CHAPTER XVI.

JACK'S ERRAND.

"Is my father up, Simon?" asked Jack, as he entered the shop, which the journeyman was just putting to rights.

"I think not, Master Jack. I have not heard him stirring, and he usually calls me to come truss his points for him."

"I will myself go up and help him to dress," said Jack, and he went softly up-stairs to his father's room. Master Lucas was just awake.

"So you have come home betimes," said he, rubbing his eyes. "You have had a long watch and will be for taking a good nap, I dare say, though you do not look very sleepy either," he added, looking in his son's face. "You seem as if you had heard some good news."

"And so I trust I have," said Jack. "I want to consult you, dear father, about a matter of moment."

"Give me my gown, then," said his father. "It is time I was up. Now let me hear the story."

Jack sat down on the side of the bed, and told his father of the discovery he supposed himself to have made, with the grounds of his belief. Master Lucas listened with attention.

"But supposing this young man to be the heir of Holford," said he, "do you think his father would receive him again?"

"I have good grounds for thinking so, which you shall hear," said Jack, and he repeated his reasons, which we already know.

"Poor gentleman! My heart aches for him," said Master Lucas. "But what is it you propose to do? You cannot take Master Arthur to his home, weak as he is, even if he were quite willing to go."

"No; and, therefore, I propose to bring his home to him," said Jack. "I propose to ride to Holford, see the knight, and tell him all that I have told you. Then he can act as he pleases."

"Have you said aught of your intention to Master Arthur—or Paul, as he calls himself?"

"Not a word, dear father. I thought it best to be silent. Paul—his name is Paul as well as Arthur—Paul is in doubt as to his reception at home. He says he has brought shame and disgrace on his honorable house, and he knows not whether he ought to return—"

"So had the youth Father William preached about yesterday, brought shame and disgrace on his family," interrupted the baker. "Yet he returned, and his father received him gladly."

"And if the poor prodigal had been ill and starving, repentant, and longing above all things for a sight of his father's face, yet too weak and too fearful to go to him," said Jack, eagerly, "do you not think that he and his father both would have been thankful to that man who had brought them face to face, who had carried news to the father that the son was languishing, perhaps dying, within his reach? Make the case your own, dear father, and tell me."

Master Lucas turned and looked at his son with tears in his honest blue eyes. "Jack, you are a strange lad for your years. I cannot understand what has made a man of you so suddenly. Even do as you will, and manage the matter your own way, my son. I cannot see what harm can come of it. If the knight should refuse to see his son, the poor young gentleman will at least be prevented from a bootless journey."

"He will not refuse," said Jack. "Then, with your leave, dear father, I will set out directly."

"As soon as you have rested a little and taken a good meal, my son. Nay, I must insist upon that much, or we shall have you ill again. Remember you are all the son, I had well-nigh said all the child, I have in the world. Get you down and send Simon to engage for your neighbor Fulford's pony. It is an easy beast to ride, and faster than my mule. It is a market-day, and the roads will be full of people, so you will have nothing to fear from robbers, or I would send Simon with you."

"I do not need him," said Jack. "Nobody would think of robbing a lad like me; and besides I doubt Simon would be no great safeguard. He has not the heart of a chicken. Father," added Jack, earnestly, "I do heartily thank you for trusting me so fully."

"When I see aught to distrust in you, it will be time to begin," said Master Lucas. "My blessing upon thee, dear lad. Thou hast never yet wilfully given thy father a heart-ache."

A pang shot through Jack's own breast, as he remembered how soon he might be called upon to do and suffer that which would wring his father's heart with anguish through no fault of his own. "Oh, if it were only myself," he reflected, as he sought his own chamber, "how easy it would all be to endure." And, dearly as he loved his father, Jack almost felt like praying that the good old man might be taken away from the evil to come, before the storm burst which Master Fleming had foretold.

Calmed and refreshed by his morning reading and prayers, Jack came down to his breakfast dressed for his journey, his sober, resolute face showing that his determination was unshaken.

