_Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1._
WITH the other proofs of her care and kindness, my mother hath sent
me a store of pens and paper, and I am minded to beguile my somewhat
too abundant leisure, by setting down in order the account of my late
wonderful escape.
Magdalen and Grace take off my hands the whole care of our little
household, and I have hitherto been only too glad to rest, and let them
wait upon me; but my spirits and strength are recovering themselves
sooner and more easily than I could have thought possible, after such a
shock.
I left off my memoranda at the point where I had found the remnants
of funeral torches. All that day and night, as I had opportunity, I
carefully, and without noise, worked the door back and forward, finding
that it yielded more and more at every effort. I knew it led only to
the stairs, and that between me and freedom there still lay the heavy
upper door, with its bolts and bars, and the convent walls; but I had
something else in view. I remembered the ruined staircase leading
upward, and this, if it were possible to scale it, I meant to explore.
Toward night came two veiled figures, bringing me bread and water. I
heard the door unlock at the head of the stairs, and took pains to be
at the farther end of the vault, lying on my bed of straw.
"So!" whispered one of my visitors, while the other's back was turned.
"So this is something of a change from waiting on queens and being the
favorite of superiors. But I ever knew to what it would come."
I am almost ashamed to write it, but my fingers did tingle to pull
the veil from her face and cuff her ears soundly. But I made her no
answer, and did not even look up till they left me. I waited till the
clock told eleven, and then lighted my torch, taking care to shade it
well from the little window, and begun my labors once more at the door.
And here befel a wondrous piece of good luck; for as I fumbled at the
lock, I touched a knob which yielded under my grasp, a little trap fell
inward, and a space was opened through which I easily put my hand and
pushed back the bolt.
I remember having heard of the devotion of some of our Sisters in olden
times, who used to have themselves bolted into this underground chapel
for a day and a night of watching and prayer. Mayhap this trap was made
for their convenience, if they did at any time tire of their solitude.
Be that as it may, I joyfully opened the door and ascended the stairs.
The upper door was fast, and would not yield an inch to all my efforts;
so I turned my attention to the half ruined stairway.
The moon, nearly at full, shone through the window slits, and made
light enough for me to see where to place my feet; and with hard
climbing, and some peril, I reached the top. Lo, there a trap door with
rusted iron grates, which gave way without much trouble; and I found
myself on the top of the tower whereof I have spoken before.
Keeping my head well down, I crept to the battlements and looked
over. The tower joined and formed part of the outer wall, and was
covered by luxuriant ivy of a century's growth, for aught I know. As
I lay here, breathing with transport the fresh air of heaven, I saw
crouched below a dark figure, wrapped as it seemed in a cloak. They
have set a guard, was my first sickening thought; but presently the
person arose carefully and began to peer among the ivy leaves, and
to feel cautiously with the hand. Then the face was raised, and the
moon shining thereon, showed me features which I could never forget! I
ventured to lean forward, and called softly:
"Magdalen!"
"My Lady Rosamond, is that you?" was the answer, in a joyful whisper.
"I knew it—I felt you were here. But how have you got up there?"
"The question is, how I shall get down?" I said, with an odd
inclination to laugh.
"Climb down by the ivy!" was the instant answer. "The main stem is on
this side. 'Tis like a tree, and the wall is also rough. The distance
is not great, even if you fall. But wait. Let them get to the midnight
office, which is tolling even now."
I again lay down on the top of the tower, praying not so much in words
as in will, for the strength and coolness needful. In a moment I heard
the peal of the organ, and then Magdalen's voice, saying:
"Now—my Lady—now! Be cool and steady, there is no danger, thus far!"
Down I went, scrambling like a cat, and getting scratches and bruises
the marks of which still remain. A high wind was blowing, with now
and then a rush of rain, and our old mastiff in the garden was baying
the moon in his usual dolorous fashion. I have many a time wished him
hanged for those musical vigils of his, but now I was glad of anything
to make a little more noise. It seemed an age ere I reached the ground,
and I did get a fall at last, but I was up and in Magdalen's arms in an
instant.
"Now for our best speed of foot!" said she. "Give me two hours' leave,
and then let them do their worst. Can you walk?"
"Yes, run, if need be!" I answered.
"Then hasten after me!"
We soon gained the bank of a little brook, about a mile from the
convent walls, and here Magdalen, bidding me look well to my feet,
slipped into the bed of the stream. I followed her, and we made our way
down the channel, despite the rushing water and rolling stones, till we
reached the spot where the brook descended into a deep ravine.
"We may rest a moment, now!" said Magdalen. As she spoke, we clearly
heard borne on the wind the sound of the convent bell, ringing as if an
alarm.
"Can they have missed us already?" said I.
"Nay, they would hardly ring the bell if they had!" answered Magdalen.
As she spoke, a red gleam shot up, and was reflected on the tall spire
of the church, increasing momently in brightness.
"The torch! The torch!" I exclaimed.
"What torch?" asked Magdalen.
I told her how I had found and lighted the remains of the funeral
torch. I had left it propped up in the corner when I ascended the
stairs, and doubtless it had fallen over on the ground, where the
fragments of cere cloths and coffins, and the straw of my bed would be
as tinder to the flame. I had set the shrine on fire!
