CHAPTER XXI.

ANNE.

Anne retired to her room and locked herself in, a precaution which she might have spared, for nobody came near her except one of the maids to bring her some food. The girl, though she did not speak, looked at Anne with an expression of wonder and reproach, which went to her heart.

"Where is my father, Dorothy?" she asked, feeling as if she must say something.

"Your father has gone out with the old priest who was here last night, Mistress Anne," was the short reply.

And Dorothy, who was usually disposed for a gossip at the smallest encouragement, retired and shut the door without another word.

Wicked and base as was the action she had committed, in itself, Anne was very much to be pitied. Her mind had for weeks been utterly unsettled.

As Jack had said, she was, in her heart, almost entirely convinced that her brother was right, and that she was wrong. In spite of herself, as it were, she could not help recalling all that she had heard and read with Agnes Harland, which was a great deal more than she had told Jack. In spite of herself, when she was listening to the harangues of the preaching friars against heresy, her mind would persist in bringing up and arranging arguments on the other side. When she repeated, as she did daily, her long litany of invocations to the saints and the Virgin Mary, something kept constantly telling her that it was a useless labor, and making such suggestions as these:

"How do you know that these saints can hear you? They were, and are, but finite beings like yourself, and cannot possibly be present in all places and at all times at once."

These were but a few of the distractions which beset her night and day, destroying her peace of mind, humbling her pride, and undermining her faith in those things wherein she had made her boast.

But Anne would not listen. She said to herself that they were but temptations of the enemy, such as had beset all eminent saints, and were to be banished by the proper means. So she fasted and scourged herself, and lay on the bare floor, and repeated ten times more prayers than ever. She had been fed upon "Lives of the Saints" from the time she could read, and for years, her cherished ambition had been to become a saint, on the model of Elizabeth of Hungary, or St. Bridget: to be looked up to as a pattern of holiness and austerity; to found a new order of nuns, more self-denying even than the "poor Clares," more contemplative than the Carmelites; to rule them while she lived, to be made a saint, and have miracles worked at her grave, when she was dead and buried.

Father Barnaby had cultivated these notions, seeing in the girl material which might encouraged her to believe made useful, and had believe that in the course of a few years she might be placed at the head of a sisterhood of her own founding. Anne had plenty of imagination, and hundreds of times she had gone over the whole matter in her own mind, arranging the rules and services of her house, and the very dress of the sisters. She fancied herself like St. Hilda, giving counsel and advice to abbots and priests, even to bishops and heads of the Church; as helping to stay the tide of heresy by her prayers and writings; as educating girls to perpetuate the doctrines and ways of her new order.

And was all this to be given up? Was she to abandon all her cherished ambitions and be content with the life of a daughter at home or a mere commonplace mother of a family? Or, still worse, was she to run the risk of open shame and disgrace and punishment, of being despised and held up as a warning, instead of an example, by those over whom she had hoped and expected to rule? Was she to confess that all her righteousness, her prayers and penances and sufferings, were worse than worthless in God's sight, and receive the gift of salvation as a free, wholly undeserved alms? Was her only title to heaven to consist in the fact, not that she was a saint, but a sinner? It could not be true—it should not be true! It was a work of the devil tempting her to abandon her vocation and all the great things she had planned.

And then came the thought—was it not her own fault after all? Had she not by weakly yielding to family affection—those fleshly ties from which she had been told again and again she must tear herself loose—had she not given the Tempter a handle against her? Ought she not to do all in her power to prevent the spread of heresy, and had she not, by yielding to her regard for her only brother, and concealing his fault, made herself a partaker therein? Would not her peace of mind return, if she were once to make the sacrifice? Would not that sacrifice be an additional and most precious jewel in the crown of martyrdom she coveted?

Yes, it must be so, and the sacrifice must be made. Once done, the deed could never be recalled. She would be held up as a bright example of piety, and she should again find her former peace, and satisfaction in prayer and penance and saintly reveries, and the doubts which disturbed her would depart forever.

Then there was Sister Barbara—Sister Barbara whose coming she had expected and prepared for, with so much pleasure, who had been one of the elders of the order, and a pattern of sanctity. There had long existed not even the semblance of confidence between them, but Anne had no doubt she was as bad as Jack, every whit. She had seen a book in her hands which was no prayer-book—she was sure of that—and she was always reading it while her "Hours" and her rosary lay neglected day after day. Sister Barbara and Jack were always talking quietly together and exchanging smiles and glances. Besides, did she not go to hear Father William preach even after he had refused to celebrate masses for the dead, and declared his opinion that it was lawful for priests to marry if they saw fit?

