CHAPTER XX.

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

Jack went to his room, where his lamp was already lighted, and taking his beloved books from their usual hiding-place, he began to think what he should do with them. They were not many. There was first and dearest of all, the New Testament with Tyndale's notes, which had been given him by Master Fleming; then his Greek Testament; the Prophecy of Isaiah which he had brought from Mary Brent's house, and two or three small tracts and treatises. These last he read carefully through, once more, and then burned; but he could not bring his mind to burn his Bible.

There was a certain little cupboard in the wall, concealed by a sliding panel, which Jack had discovered by accident some few years before, and of the existence of which he had never heard any one speak. He had concealed his discovery with a boy's fancy for mystery, and now it was to serve a good purpose. He opened it and placed his books therein, all but his Greek Testament, which he thought he might safely reserve. He then closed the panel, and pushed his desk against it, and he had just finished these arrangements when he heard some one open his door.

He looked hastily and angrily round.

There stood Anne with a lamp in her hand.

"What now?" said he, trying to speak indifferently. "What brings you here so late?"

"I might ask what keeps you up so late," returned Anne. "You seem to have little regard to the repose of your guest, that you make such a noise."

"No fear of disturbing him, honest man," said Jack. "He is snoring like a porpoise, this minute, and I dare say he sleeps all the better for his unwonted exercise. He is a kind, good-natured man, though he may have his little infirmities, like the rest of us."

"It skills not talking of him," said Anne, entering the room, and closing the door. "Jack, what have you been doing, this night?"

"I have been burning some papers, if it imports you to know," replied Jack, not altogether pleased with the tone Anne assumed.

"Jack, have you destroyed your vile, heretical books?"

"I have no vile, heretical books, Sister Anne; therefore I have no opportunity to destroy them. Let me ask you in turn, since questions are the fashion, what has brought you to my room at this time of night?"

"It is, indeed, a time of night for all honest folks to be abed, unless they watch, as a duty," said Anne; "but if I had been inclined to sleep, I could not do so. What were you and my father talking about, so long?"

"You had better ask my father, if you desire to know," replied Jack. "If he sees fit to tell you his business, I can have no objection, but I do not think he would thank me for repeating it."

Anne stood silent, a moment. Then she said, "Jack, where has Sister Barbara gone?"

"She has gone to her friends, as she told you."

"That is not answering my question. I ask you to whither she has gone."

"And I reply, Sister Anne, that even if I knew, I would not tell you."

"You mean to say that I am not to be trusted."

"Even so."

"Jack," said Anne, setting down the lamp, and coming nearer to her brother, "do you know that Father Barnaby is returned, and is, even now, in Bridgewater?"

"I knew he had returned, but not that he was here," replied Jack. "How do you know that he is here? Have you already seen him?"

"No; that is—Jack, do you mean still to persist in your heresy? Do you mean to draw down disgrace and ruin on your father's house, to break his heart and mine, all that you may follow your own wicked and headstrong fancies? Are you so much wiser than all the world? What chance have you had to learn so much more than I, that you are so confident in your own opinion?"

"To your first question," replied Jack, "I answer that I do mean, God helping me, to hold fast even to the death, to His truth which you call heresy. I do not pretend to be wiser than all the world, but if I see all the world wrong, that does not excuse me for being wrong also. I am not following my own will or conceit, but the Word of God, and I must go whither it leads me, though it be to prison and death as it led Agnes Harland, and has led many another."

"And when you are brought—I mean, if you are brought before Father Barnaby, you will say these same things. Oh, brother, brother!" she exclaimed, falling on her knees at Jack's side. "Do not be obstinate! Do not throw away your life for nothing. You are young; you have been misled by others. They will be merciful to you if you do but recant your errors, and tell the names of those who have misled you. Oh, brother, brother! Do not be stiff-necked; do but confess, and all will be well."

A sudden light broke in upon Jack's mind. He cast off his sister's hand and drew back, as if from a snake.

"Anne!" said he sternly. "You have betrayed me."

Anne did not answer. She covered her face with her hands.