"So much the better!" said Magdalen, coolly. "They will have their
hands full enough for the next hour."
"Specially if the flame reaches the stores of fuel in the shed which
joins the shrine!" I said. "I fear the whole will go!"
And a great pang seized my heart as I thought of the home where I was
once so happy.
"Let it go," said Magdalen, bitterly. "It and its like have long enough
cumbered the ground. But we must not tarry here, lady. Follow me—look
well to your steps, and fear not."
We now descended into the ravine, through which the brook raved and
roared, apparently filling the whole space at the bottom.
"There is a path, though of the narrowest!" said Magdalen, as we
reached the bottom. "Tarry a little till I strike a light."
She lighted as she spoke a dark lantern, which she had carried, and
showed me indeed a very narrow path; hardly wide enough for one, under
the banks, which here became high and steep, towering in bare walls
above our heads.
"This is our own Coombe Ashton stream," said she, "and would lead us
homeward, but you must not venture hither till we find how the land
lies."
The day had begun to dawn as we reached a projecting rock, beyond which
there seemed to be no passing.
"Have faith still!" said Magdalen.
As she spoke, she stepped out on a stone in the bed of the stream, and
then disappeared round the projection. In another moment I heard her
voice:
"Now, my Lady, place your foot on that stone firmly, and give me your
hand. Take time. The stream is swollen, but you can do it."
I obeyed almost blindly, for I was beginning to feel exhausted. She
extended her hand—I caught it, and found myself drawn into a recess
or cavern in the rock, of some size, screened above and below by the
projecting cliffs.
"Thank God!" said Magdalen. "We may now rest for some hours. The
king's bloodhounds would not track us hither, and I don't believe
the wild beasts yonder will try. They will think doubtless that you
have perished in the flames. 'Tis not the first time this cavern has
sheltered the saints in time of persecution. It was mine own home for
many days, and there are others like it on these wilds, known only to a
few of the faithful."
As she spoke, she was heaping together some dried herbage in one
corner, and she now bade me lie down, and covered me with the same. She
then produced some dried flesh and a little flask of wine, and would
have me eat and drink, setting herself the example.
"And now tell me, how is my husband?" said I.
"Well in health, but sore distressed in mind," was the answer. "He
believes, as they all do, that you have been carried off by pirates."
"And how came you to think otherwise?" I asked again.
"For several reasons," she answered. "I had seen one that I knew for
a priest, despite his secular dress, peeping and prying about the
place, and I knew he had questioned the children as to your comings
and goings. I had thought to warn you, but was too late. Then I did
not believe a pirate would have taken such a roundabout course, or
would have known the country so well, and—I cannot well tell you, but
it was borne in on my mind that you were in mine old prison; and I was
determined at least to find out. I had made up my mind to gain entrance
as a pilgrim to the shrine above, and I had some precious relics
wherewith to pay my way," she added, with a bitter smile.
"That would have been putting your head into the lion's mouth with a
vengeance!" I said.
"Nay, they would not have known me. The Lady is away, and all who had
ever seen me were dead, or in no case to recognize me. You know I never
frequented the convent gates, and while I was a prisoner, no one saw me
but that kind old woman who waited on me, and the old priest. Beside
that, my stained face and gray hair would have been a good enough
disguise. Then when I saw how thick the ivy grew on the old tower, it
occurred to me that I might gain entrance in that way, and no thanks to
any of them; and I was considering the matter when you called me. But
how did you come to the top of the tower?"
I told her how it had chanced with me. "And what is to be done now?"
"That I cannot well say," she answered, "till we have consulted with
your husband. I know not if it will be safe for you to return at once
to your home?"
"O yes, let me go home!" I cried, as all at once the thought of
Richard's anguish and hopelessness rushed over me. "Let me go home to
my husband! He will know what to do."
And I tried to spring to my feet, but a strange dizziness seized me,
and I sank backward almost fainting.
"You see you must rest," said Magdalen, as she once more produced
her flask of wine, gave me to drink, and bathed my face with water.
"You are utterly worn out, and no wonder. Do but remain quiet for a
few hours, and then if you are able, we will go down to Coombe Ashton
together."
I could not but allow that she was right; and the more, as I really was
unable to stand without giddiness. Magdalen once more arranged my rough
bed, and I sank into a sound sleep, from which I waked to hear the
sound of voices; and raising myself on my elbow, I saw Magdalen in low
but earnest converse with an elderly man, who looked like a shepherd.
As I moved, she turned and hastened to my side.
"How is it with you, madam?"
"Why, well, I believe," I answered, "but who is this? Methinks I have
seen the face before?"
"That have you, madam," answered the old man. "Do you not know your
father's old herd, John Dean?"
I remembered him well as he spoke; an old man, and reported a very
honest one, but unsocial and grave, who lived in a little cottage on
the edge of the moorland. My mother and I had once taken refuge with
him during a thunderstorm, and I recollected how we had both been
struck with the manner and words of the man, as being much above what
we should have expected. Seeing that I had my wits together again, and
seemed rested, Magdalen explained her plans—namely, that I should walk
as far as John Dean's cottage, from whence I could easily send word
home.
