The next morning, any one ignorant of the interest thrown around
Holgrave, would have been much surprised at the extraordinary sensation
created in the barony of Sudley, by a report which went abroad of the
flight of the bondman. The sun had risen pretty high ere any suspicion
arose that Holgrave had broken his bonds. On the previous Saturday,
Calverley had ordered him to commence his next week's labor with
plowing a certain field; and about two hours before noon, the steward
took occasion to pass the field, in order to ascertain how Holgrave
was getting on with his task; but to his surprise, however, the ground
presented the same unbroken surface it had worn on the previous week;
and after some fruitless enquiries after the contumacious serf, he
at length repaired to his hut, which he found secured. The door was
then forced with little ceremony, and the hearth was found cold, and
the cottage deserted. The bed, the chest, the stools, &c. stood as
heretofore; and it was but the business of a moment for the steward to
glance around the apartment; to raise the lid of the chest; to spring
up into the loft; to descend, and leave the cottage, and close the door
as before.
Calverley had no sooner assured himself of the flight of the bondman,
than he dispatched a messenger to assemble the vassals for the purpose
of carrying the hue and cry in different directions; and he then
entered the castle to inform De Boteler of the event.
Isabella grew pale as she listened; for by some strange instinct she
had so connected Holgrave with the abduction of her child, that his
flight seemed now to have wrested from her her last hope.
"Send forth the hue and cry," said De Boteler. "Scour the country
till the knave be found, and promise a noble to him who discovers the
runaway."
"The vassals have been collected, my lord, and John Byles is now
sending them off by different routes."
"It is well," replied De Boteler; "but can you learn no certain tidings
of his course?" Calverley answered, that the only intelligence he had
yet obtained, was, that Holgrave had been seen at dusk on the previous
evening, standing at his door, talking to his wife's brother.
"What! the audacious monk who thrice entered this castle to insult its
lord?"
"Steward," said Isabella, turning quickly to Calverley, "see that the
vassals have obeyed your orders. Remember, the varlet _must_ be found!"
And, as Calverley withdrew, she said to De Boteler with a thrill of
apprehension, "Roland, do you not remember the words of the monk when
our first darling was lying a corpse? '_The blight has fallen on the
blossom--beware of the tree!_'" De Boteler's countenance changed while
she spoke, from anger to thoughtfulness.
"It is strange, Isabella, that suspicion never fell upon the monk! He
is more artful than the knave Holgrave; and out of revenge for the
church being defeated, might have----"
"No, no," interrupted the lady, "it was Holgrave who stole my child,
although the monk, perhaps, counselled the deed. At all events, he
knows of the bondman's flight."
"Yes, yes, there is little doubt of that: but how can we come at the
truth? Sudbury still retains his wrath against us, and would oppose
an arrest; and even could he be waylaid, and brought hither, he is
stubborn, and might refuse to answer."
"I will write to the abbot," said Isabella.
"Write to Simon Sudbury!"
"Yes, De Boteler," continued the lady, "I will write to him, and try to
soothe his humour. You think it a humiliation--I would humble myself
to the meanest serf that tills your land, could I learn the fate of my
child. The abbot may have power to draw from this monk what he would
conceal from us; I will at least make the experiment." The lady then,
though much against De Boteler's wish, penned an epistle to the abbot,
in which concession and apologies were made, and a strong invitation
conveyed, that he would honour Sudley castle by his presence. The
parchment was then folded, and dispatched to the abbot.
Calverley, after seeing the last, lingering, vassal fairly beyond the
bounds of Sudley, proceeded himself to search in the immediate vicinity
of the castle; but at the close of the day returned without having
obtained the slightest clue. The hue and cry was equally unsuccessful;
and those engaged in the pursuit also returned, cursing Holgrave and
the steward for giving them so much fruitless trouble. The idea now
prevalent at the castle was, that Holgrave had concealed himself
somewhere in the neighbourhood, till the vigilance of pursuit should
relax, when he would attempt to effect his escape. Fresh orders were,
therefore, issued, to search every house, free or bond, on the estate.
Calverley himself superintended the scrutiny; questioned, menaced,
nay, even entreated, but in vain; nobody could tell, except the smith,
because nobody knew; and _he_ would have preferred knocking Calverley
on the head, and abiding the consequences, to betraying a man whom he
had assisted thus effectually to elude detection.
The lady Isabella's application to the abbot had been attended with
as little effect. Sudbury had met with readiness the overtures of
reconciliation, and in accordance with her desire, had interrogated
the monk; but Father John evaded his questions with a firmness which
gave offence to his superior, and convinced De Boteler and his lady,
that he knew much more than he chose to reveal. Spies were set about
his path, but nothing was gained--nothing discovered to prove that any
communication existed between the fugitive, Holgrave, and the obdurate
ecclesiastic.