Cicely exclaimed against his setting out on such a ride after he had been watching all night.

But Master Lucas made her a sign, and she said no more, except to entreat her darling to eat and drink heartily, and to put a comfortable morsel in his pocket, that he need not be faint by the way.

She was dying with curiosity to learn the object of his journey undertaken so suddenly, but she knew of old, that unless Master Lucas chose to tell there was no use in asking.

Anne was not so discreet. She came in when breakfast was half over, from the priory church, where she had been praying since four o'clock. Kneeling on cold stones for three hours on a stretch without one's breakfast is not likely to improve the temper, whatever other spiritual graces it may impart. Anne felt weak, exhausted, and wretched, and all ready, as her father said, to take the poker by the hot end.

"What is Simon doing, walking that horse up and down before the door?" she asked, as she sat down. "Have some of Jack's grand friends come to visit him so early?"

"I did not know that I had any grand friends," said Jack.

"I thought it might be Master Fleming," pursued Anne. "He seems to use our house as his own at all times."

"If he does, he is no more free than welcome," said her father. "I ever esteem his visits an honor as well as a pleasure. But you are wrong this time. The pony is for no less a person than our Jack, who is about to ride into the country for some miles."

"Indeed!" said Anne. "And what takes him into the country?"

"Business," replied her father briefly. "Business of importance, which no one can well do but himself. Ask no questions, sweetheart, for more I cannot tell you."

"I do not mean to ask any questions," said Anne, flushing. "I know well that I am the last person to be trusted, especially by Jack."

"Do you say so, Anne?" asked Jack, turning full upon her, as his father left the room. "Methinks I have trusted you already farther than you were willing to have me, farther than I had reason to do, considering all things. But I do not mean to reproach you, dear sister," he added, repenting, the next moment, as he saw how Anne winced. "The business I go upon is not mine, or you should know all about it."

"Nay, I have no desire to penetrate it," said Anne, coldly, but with eyes that flashed an angry fire. "I desire to enter into none of your secrets. I can guess its nature well, and will not even presume to warn you, though I know the terrible risk you are running. You are working to bring down ruin upon yourself and your father's house, fancying that you are having your own wilful way, while all the time you are being made a tool and a cat's-paw of, by craftier heads than your own."

No lad of sixteen likes to be called a tool and a cat's-paw. Jack had his share of pride as well as Anne, and he had to bite his lip hard to repress an angry answer. He did repress it, however, and after a moment of silence answered quietly, "Anne, would you like to have anyone speak to you in that manner? Would you like it, for instance, if I were to call you a cat's-paw and spy of Father Barnaby?"

"You have no right to call me so," said Anne. "I am no spy, and I will not submit to be called one."

"You have no need to submit, for I have no intention of calling you a spy or any other disagreeable name," said Jack, smiling. "I only put the case for your consideration. As to my business, all this secrecy which nevertheless is needful at present, is just making a mountain out of a very small molehill. Come, Anne, do not let us quarrel just as I am going away. Why should we not be loving and gentle to one another as brother and sister should be?"

"Because you are a heretic," replied Anne. "It is my duty to try to bring you back to the faith, and failing that to treat you as—"

"As Agnes Harland was treated, perhaps," said Jack, interrupting her. Then repenting the next moment, "Dear Anne, forgive me; I am wrong. I should not have said so much."

He would have taken Anne's hand, but she repulsed him.

"Yes, as Agnes Harland was treated," said she sternly. "Even so. You have no right to expect any thing else at my hands. I have had many regrets, many misgivings, as to this matter, but I will allow them to influence me no more. The Church is more to me than father or brother or friend. I am the vowed bride of Christ, and I will be faithful to my vow—ay, though I had to walk over the dead body of every friend I have in the world. I will be faithful to my vows and to my conscience. Now you know what you have to expect."