These and other indications convinced Anne that Sister Barbara was as bad as Jack—nay, worse, for was she not a nun, and had she not been a person in authority? Then there was her school! Was she to be allowed to pervert the children under her charge?

The morning that Sister Barbara went away, Anne went to the Priory church, determined, as she said, to decide the matter one way or the other before she came home. The first person she met was Father Barnaby. In her excited state of mind, this encounter seemed a supernatural sign sent for the confirmation of her wavering resolution, and she did not rest till she had told him all. She could not indeed tell the place where Sister Barbara had taken refuge, for she did not know it, but she told all she did know about the matter.

Father Barnaby was well pleased. He had come down, as Father John said, armed with a special commission for the searching out and destruction of heretical books and the suppression of heresy, and he was determined to carry through his work with an unsparing hand. It was a good omen to be thus met at the beginning, and served in some degree to counterbalance the chagrin he had felt at discovering that his chief prey had escaped him.

Father William had set out only the day before his return, on a visit to London, and there was too much reason to fear that by the connivance of friends, he might escape to Germany. But here was a notable prey to be taken at once, and he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. He commended Anne for her faithfulness, though he gave her less praise and paid less attention to the rest of her confession than she thought she deserved. However, he told her she had taken the best means to get rid of her trouble of mind, and confirmed her in the idea that it had all been owing to her having wickedly concealed her brother's errors. A watch was at once set upon Jack's movements, and he was apprehended, as we have seen.

Anne returned to her home with a strange feeling of exultation. She had done the deed. She had sacrificed what was nearest to her, and shown plainly that nothing was so dear to her as the cause of the Church and true religion. Surely, surely all must now be right with her. There would be an end forever of these haunting doubts, these wild temptations to go to Jack, own herself convinced, and beg for instruction. This feeling lasted her all day and till she saw her brother finally carried away to a fate which she knew too well, and heard her father's voice commanding her to her chamber. Thus she went to her room.

Lo! Her enemy was there awaiting her, armed with tenfold power.

She had done the deed. She had betrayed her brother to shame and death, she had incurred her father's hatred and curse, which was withheld only for the sake of his son; and all for what? Was she any nearer to the quiet of mind she had so ardently desired? She did not find it so. Instead thereof, her doubts returned with tenfold power. They were no longer doubts, they were certainties—demonstrated truths. She did not reason upon them; she could not.

She felt, rather than knew, that it was Jack who was the martyr for the truth, and she was the Judas who had betrayed him. She had denied her Lord, belied her own conscience, and sacrificed her family to a monstrous lie. What would she not have given to recall the events of the last few hours? But it was too late—forever too late; and the thought filled her with inexpressible anguish and despair.

Anne rose at last from the floor, where she had thrown herself at the foot of the crucifix, and in the sheer restlessness of misery wandered into Jack's room. There were all his treasures; his strings of birds' eggs, his shells and other foreign curiosities derived from traders and sailors, his Latin books and exercises. The blackbird and squirrel he had brought from the country were hopping about their cages, and seemed to wonder why they were neglected. Anne took down the cages and ministered to the wants of the occupants. The action, simple as it was, seemed to bring her some relief, and as the blackbird tuned up its mellow whistle, she leaned her head beside the cage, and wept long and bitterly.

The little cupboard where Jack had hidden his precious books stood open. Anne bent down, and looking into it she saw something in a far dark corner, for the recess extended deep into the wall beside the chimney. She drew it out, and looked at it. It was a small copy of the New Testament. Arthur had received from London a number of these new books, and had given one to Jack. Jack had put it away with the rest, but it had been overlooked by the searchers in their haste and triumph at finding their great prize. Anne stood looking at it for a few minutes, and then returning to her room and once more fastening her door, she sat herself down to read, nor did she move from her place till it was too dark for her to see.

At dark, Cicely herself brought her a light.

"Where is my father?" Anne ventured to ask.

"He is below, poor dear man!" returned Cicely sobbing. "He has been to the prison to see—" here her voice was lost in tears. "Your brother is better lodged than we had hoped," she continued presently, "along with old Thomas Sprat and some of the townspeople, and we are permitted to send him bedding and refreshment. Your father says you are to use your pleasure as to staying in your room or coming down to supper. He does not desire to make a prisoner of you!" added Cicely, with emphasis.

"Return my thanks to my father," said Anne sorrowfully but calmly, "and say to him that, with his good leave, I will remain here. Tell him I thank him for his goodness, and if he will but add this much, to pray for me, I can ask nothing more."

Cicely repeated the message, adding that she hoped Anne was not going out of her mind, or meditating anything desperate, for she looked as if she had seen a ghost.