It was about a month subsequent to this, that one morning, as Turner
was making the anvil ring with the ponderous strokes of his hammer,
two retainers from the castle entered the shed, and delivered an order
from De Boteler for his immediate attendance. Wat laid the hammer on
the anvil, and, passing the back of his right hand across his forehead,
to clear away the large drops that stood there, looked with a kind of
smile at the men as he said,
"My lord wants me at the castle, does he?"
"Yes."
"But does my lord remember the last time I was there? He didn't want me
_then_--he told me he shouldn't be counselled by such as _I_. There is
no rent due, and I have done no wrong--and there can be no business for
me at the castle."
"But, Turner," said the men, "we must not take this answer to the
baron."
"Well, then," replied Wat, "tell him that Wat Turner says he has made
a vow never to enter the hall of Sudley castle again; and if you don't
take that answer, you get no other."
It was to no purpose that the retainers strove to persuade him to send
a reply more respectfully worded. The smith, without heeding them,
put the iron that had lost its heat into the embers, and ordered the
man at the bellows to blow on: and the messengers, after waiting a
few minutes, left the shed without obtaining another syllable. They,
however, shortly returned, and with so peremptory a mandate, that the
smith, not wishing, from prudential motives, to provoke hostility,
threw down his hammer: and first making himself, as he said, a little
decent, proceeded with the retainers to Sudley castle.
Turner thus far complied with the baron's order--but not a foot would
he step beyond the court-yard. He had vowed, he said, when Holgrave's
freedom had been denied him, never to cross the threshold of the hall
again; and without being absolved by a priest, he would not break his
vow, even at King Edward's bidding. De Boteler, accustomed to implicit
obedience, was much provoked at this obstinacy, and, as was natural,
his first orders were to use force; but it instantly occurred, that
no force could compel the smith to speak, and it would be to little
purpose to have the man before him, if he refused to answer his
interrogatories. The compulsory orders were therefore countermanded,
and Calverley was desired to try what persuasion might effect; but De
Boteler could not have chosen one less likely to influence the smith.
The instant that Calverley strove to induce a compliance, Turner might
be compared to a man who buttons up his pocket when some unprincipled
applicant commences his petition for a loan--for not only was his
resolution strengthened not to enter the hall, but he also determined
not to answer any question that might be put to him, even should De
Boteler condescend, like Edward to Llewellin, to come over to him. But
De Boteler was so incensed that the stubborn artizan should presume
to hold out even against solicitation, that, in all probability, he
would not have troubled himself farther with one from whom there
was so little satisfaction to be expected, had it not been for the
remonstrances of the lady, who was instigated by Calverley to have him
interrogated respecting Holgrave's flight. In compliance, therefore,
with her earnest desire, he condescended so far to humour the smith,
as to retire into the adjoining apartment; and as Turner's vow had not
extended beyond the hall, he had no longer a pretext for refusing to
attend.
The frown was still on the baron's brow when Turner was introduced; but
Isabella, veiling her displeasure under a smile of courtesy, said, with
gentle condescension,
"It would be well, my good friend, if all men observed their vows as
religiously as you do."
She paused. The smith bent his head in silence, and the lady proceeded--
"My lord has heard from the steward that you are an honest tenant,
and has directed that any alteration you may require in your tenement
shall be attended to, and that the field which lies at the back of your
dwelling be added to it without additional rent; and, as it gives me
pleasure to encourage the industrious, in any request you may make, my
interest shall not be wanting. And now, honest man," added she, with
even more suavity, "my lord has a question to ask--it is but a simple
inquiry, and I feel assured that a person of such strict probity will
not evade it--know you Stephen Holgrave's place of concealment?" As she
put the interrogatory, she looked earnestly in the smith's face.
Turner was prepared for direct and haughty questions from the baron;
but the covert and gentle manner of the lady rather disconcerted
him: however, though he paused with a momentary embarrassment, yet,
contrary to Isabella's expectation, he firmly, but with a kind of
native propriety, replied--
"Noble lady, I _cannot_ tell you where Stephen Holgrave is concealed."
"It is false, knave!" said De Boteler, who had listened with impatience
to the persuasive address of his lady--"it is false! We are positively
informed that you aided and abetted the flight of this bondman, and
that you alone can give tidings of him."
