CHAPTER IV.

SEED BY THE WAYSIDE.

From this day forward Jack had a new interest and a new object in life—to find the old Bible. Day by day, he explored every possible hiding-place, turning things upside down in all directions, and rummaging, old Margery declared, worse than a rat or than the goblin which haunted her father's barn. Over and over again, did he take the false bottom out of the little footstool, where the book had once been concealed, and gaze into the empty space, as if he thought he might somehow have overlooked the cumbrous volume, and might perhaps find it by more careful search.

The book haunted his very slumbers. Often did he dream of finding it, and once the dream was so vivid, that he went before sunrise to the little dell where he had seemed to discover it under a flat stone. But, alas! There was no such stone to be seen, and he came sadly back a little ashamed of his own credulity, and having gained nothing but a prodigious appetite for his breakfast.

Jack had but one consolation, and that indeed was a great one. He made the shepherd repeat to him all that he could remember of Holy Scripture. The old man's memory, though somewhat impaired as to late occurrences, was as vivid as ever for all those things which had happened in his youth, and he was able to repeat whole chapters of Wickliffe's version of the Bible, which, rude and imperfect as it was, had been as a savor of life unto life to many hungry souls.

Jack was astonished at the things he heard, and still more at those he did not hear; and not a little grieved to find that some of his favorite legends of saints had no place in the Scripture at all.

"Tell me of St. Anne, our Lady's mother," he said one day.

"There is only one place about St. Anne," replied the shepherd, and he repeated the story of our Lord's presentation in the temple.

"Is that all?" asked Jack in a disappointed one. "I do not see that it says a word about her being our Lady's mother."

"Nothing at all," answered the shepherd.

"Perhaps the story is in some other place," Jack suggested.

But the old man shook his head.

"I have read the New Testament all through," he said. "There is not a word said about our Lady's mother, and very little about our Lady herself."

Jack looked startled. "But do you think it could have been the true and right Gospel, Uncle Thomas?" he said. "The priests tell us more about our Lady than about our Lord himself; and I am sure that Anne says ten prayers to her for one that she says to our Lord."

The old man did not answer immediately, and Jack repeated his question, "Do you think it could have been the true Gospel after all?"

"I have been thinking, Jack—" said the shepherd, after a little silence, and without answering or seeming to hear the question, "I have been thinking that I have perhaps done wrong in this matter."

"How?" asked Jack.

"Because the knowledge I have given you, may bring you into danger. Because the questions I have raised in your young mind will not be lightly laid again. And how shall I answer it to your father, if anything happen to you?"

"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, after a little silence, "your father did not fear to expose you to the danger."

"No, because my father was fully persuaded in his own mind. He esteemed the true knowledge of God and his truth worth every danger which could befall. I well remember his words to me, whispered in my ear as he gave me his last embrace, 'My son, remember the words of our Lord: Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but fear him who is able to cast body and soul into hell!'"

"I cannot but think he was right," said Jack, with decision, after a little pause. "I cannot but think the truth must be worth any danger that can come upon us for its sake. Nor can I yet understand why reading God's Word should make men heretics. The priest at the convent says it is because ignorant men know not how to use it, and that it is like a poisonous drug which can be safely touched only by a physician."

"Ay, I have heard that story often enough," said the old man; "and how that the giving the Scripture to the common folk is a casting of holy things to the dogs and pearls before swine. A pretty saying indeed, to call those for whom Christ died, dogs and swine!"

"Do they then christen little whelps and pigs?" asked Jack, shrewdly. "Methinks that were as great an abuse of holy things as reading the Bible to the vulgar people."

The shepherd smiled. "Thou art a shrewd lad. Take care that thou make thy wit keep thy head instead of losing it."

"I will take care," replied Jack, with all the confidence of fifteen. "But, uncle, according to all that you tell me, the holy apostles were but common men like ourselves. St. Peter and St. John were fishermen and worked for their bread; and yet our Lord's sayings were spoken to them."

"Yes, I have often thought of that," replied Thomas Sprat. "Those they called the Pharisees were learned men, it would seem, and yet our Lord did not call His apostles from among them. He even told them that the publicans and the harlots should go into the kingdom before them. Strange how the words come back to me more and more!" continued the old man, in a musing tone. "I would not have thought I could repeat so many: 'But the Holy Ghost shall teach you, and shall bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you.' I well remember how my mother repeated to me those words when I first went from home to the Stonehill farm. I was deploring my fate in being obliged to go away where I could no longer hear and read the Word of God, and saying that I feared that I should forget all that I had learned."

