CHAPTER VII.

FATHER JOHN AT HOME.

TWO or three days after the descent of Father John into the brook, Jack had an opportunity of sending home, by one of the knight's servants who was going to Bridgewater market. He wrote a note to his father stating that he had had the ill-luck to offend the parish priest, and begging for a bottle of strong waters as a peace-offering. He received more than he asked, for Master Lucas not only sent the bottle, but also a mighty and well-seasoned pasty on which he had expended all his skill, and a basket of sweet cakes and confections such as were in fashion, with a small parcel of sugar candy, then a great luxury, and some rare spices.

Armed with these provisions, Jack presented himself at the parsonage. He was received by the priest at first with a certain conscious stiffness and formality, which, however, gave way at once as Jack spread the contents of the basket before him and gave his father's message.

"Truly, truly, I said thou wert a good lad, though thou dost throw stones inconsiderately. But boys will be boys, and we were all young once; all, at least, but Brother Barnaby, who I do verily believe was born with a shaven head and fifty years old at the least. Truly your father is a man of taste and good sense, and no doubt has brought you up well. You can say your catechism now, I dare say?" asked Sir John, as though suddenly remembering his priestly character.

"Oh yes, your reverence," replied Jack promptly, determined to conciliate the old man if possible. "I know my catechism well, and the Penitential Psalms both in Latin and English. Shall I say them, your reverence?"

"Another time, another time," said the old man hastily. "But now tell me, of what were you and your uncle talking that unlucky day, eh?"

"Of my sister, sir, who is out of health, and the causes of her illness."

"And of what else do you talk?"

"Nothing wrong, I trust, sir," replied Jack. "My uncle often tells me of his travels and adventures in foreign parts when he was abroad with his master; and sometimes we talk of things I have read in my books."

"Well, well, I dare say there is no harm. I trust not, for look you, my boy, you are a scholar and quick for your years, and like to be taken with novelties; and I would ill like to have any harm come to you, though you did take me for an owl," said the father chuckling. "I have no notion myself of peeping and spying into other men's matters. If they be heretics, why so much the worse for them; but there is no need to blaze abroad the matter, and so make two where was one before. You don't know any heretics in this parish, I dare say?" said the old man, looking wistfully at Jack.

"No, your reverence, that I do not," replied Jack, glad that the question was put in such an answerable shape. "You know I have been here but a little time, and seen very few, scarce any one but my uncle and the knight's household."

"True, true, your uncle is no ale-bench haunter, and you are more likely to be taken with some tale of chivalry than with the talk of country clowns, or with volumes of divinity either, I should say. Tell me now, can you construe Latin?"

"Oh, yes, your reverence," replied. Jack. "I have read Caesar his Commentaries, and Virgil, and a little of Horace, and I am to read more so soon as I can find a book."

The old man rose and went to his cupboard, from whence, after some shuffling of papers, he brought forth a letter sealed with a gorgeous coat-of-arms.

"See here," said he. "The Abbot of Glastonbury has sent me this epistle all in Latin. As far as I can make out, it is about certain lands which the abbey possesses in this parish. But, our Lady help me, I never was the brightest scholar in the world at my Latin, and I have forgotten all I ever knew, save so much as may serve me for mass. Do you think now you could construe this letter for me, and say nothing about it?"

Greatly delighted with the turn things had taken, Jack promised secrecy, and proceeded to translate and expound the letter, not without sharply criticising in his own mind the Latinity of the reverend writer.

"He writes like a booby of the fourth form," said he to himself. "Wouldn't Master Crabtree give it him for his concords?"

"And you are sure now that you have the right sense?" asked Father John.

"Oh, yes, sir. That is the whole of it."

"And now he will be expecting an answer in Latin," groaned the poor father. "And how I am to compass that, I cannot guess. I might ask Brother Barnaby, but then—he is a good man, and learned, but he hath short patience with the mortal infirmities of other folks, seeing that he hath none of his own. He would be sure to deliver me a lecture and—"

"So please your reverence, if you will give me in English the substance of your answer, I will put it into Latin for you," said Jack, who began to feel a great kindness for the poor, good-natured old man.

"Oh, my dear son, but are you sure you can do it to the Abbot's satisfaction? He is a great man, you know, is the Abbot of Glastonbury."

"I think I can, your reverence; I was accounted a good scholar in Bridgewater grammar school, where I took the gold medal last term," said Jack, adding to himself, "I am sure I never should have got it if I had not written better Latin than the abbot's secretary."

"Well, well, I will think of it, and inquire about the land, and tell you what to say. And now see here."

Father John opened once more the cupboard where he kept his papers, and brought forth a book beautifully bound and clasped.

"You say you want a Horace. Well, here is one which was left me by an old college friend. I cannot use it, and you can, and it were better in your hands than mouldering away in this old nook. Take it then, my son, and the saints bless you. Surely I never thought to like you so well when you tumbled me into the brook the other day."

Jack could hardly believe in his good luck. Such a beautiful Horace, with illuminated letters and title. Sir William himself had nothing like it among his treasures.

"There, there," said the priest, interrupting his thanks. "Say no more, say no more. Who is this stopping at the door?"

"It is Father Barnaby as I think," said Jack, looking from the window. "I have seen him in Bridgewater. Yes, it is he."

"Alack! What has brought him here just now?" groaned Father John. "He will see the pasty and spices, and there will come a lecture on fleshly appetites. Do you take the pasty into the next room; or stay! Let it remain, but hide the abbot's letter there in the cupboard. And oh, dear son, mind what you say to him. He is a hard man."