"You have acted the traitor's part a second time," continued Jack. "It was not enough to give over your friend to death, but you have stained your soul with this new treason. I believe you have already seen Father Barnaby."

Anne did not deny it. She sunk her head still lower, but said not a word.

"You have, then, done the mischief already," said Jack. "When did you see the priest?"

"It does not become you to question me or to speak to me thus," said Anne, striving to assume her usual tone. "I have but done that which was right, and my duty. No man is bound to keep faith with heretics. You speak of acting according to your conscience. Why should I not act according to mine?"

"You know that you have not done so," said Jack, fixing a penetrating look on his sister's face. "You have belied your own conscience, and betrayed me to death, for the sake of what, in your heart, you know to be a lie. Yes, Anne, in your heart, you believe that what I have told you, and what you heard from Agnes, is true—God's own truth. If this may be heresy, you are at heart as much a heretic as I am."

"I will not hear this!" said Anne hastily. "No one shall call me a heretic. You have no right to complain. I gave you fair warning. I come to you, to-night, not because I repent of what I have done, but to warn you—to give you a last chance."

"Many thanks to you!" said Jack, with a bitterness he could not altogether restrain. "Pray, what is to be the price of this piece of villainy? Are you to be made a prioress, or are you to found a new order? But I not speak so," he added hastily. "God give me grace to forgive you."

He walked up and down the room two or three, times, and then threw himself on his knees, by the bedside.

Anne stood, stiff and silent.

At last, Jack rose and turned to her.

"Anne," said he, "you have done a base and cowardly deed, and you will one day see it so, however you may regard it at present. I know not what has prompted you, and I desire not to judge you. Only remember this, when your day of remorse and repentance comes—as come it will—remember, there was forgiveness even for them who crucified our dear Lord, and the same forgiveness will be granted to you if you truly repent, and accept the offer of mercy. For my own part, I freely pardon you, and if I do not do so wholly, now, I believe the grace will be given me. But I warn you, that you are placing yourself in imminent danger of eternal perdition, by your present resisting of the Spirit and of your own conscience. 'He who denieth me before men, him will I deny before the angels of God,' says our Lord Himself. He now holds out His pitiful arms even to you, but there may come a day when He will hold them out no more—when you may long to confess what you now deny, and it may be forever too late."

Anne still stood silent, but her face showed the storm within.

"But I must not throw away my life," said Jack hastily. "It may be that I can yet escape."

"There is no chance. The house has been watched ever since your return," said Anne, in a hoarse voice. "You will but make matters worse."

"Be it so, then. I will bide the storm which you have brought upon me," said Jack. "I pray you to leave me, sister. I have need of time and solitude to collect my thoughts and prepare for that which is coming."

Without a word Anne turned and left the room, and Jack fastened the door.

Then, drawing his Bible from its hiding-place and trimming his lamp, he knelt down and read, again and again, the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. ¹ He passed several hours in reading and prayer, and then, as the gray morning began to creep in, he rose and dressed himself as for a festival, and when it was fully day, he went down to his father's room, to help him dress, as usual. He was met at the door by Simon, with a face full of terror and dismay.

¹ I request every reader of these pages to do the same.

"Oh, Master Jack, Master Jack! What can have happened? The constable with his men are at the door and demand entrance, and Father—I cannot think of his name—"

"Father Barnaby," said Jack gently. "Go down, Simon, and say I will be with them directly. I will but see my father."

"What means all this disturbance?" asked Master Lucas, opening his door. "Who are those men without?"

"Let me come in, dear father, and I will tell you all," said Jack. "Go down, Simon. Dear Cicely, do but be quiet, and dress yourself."

Jack entered his father's room, and, shutting the door, told him what had happened.

"Then it is too late!" exclaimed Master Lucas, wringing his hands in anguish. "My son, my dear son! Fool that I was! Why did I not insist on your leaving me last night?"

"It would have been useless," said Jack. "I have reason to know that we were watched from the moment of our return. But let us go down and face these men quietly and manfully."