"'My son,' said she, 'remember that you carry with you a teacher who is able to make you wise, even without the words of this book, and without whom even the book itself can teach you nothing. I mean the Holy Spirit of God. Our Lord promised this Spirit of truth to His disciples, and said:'"

"'"He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you."'"

"'Ask constantly for this Spirit, my son, and it shall be given you.'"

"And so verily have I found it. I have been exposed to many dangers and temptations in my long and wandering life, and, woe is me! I have sinned often and grievously; but in times of the greatest trial, there have been brought to my remembrance words of my father's book which have kept me back from sinning, or encouraged me to return when I had wandered away."

"And do you think," asked Jack, in a tone of awe, "that it was the Holy Ghost which brought these words to your mind?"

"I cannot but think so, my son."

"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "is it not—"

"I believe I know what you would say, my son," said the old man, as Jack paused. "You would ask if it is not presumption to suppose that God Himself teaches and governs us. I cannot think so. It would be so, doubtless, if He had not given us warrant for it in His Word; but so long as He says, He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children, I think we are bound to believe Him."

"'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"

"Jack," added the old man with energy, "I thank God that I have been led to open my heart to you, for the repeating of the Scriptures to you has so refreshed my memory of them, as I could not have believed possible."

"And I am thankful too," said Jack. He sat musing for some minutes, and then added, "Yes, I am thankful, and shall always be thankful, even though the words of Scripture should bring me to such a fate as they did poor Agnes Harland."

"Who is Agnes Harland?" asked the shepherd.

Jack started.

"I am wrong," said he. "I promised Anne I would never tell the tale again. It was something which happened in the convent."

The shepherd nodded sagaciously. "Ay, ay. I can guess," said he, "but say no more, dear boy. Remember that a promise broken without great necessity is a lie told, and beware, of all things, of lying. But this is the conclusion of the matter: God is always ready to hear the prayers of His children, and to help them at their need."

"But, Uncle Thomas, suppose one should wish to pray for something, and should not know any prayer which said what he wanted."

"Then I suppose he must make a prayer for himself, as David did, and as other saints have done. I know no other way."

That night when Jack went to bed, he prayed that God would show him where the old Bible was hidden, or send him another.

A few days after this conversation, Master Lucas made his appearance at the shepherd's cottage, mounted on his easy ambling mule, and followed by his man Simon.

"Well, well," he exclaimed, with his usual jolly laugh, as Jack ran to help his father dismount. "Why, this is fine, to be sure! This is a sight for sore eyes. Uncle Thomas, you are worth all the doctors and wise women in Bridgewater. Bless thee, boy, thy father's heart is glad to see thee again."

"It is but little that I have done," said Thomas Sprat. "The credit of Jack's cure belongs to the fresh air of the hill far more than to me. But come in, come in, cousin Lucas. You must be in need of refreshment. You do not often ride so far from home."

"Why, no, not of late years," replied the baker, bowing his head to enter the low door of the cottage. "I do grow too stout for journeying. Ho! Dame Margery, how goes all with you? Why, you look so young and well-favored, we shall have you fitted with a gay bridegroom next."

"Fie, fie! Master Lucas!" replied the old woman, chuckling nevertheless at the compliment. "Well-favored is far past my time of life. But you yourself are looking purely, Master Lucas, and your voice is like the knight's hunting horn. 'Tis not often I hear any one so plainly."

"Come now, I cannot have you young folks bandying fine speeches," said the shepherd. "Bestir yourself, Margery, and provide refreshment for Master Lucas and his man and for the beasts."

"Don't trouble yourself about the beasts," said Master Lucas. "The fine fresh grass will be a treat to the poor things. I have brought thee some linen and such like, my lad, and Cicely has packed a whole pannier of good things. Bid Simon bring them into the house."

"And Anne, dear father?" asked Jack. "How is Anne?"

