pursued her way through the darkening streets, followed by the
man-servant who had been awaiting her. But she did not go straight home.
She turned aside up a narrow thoroughfare, and entered a house in it,
with the familiarity of one who is known there intimately; and her
servant had to wait long before his youthful mistress reappeared.
She went home, and went straight to her mother, who was weeping and
praying in her upper chamber; there, kneeling beside the bed, Grizel
told of the interview with her father, and then said in a low, earnest
tone:
"Mother mine, give me thy blessing, for I must needs start forth this
very night to save my father."
"Thou, child? What canst thou do?"
"Mother, I have a plan. I will not tell it thee, for it were better none
should know. But pray for me whilst I am gone, that God will bless and
watch over me. Methinks it was He who put the thought into my heart, and
that He will speed me on my way and give me success in the carrying out
of it."
"Thou wilt not run into danger, my child?" said the mother, who had come
to lean upon Grizel, since her husband's captivity, almost as she would
have done upon a son.
"I will not seek danger; I will avoid it where possible. But thou
would'st not have me flinch, mother, when my father's life is at stake?"
"And thou must go to-night? But not alone?"
"I will take old Donald with me! And we must have the two best horses in
the stable. But fear not, mother mine! In three or four days I will be
back; and I trow that I shall have such news to tell, as will make thy
heart sing aloud for joy."
That night, just before the gates of the city were shut, the guard saw
two men riding forth together, the elder of whom he recognised as the
old servant of the Cochranes. The younger of the pair, who looked like
a youth, had his hat drawn somewhat close over his face. Donald gave the
man a ready "Good-night," and paused a moment or two to gossip with him
over the latest news from England.
"They say the next mail-bags will bring poor Sir John's death-warrant,"
remarked the soldier; "they must be in sore grief yonder, doubtless."
"How long does a letter take passing betwixt London and Edinburgh?"
asked Donald.
"A matter of eight days each way," answered the man; and, after a few
more words, Donald rode on, and joined his companion speedily.
"Eight days?" spoke a soft voice, not much like a youth's, as Donald
told the news; "then, should anything go wrong with the warrant, it
would be full sixteen days ere another could be got from London. Sure
that would give the time--the time so sorely needed. Sixteen days!" and
the words ended in a deep-drawn breath.
The old servant looked with loving eyes at the youth--who, of course,
was none other than Grizel habited in the attire of a lad--a plain and
inconspicuous riding suit, which she had borrowed from the brother of a
dear friend, and which a little skill had altered to fit her slim figure
well. Her floating locks aroused no suspicion as to her sex, in days
when huge wigs adorned (or disfigured) the heads of men, and where
those who could not afford these costly luxuries, and yet desired to
keep in the fashion, let their own hair grow, and kept it curled and
powdered. There was nothing specially womanish in the aspect of Grizel's
abundant, curly hair flowing over her shoulders. She looked exactly like
a smooth-faced boy, and bore herself with a bold and boyish air so soon
as they were beyond the radius of the locality where her face
might be known. By the time that the pair rode into the city of
Berwick-upon-Tweed Grizel had come to feel so well at home in her part
that she feared neither to converse with those about her, nor to show
herself abroad in the unfamiliar habiliments of the other sex.
"Donald," she said, that night before they sought their beds, "we are in
time. The mail has not yet passed through. To-morrow, bide thou here,
whilst I ride to Belford, where I hear the messenger with the mails
always pauses for a few hours' sleep. If he come hither with his
mail-bags undisturbed, use thou thy wits, and seek to accomplish that in
which I shall then have failed; but if he should bring news that he has
been robbed, then set spurs to thy horse, and meet me at the house that
I did point out to you as we rode into the town; and bring without fail
the bag containing mine own attire and saddle: for then I must no longer
travel as I do now."
Donald was loth to let his young mistress ride forth unattended; but
Grizel would not have it otherwise. She believed that she would
accomplish the thing better alone; and by leaving Donald in the place
through which the messenger must pass, she felt that she gave herself
another chance, should her first scheme miscarry.
The landlady of the little wayside inn at Belford smiled upon the
bright-faced youth who reined up at her door and asked for a meal for
himself and his horse.