"Very well," said Jack. "My life is in your hands. But, Anne," he added, looking fixedly at her, "are you sure that you are faithful to your conscience? Are you sure your conscience is not telling you this minute, that what you have heard from Agnes and from me is true, every word true? Are you not at this very moment resisting the Spirit which tells you that you have been mistaken and wrong hitherto; that shows, you all your built-up righteousness to be more worthless than rags and dust, and pleads with you to forsake your errors and turn to the truth; to leave the broken cisterns hewed by man, and seek the fountain of living waters? I believe it is so. Anne, Anne, beware! For me, I am in God's hand, and no real harm can chance to me, but I tremble for you. Anne, Anne, beware how you grieve the Spirit by resisting your convictions of truth!"

"Time is wearing away, my son, and it were well you were on your road," said Master Lucas, entering the room. "The days are shorter than they were. Shall you return to-night?"

"Yes, father, if I can finish my business," replied Jack; and then desirous of diverting his attention from Anne, he said hastily, "I was thinking whether there was any token I could carry to the old priest at Holford. He is a good-natured old man and was kind to me, and I should like to show that I remembered him."

"That is well thought on, my son. Do you get my saddle-bags, and I will put up some sweetmeats and comfits for Father John's sweet tooth, and also something for Uncle Thomas. We must not forget old friends."

Jack went for the bags, and while his father was filling them, he found opportunity for another word with his sister.

"Anne, I am sorry if I have grieved you."

"Words cost very little," said Anne coldly. "Let me see you confess and abjure your errors, and I shall know how to believe you."

"My errors, as you call them, shall be confessed with my latest breath, if God gives me grace to hold fast to Him," returned Jack. "You would not have known them, had it not been for my earnest desire to comfort you in your trouble. Nor do I regret having spoken them, though by so doing I have put a weapon in your hands to slay me withal. It seemed to me that I must speak, whatever came of it. The Gospel says, 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed when he shall come in the glory of his father and of the holy angels.' And again, 'If we deny him, he also will deny us.' Dear Anne, only listen to the Word and to the Spirit, only take up the cross and follow the Lord, and all will be well."

Anne compressed her lips and made no reply, and her father coming in at that moment, she escaped to her own room.

"Is all ready?" asked Jack. "Then give me your blessing, dear father, and I will set out."

"Thou hast it, thou hast it, my son," said Master Lucas, laying his hand on his son's head as he bent his knee before him. "May our Lord and the saints prosper thy journey and bring thee safe home again!"

Jack's mind was at first hardly in a state to enjoy his ride. He had a sharp battle with himself before he could subdue the anger and wounded pride which stirred within him; and his conscience told him that he had not been without blame. He had spoken harshly and scornfully to his sister, and made an ungenerous use of the secret she had confided to him.

Anne was deeply angered at him, that was plain; and he had, by offending her, lessened his chance of influencing her for good. He had another cause of disturbance. It seemed to him that much as he had thought on the subject, he had never realized before, the trouble he was likely to bring on his friends, especially on his father, by accepting the new doctrines, as they were called. He said to himself, as he rode along, that he might be taken up and thrown into jail any day, and that there would be probably no release from prison for him, save by the ignominious death of the stake, or the still more shameful and fatal way of recantation.

He pictured to himself the stake and chain, the crowd of scornful gazers and the blazing torch, or the scaffold set up in the market-place where the apostate must stand bearing his fagot while a monk preached from the pulpit over his head.

"It would kill my father in either case," said he to himself. "He would never recover the grief and the disgrace. And if it should prove a delusion after all! If Anne should be right and Master Fleming and the others wrong!"

It was a fearful combat that Jack fought out with the Tempter that sunny autumn day, as he rode over the heath and along the still green hedgerows. The travellers he met saw in him some youth going out on a holiday excursion, and marvelled at his sombre face and compressed lip.

