thunder-clouds, "but it will soon set, and I hear already the growling of the coming storm. The sun will rise again, we know, but before that time many a fair barque may be wrecked, and gallant sailor drowned. Let us pray that we may be able to endure all these things, and to stand at last before the Son of man."

Awed and yet comforted, Jack turned his steps homeward. He found nobody in the shop but Simon the journeyman.

"Where is my father, Simon?" he asked.

"Your father and Dame Cicely have gone to see poor Dame Higby in her trouble," replied Simon, "and they did talk of stopping to supper with your cousin Master Luttrell. Madam Barbara is in the other room, waiting supper for you, and Mistress Anne is above."

"I did not think it so late," said Jack. "I am sorry I have kept the lady waiting. I will be with her as soon as I wash my hands."

"Your sister is ill at ease and keeps her chamber," said Madam Barbara, in reply to Jack's somewhat timid question. "I did not like to leave her, but she begged me to do so, and I thought perhaps she would be best alone."

Jack felt himself somewhat ill at ease at the prospect of a tête-à-tête with Madam Barbara; but the lady chatted on as usual about all sorts of matters. Jack could not help thinking, however, that there was something peculiar in her tone, and once or twice fancied that her eyes rested on him with unusual tenderness.

When the meal was finished and cleared away, Sister Barbara went up to Anne, and Jack sat down to occupy himself with his books. He did not find Horace very congenial to his present feelings, and was just wishing that he dared take out his Bible, when Sister Barbara again entered the room, closing the door after her, and came toward him.

Jack rose, but she made him a sign to be seated, and sat down near him. Jack's heart beat, for he felt that something was coming; but he kept silence and waited to be spoken to.

"Jack," said Sister Barbara, in a low tone, "will you forgive me? I listened to what you said to your sister this afternoon. I came into my room while you were talking, and I could not help listening. Will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive, dear lady," said Jack, recovering himself, for he was considerably startled. "I said nothing wrong to Anne, nothing I would take back. I know they were dangerous words, but they were true, and I am sure you will never betray me."

"I would not betray you unless I betrayed myself," said Dame Barbara, in a still lower tone. "Jack, I have so longed to hear words like those once more. I have heard them before from the lips of one who paid clearly for them."

Jack felt fairly giddy with astonishment. A new light seemed all at once to dawn upon him, which made clear a hundred little things which had puzzled him.

"Do you mean, from Agnes Harland?" he asked. "Did you hear them from her?"

"Hush!" whispered the lady. "Yes. However you heard the tale, it is true. It was from that poor child, that I learned to know the truth of what you said to Anne this afternoon. After she was secluded from the family, she was very ill and the heart of our prioress was moved with pity for her. She had always a pitiful heart, dear lady, and would fain have saved the poor girl, and got her away to her friends before the matter came out; but it could not be. However, she pitied her as I said, and at last got her moved from the prison cell to a more comfortable place where she could at least see the light of day. Father Barnaby consented on condition that she should see none of the family, and that I alone should attend upon her; for he thought I had grown up in the house, as indeed I had, and that I was too steadfast to be moved. Agnes did not live many weeks; but she lived long enough to tell me wonderful things, and to convince me that she was right; and when she died, she gave me this book, one of those which she had brought from home, and which, being small, she had managed to conceal about her person."

Madam Barbara drew from her bosom a small, thin, and much-worn book, and put it into Jack's hand. Feeling as if he were in a dream, Jack opened it and looked at the titlepage. It was an English translation of Luther's commentary on Galatians, with the text. On the margin was traced in trembling characters, "Fear not them which kill the body," and again, still fainter, "My peace I do give unto you."

"That is all of Scripture I have ever seen," continued Dame Barbara. "Agnes had the Gospels also, but they were discovered and taken from her when she was imprisoned. I have read and read this book again and again, and I prize it more than life; but I do so long to read the whole Gospel, the words of our Lord himself. When I heard your speech this afternoon, I was sure you had read them, and I determined at all hazards to ask you. Have I done wrong?"

"No, indeed, madam," replied Jack, recovering himself. "You have done well, and right thankful am I that I can bring you to a sight of the Gospel. I will lend you the book at once, and it may be that I can procure a Testament for you from the same friend who gave me mine. But you know it is a dangerous possession."

"I know that," said Sister Barbara. "Have I not jealously guarded this treasure of mine for two long years? But I am growing tired of secrecy, and I should like to speak out before I die."

"I am often troubled myself about this same secrecy," said Jack. "It seems a kind of denial of the Master; and yet, for the present I see no other way."

"Hush!" said Madam Barbara, "Here comes your father."

"So! I find you in good company, son," cried Master Lucas with his usual jolly laugh. "I have been thinking you would be lonely. But where is poor Anne? Not at the church or chapel in this storm, I trust?"

"Anne is not well, and is lying down, dear father, and Madam Barbara was kind enough to come and sit with me," said Jack. "How you find Dame Higby?"

"Why, poorly—but poorly," replied Master Lucas, his sunny face clouding at remembrance of the grief he had witnessed. "You see, her poor man died suddenly and without the sacrament—some say he refused them, but that I do not believe; and he hath left her but poorly off. I doubt when all the expenses of the funeral are paid, she will have little left to live upon. We must remember her, Cicely, and not let her want."

That night Jack put his Testament into Madam Barbara's hands, and the next day, he brought her a small copy from Master Fleming's store, now getting low.