Jack hastily arranged the table in order, put away the letter, picked up the priest's breviary which had fallen on the ground, and laid it open before him, and then assumed a respectful position behind Father John's chair, keeping his beloved Horace in his hand. Presently Father Barnaby entered. He was a tall, dark, thin man, who looked indeed as though good eating had little charms for him. He returned Father John's meek, flustered greeting with a certain air of condescension and authority, and Jack's scarcely at all.

"Will you not take some refreshment, brother, after your ride?" asked the elder priest. "I am better provided than usual, thanks to the liberality of this good lad's father, Master Lucas of Bridgewater."

"Nothing for me, thank you, brother," replied Father Barnaby. "I eat nothing between meals. To you, who lead a life so much more laborious than mine, the case is different."

Jack saw the old man wince at the sarcasm, and resented it for him.

"Whatever you know," thought he, "you have not learned one thing, and that is to respect your elders."

"So you are Master Lucas's son of Bridgewater," said Father Barnaby, turning his dark eyes on Jack with no very friendly expression. "I have heard of you, young sir, and am glad to meet you. I must have some conversation with you before we part. But I must send my attendant brother with a message to the Hall."

"Hark ye, dear son, don't anger him," whispered Father John, as Father Barnaby left the room. "Don't contradict him or give him a handle against you. He is a devil when his temper is up, the saints forgive me for saying so! And he is as keen after heresy as a terrier after a fox. Be on your guard, there's a good lad."

"I will, your reverence," said Jack, and, wondering whether the trial Richard Fleming spoke of had arrived already, he lifted up his heart in prayer for strength and wisdom. But the trial was not to come just yet.

Father Barnaby came back in a moment, and seating himself in the hardest chair in the room, he called Jack to stand before him, and bent his eyes upon him as though he would look him through.

Jack sustained the glance with modest confidence, and waited to be spoken to.

"They tell me you are a scholar," said Father Barnaby, "and I hear of you that you have an appetite for novelties and would fair pry into high and sacred matters."

"Who told you as much as that, I wonder?" thought Jack, but he held his peace.

"I do assure you, brother, the boy is a good boy," said Father John, timidly and anxiously. "He can say his creed and questions, and is regular in his duties."

"Say you so? Then you have examined him?"

"Oh, yes," replied Father John hastily, "and he can say the seven Penitential Psalms."

"That was a bit of a fib," thought Jack, "but after all, I dare say he thought he had."

"I am glad to hear as much," said Father Barnaby, though he did not look so. "But I propose to examine him myself, always with your leave, good brother. I would not for the world trespass upon your rights and duties, especially the latter which you are so careful to fulfil."

Jack was trying hard to keep his mind in a calm and proper frame for the trial which he supposed was coming; but he could not help thinking that he should like to break the monk's head for his insolence to his old friend. He felt that Father Barnaby meant to intimidate and confuse him; and he was determined to be neither confused nor scared. After another interval of silence, the younger priest began again—

"I have heard something of an ill report of you, young man; and I desire to discover whether there is any foundation therefor. So answer my questions plainly and directly, and let me have no evasions."

"So please your reverence, I will do my best to satisfy you," replied Jack, modestly. "I trust I have been well taught both at home and at school, as well as by our parish priest."

"Umph!" returned the priest. "It takes more than good teaching to make a sound Christian. Now tell me—but what book is that you are hugging so closely under your arm?"

"My Horace, an't please you," replied Jack, producing the volume.

Father John had declared that Father Barnaby had no infirmities, but in this he was mistaken. Father Barnaby did possess one unregulated affection, and that was love for the Latin poets, above all, for Horace. If anything could draw his attention from a controversy or make him forget his canonical hours, it was a new edition or a disputed passage of his favorite author. He had read all that had ever been written on the subject, and had himself written a treatise on the question as to whether Leucothoe in the eleventh ode was a real person or a figment of the poet's imagination, and also upon the Babylonian numbers in the same ode.

"So you read Horace, do you?" he asked, in quite another tone of voice.

"But a little, your reverence," returned Jack. "I had but just begun it when I left school; and I fear I shall find it too hard without some help."

"How far had you gone?" was the next question.

"I am just at the eleventh ode, but I do not understand it very well," said Jack, not less pleased than surprised at his catechiser's change of tone and manner.

"Find your place, and I will explain it to you," said Father Barnaby. "I have bestowed much study upon it—too much, some might say, for a churchman; and I can, no doubt, help you."

For more than two hours, till the lay brother he had sent to the Hall returned with his message, did Father Barnaby expound to his willing and attentive pupil, divers different and disputed passages in his favorite author, delighted to find that Jack understood and appreciated him. Then bestowing his blessing, and promising to send Jack a copy of his own treatise, he rode away in high good humor, and was half way back to the convent where he lived before he remembered that he had forgotten after all to question Jack as to his theology.

"But I can do it another time," he said to himself. "I dare say the lad is sound enough. How cleverly he understood the points in dispute between myself and Brother Thomas of Glastonbury, and how clearly he perceived that I was right. I will certainly send him the treatise."

"Well, the saints be praised!" said Father John, when his visitor was out of hearing. "He has for once gone away in a good humor. How glad I am that I thought of the book! I am sure I never cared so much for a book before. He was a heathen, I doubt, this Horace," he added, looking dubiously at Jack.

"Yes, your reverence," replied Jack, suppressing a smile. "He lived before our Lord was born into the world."

"Ah, well, then he could not be blamed, poor man. He has done us a good turn this day, at any rate."

"Will you give me the notes for the answer to the bishop's letter?" asked Jack.

"Not to-day, not to-day, my son. My poor old pate buzzes like a beehive with all this learning. Go, lad, and come again; let me see, ah, come on Saturday. Be a good lad, and above all meddle not with heresy. My blessing be upon this Horace whoever he was," he murmured, when Jack had taken his departure. "I will certainly say some masses for him when I have time. And it does no good, it can do no harm."