"Step softly, if you will, fair sir," she said, pausing as she opened
the door of the one room the inn boasted for the accommodation of
travellers, "for the bearer of His Majesty's mail-bags stops here each
time he passes, and has a spell of sleep ere he rides on to Berwick. He
is sleeping soundly now, and I would not willingly have him disturbed.
'Tis a weary ride from London."
Grizel's heart beat thick and fast as she stepped softly within the
room, golden possibilities presenting themselves to her imagination of
getting at the bags and destroying certain of its contents, whilst the
messenger slept the sleep of exhausted nature close beside her. But alas
for her hopes! when she saw the sleeper, stretched snoring upon the
alcove bed let into the wall, she noted that he had placed his bags for
his pillow, and that each bag was securely sealed. This being so, she
could neither possess herself of them without too great risk, nor undo
and purloin papers without instant detection.
Food was brought to her, and she forced herself to eat, for she knew
well that she might need all her strength and powers of endurance that
day. And whilst she dined, and the man slumbered, her quick wits were
working at full speed.
Outside, the voices of the landlady and the ostler told her that she
would not be disturbed by a visitor just now. The pistols of the
messenger lay upon the table almost within reach of her hand. With a
quick, stealthy gesture she drew them towards her, and quickly removed
the charges; putting the weapons back accurately in their place when she
had done.
Then, rising from the table, she went out, paid her reckoning, mounted
her horse, and rode leisurely away.
"Your guest sleeps sound," had been her parting remark to the woman.
"Ay, that he do, poor fellow, and I'm grateful that you've not wakened
him, sir; but I must go and do so soon, since he must be on the road
again in half an hour's time."
"Then I shall not have long to wait to know my fate," said Grizel,
between her shut teeth, as she set her horse at a gentle trot. "If he
looks to his pistols when he gets up and loads again, the chances are
that I shall have an ounce or two of cold lead in my brain ere an hour
be past. If not, well then I may have my father's death-warrant safe in
mine own hands in that time! Is that hope not enough for me gladly to
take all the chance of what may else betide!"
The light sprang into Grizel's eyes--the light of a deep devotion. She
looked round at the fair world of nature with the unconsciously wistful
gravity of one who knows he may be looking his last; of one who feels
possible death within measurable distance. Yet there was not a sign of
flinching in that fair face. The soldier spirit, and the spirit of
devoted love were burning upon the altar of her heart. There was no room
for thoughts of self there.
The beat of horse-hoofs behind her told that the moment had come. The
man with the mail-bags strapped to his saddle was advancing rapidly
towards her. Grizel reined back her horse into the shadow of the trees,
and drew out a pistol from her belt. Her heart beat fast and furiously.
Next moment the man had ridden up.
"Stand and deliver!" shouted Grizel, in the most masculine voice she was
capable of assuming; then as the man reined up and regarded the slight,
boyish-looking youth with glances of inquiry and surprise, she added in
a quieter tone: "Sir, I desire to obtain possession of certain papers in
those bags of yours; wherefore deliver them up peaceably to me, and
your life will be safe. Otherwise----" and here Grizel rode full up to
the messenger with her pistol pointed at his head.
In a moment the fellow had whipped out his own weapon; and was holding
it close against her cheek.
"Lay so much as a finger on His Majesty's mails, and I blow out your
brains," he cried; "I am not one to shed blood needlessly, and thou art
a mere boy; but not a finger shalt thou lay upon my bags."
"Nevertheless, it is those bags I mean to have," said Grizel, and put
out a hand to take them.
Click! went the trigger, there was a flash in the pan--nothing more.
Grizel's heart leapt up within her. He was at her mercy now. She would
gain her end! With an exclamation of astonished dismay the man pulled
out the second pistol. Grizel watched him with a smile. The weapon
played him the same trick. He flung it from him with an oath, and threw
himself off his horse to grapple with his slim antagonist,
notwithstanding that the lad held a pistol in his hand.
Now was quick-witted Grizel's opportunity. She seized the reins of the
horse, dashed spurs into her own, and set off at full gallop with the
mail-bags, ere the astonished man well knew what had happened. She had
travelled a quarter of a mile before she paused to look over her
shoulder, and saw the breathless messenger tearing along, panting and
blowing. Grizel calmly dismounted, and tied the horses to a tree hard
by. Then, pistol in hand, she advanced, and signalled the man to stop,
which he did.