They descended accordingly, and found the shop filled with men. Father Barnaby occupied the sitting-room, and was attended by Brother Joseph, the sacristan from Holford, who favored Jack, on his entrance, with a glance of triumphant malignity, from beneath his down-dropped eyelids. Father John occupied the easy-chair, sitting upright and grave, and as Jack and his father entered the room, he arose, and with a tone of marked kindness, bestowed his blessing upon them.

"I thank you heartily," said the baker; and then, turning to Father Barnaby, he said, "Your reverence is an early visitor. May I ask what has brought you to my poor house at this hour?"

"My business is far from pleasant, Master Lucas," returned the priest austerely. "It is simply to search your house for heretical books, and to arrest this youth, your son, that he may be examined concerning certain errors which he has received and also endeavored to spread abroad among the faithful children of the Church. I must ask you to call all your family together."

"Jack, call your sister and cousin," said the baker briefly.

"With your leave, the young man abides here," said Father Barnaby.

"As you please," returned Master Lucas; "here comes one, to speak for herself. This is my cousin, Cicely Annan, a widow, who hath kept my house since I lost my wife. My daughter is, I suppose, in her room. Peter, call your young mistress."

Anne presently made her appearance. She was very pale, and evidently greatly agitated.

"This is the whole of my family," said Master Lucas. "This reverend gentleman is from Holford, and did us the honor to sup and sleep with us."

"I know Father John of Holford, well," said Father Barnaby dryly. "Methinks he might be better found in his own parish, on this holy day."

"Good brother—or son, as I may well call you, since I am old enough to be your father—I have yet to learn on what ground I am to ask your leave as to when and how I shall leave my parish," said Father John, with more dignity than Jack had thought he could assume. "If your commission extends to my private affairs, I would fain see your warrant."

Father Barnaby looked somewhat disconcerted, for a moment. "I crave your pardon, good brother," he said, recovering himself. "Doubtless it was business of moment which brought you to this house. But, Master Lucas, have you not a lady abiding with you—a lady formerly a nun in the convent where your daughter was bred?"

"She has been with us, but she left us yesterday, to go to friends in the country," replied Master Lucas.

"Where did she go?" was the next question.

"I know not," replied Master Lucas. "It is somewhere among the hills, but I know not the name of the place nor of the family whither she has gone."

This was true, for both Master Lucas and Jack had carefully abstained from informing themselves on these points.

"Umph! Well, that matters not now," said Father Barnaby. "Master Lucas, I regret to say that I have certain information that this your son (who is a youth of parts and understanding beyond his years) entertains the most heretical and false opinions concerning the sacraments, the adoration of saints, and other matters of the last importance. Do you know aught of this matter?"

"Your reverence can hardly expect me to bear witness against my own son—at least till I am obliged to do so," replied Master Lucas. "He hath ever been a good and dutiful son—that I can say for him."

"Have you any heretical books in your possession?" asked the priest, turning to Jack.

"I have a copy of the New Testament in Greek," replied Jack, "if you call that heretical; also, I have two treatises which your reverence gave me, one concerning the eleventh ode of Horace, and the other on the Metamorphoses of Ovid. Your reverence knows best what they are. Also I have Virgil and Horace, and certain other Latin books."

"Play not with me, young sir," said the priest, frowning. "I have certain intelligence from one who has seen it, that you have in your possession a copy of the Lutheran New Testament. I require you to put it into my hands."

Jack was silent, and did not move.

"Come, my son," said Father Barnaby, assuming a more friendly tone, "I pray you, be not obstinate. Do but give me up your books, and promise me to confess openly your errors, and all may yet be well. Unless you will do so I must search your father's house, and commit you to prison, where it may go hard with you."

"I am a prisoner in your hands, and you must needs do your pleasure," said Jack briefly. "I have nothing more to say, except that, whatever I may be, my father knows naught of these matters."

Jack and the rest of the family were in the sitting-room, while the house was thoroughly searched, but in vain. The hiding-place the books remained undiscovered, to the great chagrin of Brother Joseph, who showed himself an adept in the business, and who had to report his ill success to his principal.