Master Lucas's face clouded at mention of his daughter. "Why, well in health—that is, think she would be well if she would let herself alone and live like the rest of us; but she is wearing herself into her grave with her penances. 'Twas but the other day, I found out that she slept on the hard boards every night, and, not content with that, she must needs strew ashes on them. I know not what to do with her, and that is the truth. But there is great news about the gray nuns' convent where she learned all these ways. It is to be put down by order of my lord cardinal, along with many others—some forty, they say—all small ones like this."

"For what reason?" asked Jack.

"I do not understand, exactly. For the founding of some college or other. Anyhow he has the order from his Holiness the Pope, and so the nuns must budge, will they nill they. Poor old girls! I wonder much what will become of them all. I don't love them too well, but it pities me to think of them turned out all among strangers, and I have told Anne if she has any special friend among them she may ask her to stay with us till she can have time to turn herself."

"You are the very best man in the world, father!" said Jack. "I do believe there never was such another."

"Tut, tut, lad! I trust there are many better in our good town. I will say for Anne, she was very grateful, and thanked me prettily enough, poor child. But you and I have lived to see many changes, Uncle Thomas. 'Tis but a little while since folks were wondering over hearing the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Commandments said in English in the churches. Who knows what may come next? We may live to hear the whole Bible read, as they say the Lutherans do."

"Not in my time, I fear," replied the shepherd. "But is not this a strange move of my lord cardinal's? There is much discontent already with the religious houses, and the monks complain everywhere of the disrespect with which they are treated. To my mind, this measure is a little like showing the cat the way to the cream."

"Maybe so! Maybe so! I fear me the cat will find her way to that cream-pot without showing, some of these days," said the baker. "But anyhow, the gray nuns must troop, bag and baggage, and there is talk of my Lord Harland buying the house and lands. They say he brought home much treasure from the Low Countries, and some pretend to affirm that he is a favorer of the new doctrine. Anne, poor maid, went off into a fit of weeping when she heard the story. I suppose it is but natural she should be grieved at seeing the place go into secular hands."

Jack thought he understood better the cause of his sister's grief. He remembered the sad tale of Agnes Harland, and could not help wondering whether she were still alive and whether the suppression of the convent might prove her release.

"But even if she be living, they will doubtless make sure work with her before that day comes," he thought. "She will have secured her martyr's crown before this time."

Meantime Dame Margery's exertions had spread the board with a hearty and substantial meal, to which the travellers did full justice. Master Lucas praised everything, declared that such milk and butter were well worth the ride, and shouted compliments to Margery till the old woman fairly blushed. He was one of those happy people who are always disposed to see the bright side of everything, and who come like a broad beam of sunshine into every house they enter.

"Well, we must even be jogging homewards," he said, at last. "My mule is not swift at best, as how could she be, poor creature, with such a load on her back? We must not be late, or the women will imagine all sorts of dangers and horrors."

"And indeed, I would not have you out after dark," said Thomas Sprat. "The waste here harbors many vagrants—gypsies and the like, who bear none too good characters."

"I will go with you a part of the way, father," said Jack. "I suppose Simon can foot it a mile or so, and I will ride his beast and walk back."

"That can I, indeed, and will do so with a right good will," said Simon the journeyman, who, truth to say, was something the worse for his unusual equestrian exercise, if so it could be called, and who looked forward with no great pleasure to mounting his mule again. "I would gladly walk half the way back to Bridgewater."

In a short time the mules were saddled, the last good-bys said, and Jack and his father were riding soberly side by side on the road to Bridgewater, while Simon trudged after them on foot, keeping at such a distance as not to overhear their conversation, yet as near as was consistent with "manners." Their talk was of home matters and of the news of the town.

Jack begged his father to send him some of his books. This the old man at first flatly refused to do, saying that if Jack had his books he would spend his time poring over them and would soon be as bad as ever again; but upon farther entreaty, and on Jack's representation that he should have to be out of doors with the sheep all day, at any rate, and that he should forget all he had learned, his father so far gave way as to say he would consult Sir William about the matter, and if he thought best, the books should be sent; and with this promise Jack was fain to be content.

Presently they met and passed a man mounted on a serviceable riding hack, and followed by a mule loaded, as it seemed, with merchandise. The traveller was dressed like a merchant, and Jack did not fail to notice that he held a small book in his hand, which at their approach, he put into his pocket.