"Good friend," she said, "I do not desire to kill thee, so come no
nigher. Nor do I want any but a few of the papers in yon bags.
Wherefore, go back, I pray you, to the inn for one brief hour; and then,
when you return, you shall find your horse and your bags all safe in
this spot; and you may take the news to Berwick as fast as you will!"
A strange bewilderment had taken possession of the man, or else there
was something very compelling in the presence and pistol of Grizel, for
he turned back slowly and walked away, whilst the girl went back to her
precious bags.
These were soon opened and the mere private letters tossed aside. Here
was a likely looking bundle of great parchments with the seals upon
them, which told that they had come from high places. With a beating
heart Grizel tore open this bundle and looked at its contents. Her head
seemed to swim and her cheek grew white as her eyes read the fatal words
that doomed her father to death. There were other parchments, too, with
lighter sentences of fine or imprisonment for others--some of them
friends--who had taken part in the recent insurrection. All these she
took with her, carefully hiding them upon her person; tied up the bags,
replaced them upon the tethered horse, and, mounting her own, set spurs
to him, and never drew rein till she was safe within the walls of
Berwick, and within the friendly shelter of a kinsman's house.
[Illustration: With a beating heart Grizel tore open this bundle and
looked at its contents.
_Page 66._]
Here, with bated breath, she told her tale, and showed the priceless
papers. Here Donald found her, bringing tidings that the whole town was
ringing with the news of how His Majesty's mails had been robbed by a
daring young highwayman. Here, by a blazing fire, Grizel destroyed, one
by one, the fatal documents that else would have desolated so many
homes; and whilst soldiers were going forth to scour the country round
for the youth who had done that daring deed, and who was regarded as a
member of some regular gang, Grizel, in her own attire, was quietly
riding away towards Edinburgh from her kinsman's house, with the old
serving-man in attendance at her side.
It was dusk one evening when Grizel found her way to her mother's room,
and, kneeling down beside the bed, broke quite unexpectedly into
convulsive weeping. Nature was taking her revenge at last; but Lady
Cochrane sat up, and, folding her arms about her daughter, cried in a
strangled voice:
"The will of God be done, my child. No one can achieve the impossible!"
Grizel could not speak; she tried many times, but always broke down,
and suddenly there were sounds in the house of confusion and excitement,
the door was burst open, and two of the younger girls broke in.
"Mother, mother, all Edinburgh is ringing with the news! A young highway
robber has stopped the messenger who was bringing our father's
death-warrant, and it has been stolen, and other expected papers too.
And there can be nothing done to him till the news has gone to London,
and the messenger has returned with a new warrant. And that will mean
time!--time!--time! And if our grandfather's letter be true: why time is
all we need!"
The mother's face had turned from red to white, and from white to red.
Grizel's was hidden in the bed-clothes. Her sisters thought her overcome
by the news they had brought.
"Ask me nothing, mother, yet," gasped Grizel, when they were alone
together, "I will tell all when my father is pardoned!"
Great was the stir and excitement that prevailed when the story of the
robbery became known. Lady Cochrane herself was so far uplifted by hope
as to be able to leave her bed, and drive to the Tolbooth to visit her
husband; and thus it came about that she had the joy of being with him
when the Earl of Dundonald, who had travelled with the greatest possible
speed from London, in terror and almost despair of being in time, was
ushered into his son's prison, and fell upon his neck crying:
"Ah, John, John, thou hast been a sad fool, my boy; but the King's
Majesty has been pleased to grant thee a pardon, thou art a free man
from this hour!"
Then husband and wife fell into each other's arms and wept aloud, whilst
the old Earl, after storming up and down, and rating his son for his
folly, broke down and wept too; and who so proud and happy as Lady
Cochrane as she led her husband home at last, and set him in his own
accustomed chair before the fireside!
That night Lord Dundonald had to tell all his tale of how the pardon had
been procured; bought practically for many thousand pounds, through the
influence of a priest. But little cared the family for aught save the
one great fact, they had their loved one home again. His life was safe.
He was theirs indeed!
But Sir John missed Grizel from the group. She had slipped away whilst
her grandfather's tale was drawing to a close. Why did she not return?