It rarely happens in these days that any young person is called to really give up all for Christ, to choose between His love and service and the love and respect of all nearest and dearest friends; and when it does so chance, there is usually everything in the sympathy of Christians to make the task as easy as it can be made. Moreover such a choice, though it may bring grief and estrangement, involves no actual loss or disgrace.

But in the time whereof I am writing, the case was very different. The man or woman who embraced the new doctrines, as they were called, not only came out from all the dear old customs and sanctities of the familiar home life, not only broke up "the old sweet habit of confidence," but he brought shame and public disgrace into his own family circle, if he did not entail upon his friends absolute pecuniary loss and serious danger to life and liberty.

I have sometimes heard it said, that those martyrs by the stake and the rack had an easier work to do, and deserved less credit therefore, than those have who bear with the trials and vexations of every-day life. I think those who say so forget one thing; namely, that the martyrs who perished on the stake or rack, had just the same wearying, worrying, every-day trials and cares that we have, in addition to the one great trial.

Anne Ascue had her household vexations, and those no small ones; her trials with husband and children and servants, lack of money, and uncertainty as to the future. Tyndale and Frith had to contend with misprints and misunderstandings, the stupidity and dulness of printers and proof-readers unused to the language in which they worked, with pirated editions, and all the other manifold annoyances which beset authors and publishers nowadays. Were these, think you, any easier to bear for the great trial which was always in the background? Were the clouds any the more transparent because of the total eclipse which was impending? I think not. How then were they borne?

I think the answer is to be found in this—that these men and women who thus took their lives in their hands, and went forth to witness for their Lord in the midst of an adulterous and perverse generation, lived daily very near to God. They realized in a wonderful way God's love for them, His constant care for them, His superintending providence which would let nothing happen which was not for their good.

Master Garrett, at Oxford, when he was in danger of being apprehended, kneeled down weeping in his chamber and read the tenth chapter of St. Matthew, and the words were to him a living reality. These men literally, and in no figurative or exaggerated sense, gave up all for Christ. They literally left all and followed Him; and to them was fulfilled in all its fulness the promise, "Ye shall have tenfold more in this life, with persecutions, and in the world to come life everlasting."

With many, the conflict was sharp and the victory sometimes doubtful; but sooner or later the word was fulfilled and the strength given according to the day. ¹

¹ I think any one will be convinced of the truth of this statement who will read for himself the letters of the martyrs, especially those written in prison.

So Jack Lucas found it, riding that soft autumnal day along the quiet lanes and over the barn heath. For a time the conflict was fierce, and the enemy strong—so strong that the young warrior more than once groaned aloud in the bitterness of his soul, and was ready to cry out:

"I sink in deep waters; Lord, why hidest thou thy face in the needful time of trouble?"

But by degrees, his mind grew calmer. He could not trust himself to argue with the Tempter, or even to fight with him but, like Christian in the dark valley, "he was forced to put up his sword and betake himself to another weapon called All-prayer—so he cried, 'O Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul!'"

And so it was, that the Master he served was pleased to give him the victory for that time. A wonderful calm and peace descended upon his spirit, and he was able to enjoy the beauty around him, and to take pleasure at being once more in the country.

He arrived at Holford in good time, and rode direct to the Hall. To his great disappointment, he found that both the knight and his lady were away. They had gone to visit a sick friend in the neighboring parish.

"But they will be home before evening," said the porter, as Jack expressed his disappointment; "so, if your business is urgent, you might as well wait for their return."

"I think I will do so," said Jack; "and meantime I will go to visit my uncle and the good father at the village."

"Ay, the old man will be glad to see you, and his reverence as well," said the butler, who had come out to speak with Jack. "I promise you, the father gave our knight a good character of you, for I heard him myself. He said you had given him great help at a pinch, and had much to say of your scholarship, especially of your Latin."

"It was no very great help I gave him," said Jack; "but he is a good-natured old gentleman. Well, Master Butler, I will go down to the hamlet and see the priest and my uncle, and return about the time the knight is expected."