"It matters not, we can take another way. Daughter," said Father Barnaby, turning to. Anne, who had hitherto stood quite silent, "you, at least, are a faithful child of the Church, as you have already shown. Can you tell me where these books are likely to be hidden?"

"I believe them to be in a small cupboard in the wall, behind my brother's desk," answered Anne, in a husky tone.

"Vile wretch that thou art, wouldst thou betray thy brother?" exclaimed her father, thrown off his guard.

"Your daughter, Master Lucas, does but do her duty in discovering her brother's guilt," said Father Barnaby. "It is the greatest kindness she could show him. Rejoice that you have one faithful child left."

"She is no child of mine from this day," said Master Lucas. "I wholly disown and cast her off. I would she had died at her birth, rather than she should have lived to be what she is."

"Father, remember your promise," said Jack; "I pray you do nothing hastily."

Brother Joseph now returned with the books. "Is this all you have?" asked the priest, examining them.

"That is all."

"You and your uncle had other books when you were at Holford, I know," said the priest. "What were they, and whence did you obtain them?"

Jack was silent.

"You will do the old man no service by this silence, if that be your thought," said Father Barnaby. "You had best be frank with me, since I mean you naught but good."

"No doubt," answered Jack dryly. "I thank your reverence for your good intentions."

"There is enough of this," said Father Barnaby angrily. "Since you are obstinate, matters must take their course. Constable, lead this youth to jail, and lodge him like the others. Master Lucas, I advise you to remain quiet and be amenable, and no harm shall befall you."

"Farewell, dear father," said Jack. "I pray you heartily to be of good comfort and put your trust in God. Have no fears for me, I am in His hands who did never fail them that trust in Him, and no real harm can befall me. Farewell, dear Cicely, you have been like a mother to me. Father John, I thank you heartily for all your kindness and good counsel."

"Have you no word for your sister, dear son?" asked Father Barnaby.

"I have already said my farewell to my sister," replied Jack gravely and sadly. "I have no more to add, save to beg her for her soul's salvation to remember my parting words. I am ready to go, Master Constable."

"My blessing go with thee, my son!" said his father. "I trust we may yet see you here again."

"And mine, also," added Father John, rising "and if my interest in your behalf is of any you shall have it with all my heart, as well as my prayers to our Lord and all the saints for your good deliverance."

Master Lucas stood gazing after his son till he could be seen no longer. Then, turning away, his eye fell on Anne, who remained standing.

"Do you stand there in my presence, after what you have done?" he asked, in sternly measured tones, as if he would not express the wrath which stirred him at sight of his daughter. "Think you the sight of you can be grateful to my eyes? I would you had died at your birth ere I had lived to see this day!"

"Nay, my good, my kind friend," said Father John. "Be not over hasty. I trust that this maiden had nothing to do with her brother's misfortune. Is it not so, daughter?"

"I did what was right," said Anne, striving to speak calmly. "My brother is an heretic, and a blasphemer of Holy Church and the sacraments, and not only so, but he was ever striving to prevent me. I delivered him to justice for the sake of his soul and mine own."

"I verily wonder whether thou art my own daughter," said the master baker slowly, "or whether my child died in the convent yonder, and some devil entered into her body! Surely, thy mother and I never had such a monster! I will not curse thee, for the sake of him who has gone; but get thee from my sight, or I cannot answer for what I may do! Get to thy chamber—dost hear me?" he repeated, stamping his foot.

"Yes, go, daughter," said the old priest. "You do but enrage your father the more by your carriage, which I must say is neither maidenly nor Christian. Get you to your chamber, and repent if you can, for, in sooth, you have been guilty of a great sin. My poor, dear friend!" he added, as Anne withdrew. "Let us forbear harsh words. They can do no good. Let us kneel down and pray, not only for our dear young brother, but for this misguided girl. I do trust all may yet be well. The bishop is a kind-hearted man, and averse to all harsh measures, and I have some interest with him which I shall not spare to use. I hope all may yet be well."