It was old Donald who entered the room after a while and said: "May it
please you, master, the young man who stopped the messenger, and robbed
the King's mails, craves leave of speech with you, if you will give him
a brief audience."
Sir John uttered an eager exclamation of astonishment and pleasure. His
wife caught her breath, and her hands began to tremble.
"Let him come in! Oh, bring him here!" was the general cry, and Lord
Dundonald added: "Doubtless he comes for his reward, and right willingly
will I give it him; for had it not been for that daring deed of his, my
labour and my gold would alike have been thrown away. I could never have
arrived in time. Thy head would have fallen, John, or ever I had reached
Edinburgh. It was with more of despair than of hope that I rode those
weary miles. Though something within me always bid me not give up."
It was a large room in which they sat, and the farther end was in deep
shadow. All turned with breathless expectancy as Donald come in,
bringing with him a slenderly made youth, who wore his hat so deeply
drawn over his face that nothing of the features could be seen. Perhaps
it was from a lack of knowledge of good manners on his part that he did
not remove it upon entering; or perhaps he was too shy to lift his eyes,
and observe the presence of ladies. Shyness does occasionally go hand in
hand with considerable personal courage.
"This is the youth who robbed the King's mails," said old Donald, in a
voice not quite his own.
"My deliverer!" exclaimed Sir John, rising, "and so young and slight,
and of such tender years too! How can I ever thank you enough! Pray
you, dear sir, come somewhat forward, and let us see the face of one to
whom we all owe this great and unspeakable happiness."
Slowly the stranger advanced, at first with drooping head; then suddenly
he flung away his downcast air, put up his hand, and snatched off his
hat!
There was a cry from all present! The mother clasped her hands together
and whispered:
"I knew it! I knew it!"
The Earl stared as though he could not believe the sight of his eyes.
The sisters shrieked and broke into incoherent questioning; but Sir John
opened his arms uttering no word, and Grizel went straight into them,
and hid her face on his breast.
EVA VON GROSS
She lay face downwards upon her pallet bed, in the dim, narrow cell that
she had been striving to regard as a home of sanctity and peace. She had
torn from her head the stiff, white covering that it had worn for hard
upon a year now, and which now seemed ready to stifle her. The long
heavy robe of the nun which she wore fell about her in a mass of gloomy
drapery. Everything was gloomy here. The narrow walls seemed to hem her
in; the loophole window to admit an insufficiency both of air and light.
It was all like the narrow, narrow, pent-up life of the cloister to
which she had been doomed, and which had by this time become as a very
dungeon to her.
"How can I bear it? How can I bear it?" she moaned; "I am so young, so
very young. I have not taken the full vows yet. Oh, why would they not
let me forth? Why may I not be free? I cannot bear the thought of the
long, long years that lie before me--fifty--sixty, perhaps; who can say?
The Reverend Mother is over seventy; and one sister lived to be nigh
upon ninety. Oh, how did she bear it? How did she bear it?"
The young head sank down upon the hard pillow; a moaning came from the
lips that should have been smiling and happy with the dawn of tender
womanhood. But on that fair young face there was a look as of fixed
despair.
Clasped in her hand was a letter, which seemed the immediate cause of
her grief, as in a sense it was; for it was the stern reply sent to her
by her parents in response to her passionate appeal to be taken away
from the convent, and permitted to live the life of happy girlhood in
her father's house, where, as she strove to point out, her place had
been set.
"It is some subtle device of the enemy that is tempting thee away from
the higher life," her father had written; "thy choice was made. It would
be sacrilege that would imperil thy soul's salvation to seek to retrace
thy steps."
"I did not choose! I did not choose!" cried Eva, as if in passionate
remonstrance with the unseen father; "I was weak from sickness; thou and
the priest did persuade me. It all sounded so peaceful, so beautiful, so
holy. But I have tried it; and it is not peace, it is not joy. The
Church is composed of all holy men and women, and we who are baptised
into it become its members, knit into its life. I ask no more. Are these
nuns better than other women? No--I say NO! I have watched. I have
listened. I have felt. It is not a holy life; it is no holier than what
we see led by the saints in the world outside cloister walls. There are
saintly nuns, I deny it not; as there are saintly wives and mothers, and
saintly maidens and virgins without the cloister wall. It is not the
dress, the vow, the life, that makes the saint. It is something far, far
higher. And the Spirit divides His gifts as He will. He is not bound by
gates and bars and high imprisoning walls!"