"There's a man after your own heart, son Jack," said the baker. "He reads as he travels along the highway. Good-day to you, sir!" he added, addressing the traveller as they came within speaking distance. "Methinks your horse must be a steady one, since he allows you to study upon his back."

The stranger smiled and bowed courteously. "My horse and I are old companions and well acquainted," he replied. "Nevertheless, I do not often make a reading chair of my saddle. I did but refresh my memory as to a passage on which my mind was running. May I crave to know if this is the road to Holford and the house of Sir John Brydges?"

"You are just in the road," said Jack, "but the knight is not at home. He went up to London the day before yesterday."

A shade of disappointment passed over the stranger's grave face. "Then we have passed each other on the road. I am very sorry, for my business is somewhat pressing. Do you know, my young sir, how long he will be gone?"

"About a month, I heard them say at the Hall."

"Well, I must needs go on my way, nevertheless," said the stranger. "Doubtless there is some house of entertainment in the village where I can abide for the night."

"There is indeed, sir, and a very decent place, too, the Appletree Inn kept by Widow Higgins. But if you go up to the Hall they will care for you hospitably," said Jack. "They turn no one away, gentle or simple, who comes before eight of the clock. Men say the knight's house is as open as his heart and hand."

"Jack, Jack, how your tongue runs!" said his father. "I pray you pardon the lad's forwardness," he added, addressing the stranger. "The knight hath been kind enough to notice him, and he is one who thinks much of a small favor."

"'Tis a small defect if it be one at all," replied the stranger kindly. "And I am not disposed to find fault with the tongue which runs only with good words. Good-day to you, sir, and the peace of God go with you!"

"A grave and godly man, no doubt," said the baker, as they parted company. "I wonder if he is really a merchant after all. He rode a fine horse, and I noticed his gown was of superfine cloth, and trimmed with costly fur; but these London merchants, many of them, are as rich as the great lords, and live in far greater comfort and luxury than our country knights and squires."

"I wonder what book he was reading," said Jack. "He must be a learned man to carry a book in his pocket."

"I am not so sure of that," said his father laughing. "A man may not certainly be a good baker because his coat is covered with flour."

"But he spoke like a scholar, father," said Jack. "Did you not think so?"

"There was something uncommon about him, for certain," replied Master Lucas. "He had the look of a man who is always thinking of great and grave subjects. To my mind, his face had something the look of our Sir William."

"Sir William had a cousin in London, I know," said Jack, struck by a sudden thought. "Perhaps this might be the same."

"Like enough! Like enough. But, my son, you have gone far enough seeing that you are to walk back. My blessing on thee, dearest lad. Take care of thy health, be dutiful and obedient to Uncle Thomas, and learn all that thou canst from him. Learning is light to carry about, and no kind ever comes amiss. Remember thy duty to God and thy father; say thy prayers every day, and thou wilt never go far astray."

Jack loaded his father with love and messages to all at home, from the good priest and his sister down to the old cat, whose infirmities of now and then helping himself out of the pantry and shop, he besought his father to pardon.

"Never fear; never fear!" said his father, laughing. "The poor beast shall live out his days in peace, I promise thee, for all me. He does but act after his cattish nature, and we must keep temptation out of his way. Once more, my blessing be upon thee."

Jack had begun to feel very manly of late, but all his manliness did not prevent his shedding a few tears at parting with his father, nor was Master Lucas free from a similar weakness, which, however, disguised itself under a sharp criticism of the style of riding of poor Simon, who, he averred, sat his mule like one of his own meal-sacks.

Jack had wiped the drops from his eyes, and was walking briskly on when his foot stumbled on something at the edge of the footpath. He looked down, and quickly picked up the object which had arrested him. It was a small but thick book, bound in parchment and with brazen clasps, and he had no difficulty in recognizing the book he had seen the stranger reading.

He debated for a moment as to whether he ought to open it, but a new book was a rare sight in those parts, and curiosity got the better of his scruples, and he unclasped the volume. The first words he saw arrested his attention, and he walked on reading till he was aroused by some one speaking to him.

"So you have found my book, my fair son. I was coming back to look for it, and am right glad to see it safe. But you seem greatly interested."

Jack looked up with wide-open eyes full of eager interest and a kind of reverential awe.

"Oh, sir, please tell me—forgive me if I am forward—but do please tell me, is not this book a Bible?"