"Or better still, let me bring the donkey to the hollow yonder, and
then the Lady can ride," said John. "'Tis a rough way for her walking."
This was at last agreed on, and John hastened away, by what path I
could not see.
"How came he here?" was my first question.
Magdalen hesitated. "If I tell you, Lady, I place his life and that of
others in your hands. Yet you are now one of us, having suffered for
the faith. You have heard of the Lollards?"
I told her I had, and of Wickliffe, who made an English Bible.
She told me "that ever since his day, there had been many of the
faithful, both in England and in Scotland, who preserved their English
Bibles and other books, and met in secret and wild places to read and
study the same, and to pray and praise together. In the towns," said
she, "we do know the faithful by certain private marks placed upon
their dwellings; and we meet in inner chambers and cellars. In the
country, we betake ourselves to dens and caves of the earth, like the
faithful of old, and this is one of our meeting-places."
As she spoke, she displaced a stone in the cavern's side, and showed me
a deep and dry recess, in which lay a great book, which she drew out
and opened. It was an English Bible, not printed as we have them now,
but written with the hand, and well preserved, though the leaves were
dark with age, and some of them ready to fall to pieces through much
handling.
"Those who could write among us made many copies of parts of these
books, which were passed from hand to hand," said she. "But now,
of late, we have had printed books from Germany—even the whole New
Testament, such as that which your friend gave me."
"And is John Dean then one of your number?" I asked her.
"That is he, and one of the best," she answered me. "There are others
scattered through this wild moorland country, and this cavern, where we
have found refuge, is one of our meeting-places. Here also do we keep a
supply of food and drink for any persecuted ones fleeing as a bird from
the fowler, and it was on this business that John Dean came hither this
morning."
I told her I trusted the day would come when every household in England
should have the pure word of God in hand.
"God grant it!" said she. "One thing I know, that the religious houses
and orders are growing less and less in favor with the people. Your
convent yonder is of the best, and gives much in charity, nor did I
ever hear of scandal within its walls as long as I have lived near it;
yet if it were put down to-morrow, as some of the small houses have
already been, I do not believe a hand would be raised in its defence."
[This proved true enough afterward. When the convent was put down, a
few years later, and my husband purchased the lands and what remained
of the buildings, he was fain to set a watch to keep the common people,
who in the days of its prosperity had lived on its alms, from stealing
the very leads and woodwork. Yet our house was one of the best—free
from gross scandal, and always spending a great part of its large
revenue in almsgiving. The truth is that the convents, by this very
almsgiving, did engender and encourage about them a kind of idleness
and careless living, which are the very parents of all ill—a basilisk
brood, ready to devour their mother.]
As we whiled away the time with such discourse, John Dean once more
made his appearance, and signified that all was ready. I found myself
very weak and stiff when I tried to move, but the hope of soon meeting
my husband gave me strength, and I was able to accomplish the scramble
up the bank to the place where the donkey was tethered. Right glad was
I to reach the good man's cottage, and to lay my wearied limbs on his
bed. Here I again fell into a deep sleep, or rather lethargy, from
which I was wakened (oh, blissful wakening!) by my husband's voice and
embrace. The good old herd had sallied forth once more, made his way to
my father's house as the nearest place, and came in upon the assembled
family with the news that the lost was found!
That evening found me safe in my father's house, which I had thought
never to see again. At first my Lord and my father were for keeping no
terms with my abductors. They should learn that in these days a lady
of family was not to be carried off in that high-handed way. But by
degrees calmer counsels prevailed. It was thought that for their own
sake my persecutors would keep quiet, specially as they would doubtless
believe me to have perished in the flames: but the accusation of
heresy was an ugly thing, and might be revived at any time. After due
consideration, it was thought best that Richard and myself should for
the present retire to this our estate of Tremador, where, surrounded by
our own dependants, and with no religious house near to spy upon us, we
might think ourselves safe till those at home should see how matters
would turn.
Hither then have we come, bringing with us for sole attendant Magdalen
Jewell, to whom I owe more than life. She is my own personal attendant,
while Grace rules the household, as usual. 'Tis a kind of exile, to be
sure, yet a most calm and happy one. I am recovering my health, which
was sorely shaken by my fatigue and exposure, and hope soon to go about
the house and to take some order about the dame school, which our good
Father Paul so much desires.
The story goes at home among our servants and neighbors, that I was
really taken by pirates and then abandoned on the waste, in some great
danger, from which I was rescued by John Dean and Magdalen, and we do
not contradict the tale. My mother writes me that the shrine of St.
Ethelburga was all consumed, save the bare walls, and also the sheds of
fuel and the offices. The main building also was much injured, but was
saved.
I know not how long we shall remain here, but I am quite content,
though we have no society but our own and Cousin Joslyn's. The estate
is large, and Richard can find enough to do, so that time shall not
hang heavy on his hands, and we have a constant resource in the study
of God's word. I can't but hope the time will come when we may return
home without danger, but meantime I am quite content.
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