Again the passionate sobs broke forth; and there was a sound as of anger
and fierce resolve in that weeping, rather than of mere helpless
despair. Eva suddenly sat up, a bright light shining in her eyes, her
mouth taking an expression of almost grim determination.
"They cannot force me to ratify my vows at the close of my novitiate!
What would happen if I refused? What are the tales that are whispered
within these walls of nuns who have been found unfaithful--as they are
pleased to term it?"
The girl was silent. There was a tense look upon her face. She was
pondering deeply. In her dark eyes there showed from time to time a
gleam as of fire. It was plain that within the spirit of this novice of
the convent there dwelt a daring and a courage that is not vouchsafed to
all.
And whence had come to Eva and to some other of her sister nuns this
sudden disgust of convent life?--this sudden conviction that it was not
in accordance with the dictates of nature, nor with the scheme of
salvation as set down in Holy Writ? How came that convent-bred girl to
have glimmerings of a higher calling as a member of the Church, than as
just a so-called cloister bride, brought, as it was then believed, in
some way nearer perfection by having abandoned the place in the world in
which she had been set.
That question is easily answered. Not very long before there had broken
from the bonds of monastic life a young monk, Martin Luther by name, who
had since then been taking the world by storm, preaching and teaching
doctrines of liberty and enlightenment which had made the ears of his
listeners tingle. This bold young teacher was related to some friends of
two sisters, nuns in the Convent at Nimptsch, where Eva was undergoing
her training, and in some way or other many of his writings had been
introduced and circulated within the convent walls, with the effect that
nine of its inmates, including the young Eva, had become so keenly
dissatisfied with the life of seclusion to which they were vowed, that
they were making every effort in their power to gain permission to
rejoin their own families, and to be taken home by their parents.
But however much men's minds might be working with a sense of impending
change--a suspicion that the things in which they had hitherto put
their trust were about to fail them, and crumble into dust;--in spite of
all the upheaval that was beginning in the Church and in the world,
men's minds were not yet prepared for the revolt of nuns from their
cloistered homes. The breaking of the solemn vows they had taken still
seemed a thing impossible to condone or to permit. Not one of the
fathers appealed to had consented to the earnest petition addressed to
him. Not one had admitted the arguments by which the cloistered captives
had sought to win upon the hearts of those in authority over them. Eva's
heart had sunk within her these past days, as the stern replies came
back; but she had ever buoyed herself up with the hope that in her case
mercy would be shown. She was so young. Her full vows had not been
taken. She had pleaded so earnestly. It seemed impossible that her
father should not be moved to compassion. And yet his answer was now in
her hands, and it was a stern, uncompromising refusal to consider her
petition for a moment.
"It was just a temptation of the devil," he concluded.
A step was heard in the corridor without, and Eva quickly resumed her
discarded headgear. Order and discipline were strong elements in her
present life. What would the Reverend Mother or one of the senior
sisters think, if they found her in such dishevelment? But the door had
barely opened before she uttered a little cry of joyous relief.
"Oh, Katharine! is it indeed thou?"
It was one of the marks of those who longed to renounce the convent
rule, that they had discarded, amongst themselves, their convent names.
Katharine von Bora[A] was known as Sister Therese, as Eva was known as
Sister Angela to their sister--nuns; but with the longing after home
ties had come the longing after home titles. It gave Eva a thrill of joy
each time she heard her once familiar name pass the lips of those about
her.
[Footnote A: Afterwards the wife of Martin Luther.]
"My little one, I saw by thy face in the chapel just now, that thou art
in trouble. Is it that thou hast had thine answer too?"
Eva held out the crumpled sheet, and the elder nun's eyes quickly ran
over the written words. She sighed as she read.
"It is no more than I feared; although so much less than I hoped. The
walls and bars of the convent are strong indeed."
"Katharine--ah, sweet Katharine!--do not tell me that thou hast yielded
up hope! I would dare so much! I would do so much! If a monk has
escaped--like that brave Martin Luther--and nought is done to him, why
may not we?"