It was in vain that the baroness cast on him a glance that said he had
adopted a wrong course--it was in vain that his own better judgment
whispered, that he ought to leave the management of the affair in the
hands of her who could smile and sooth, when she had an object to
attain, without the least violence to her feelings: his anger was set
in motion, and it would have required an influence much stronger than
the Lady Isabella's to have calmed its ebullition. Although De Boteler
spoke so rudely, yet Turner was pleased that it was _he_ whom he had
now to contend with; and, looking doggedly at the angry baron, he said,
"My Lord De Boteler, boy or man, Wat Turner was never a knave, and--"
"My good man," said the lady, preventing the interruption she saw De
Boteler was about to make--"my good man, my lord was informed that you
were privy to the bondman's flight; and if you were so far (as you
considered) his friend, I commend your prudent reserve--but I pledge my
word that no harm is intended him: and if he clears his conduct to my
lord's satisfaction, his condition may be better than it has ever yet
been----"
"Isabella, make no promises," interrupted De Boteler--"parley not
with such as he." And, striving to calm himself so as to speak
dispassionately, he added, turning to the smith, "Walter Turner, you
are acquainted with the spot that shelters Stephen Holgrave, and I
insist that you instantly reveal it."
"And think you, my lord," said Turner, firmly, "that if Stephen
Holgrave had told me of his hiding-place, Wat Turner would be the man
to bring him back to his bondage? No, no! I never did any thing yet to
be ashamed of."
"Do you know, blacksmith," interrupted the baron, still endeavouring
to appear unruffled, "that you are not talking to one of your own
class, but to one who has the will--aye, and the power--to compel a
satisfactory reply? And I insist," he added, raising his voice, "that
you tell me where the bondman abides!"
Isabella saw, by the undaunted look with which the smith regarded De
Boteler, that no good would result from this interview; and as she
could not, with propriety, interfere any further, she arose, and left
the apartment.
"Do you hear me, varlet?" asked De Boteler, in a furious tone, as the
smith delayed an answer.
"Why, my lord," answered Turner, with composure, "I told you before
that if I knew where Holgrave was, I would not tell."
"Then you admit knowing where he is hidden?"
"It matters little, my lord, whether I do or not," replied the smith,
in something of a sullen tone; "whatever I know, I shall keep to
myself."
"Say you so, knave?" returned the enraged baron; and then, turning to
an attendant, he ordered that a few retainers should instantly attend.
During the moments that elapsed between the order and the appearance of
the men, De Boteler threw himself back in his chair, and was apparently
engaged in counting the number of studs in his glittering sword-hilt;
and the smith (who, although he felt himself a freeman, yet, from a
natural principle of deference, did not consider he was at liberty to
depart until the baron had given him an intimation to that effect,)
stood, with something of an embarrassed air, awaiting the permission,
and the idea every instant crossing his mind whether this summoning of
the retainers could have any reference to him. But his suspense was
not of long duration--the retainers entered, and De Boteler, raising
himself in his chair, said, pointing to Turner,
"Bear that man to the tumbrel--an hour or two there may teach him
better manners!"
"Bear _me_ to the tumbrel! ha, ha, ha," exclaimed the smith, with that
indescribable kind of laugh, combining derision and defiance.
The retainers approached to execute the order. Turner glanced hastily
around, but no weapon, or any portable article that might serve the
purpose of one, was at hand: he, therefore, had only to step back a few
paces, and to place himself in the best attitude of resistance he could.
"By saint Nicholas!" said he, pushing back the sleeves of his jerkin,
and extending his long sinewy arms, "the first man of ye that lays a
finger on Wat Turner, had better have shrieved himself; for there is
that in this hand (clenching his fist in the face of the man who was
nearest, and speaking through his set teeth)--there is that in this
hand will make ye remember!"
The men paused;--it could scarcely have been through fear, when four or
five were opposed to one, even though that one looked at this moment
rather formidable; but probably they waited for further orders, before
making the apartment a scene of contention, and, perhaps, of mortal
strife.
"Aye," resumed Wat, as he observed the hesitation of the retainers;
"stand back, and I'll warrant ye I shall go quicker than the whole
tribe of ye could drag me. This is no place for me, where, if a man
doesn't tell what's in his mind, the halloo is given to the pack to put
him in the--tumbrel! ha, ha, ha!" Taking advantage of their indecision,
he had walked on to the door of the apartment while speaking, and his
bitter derisive laugh was heard as he crossed the threshold.
"Follow him!" said De Boteler, in a voice that was reverberated
from the high-carved roof, "and place him instantly in the tumbrel,
if the whole force of the castle should be employed." But it was
easier, however, to command than to enforce; the whole strength of
the castle could not attack a single individual; and Wat, on leaving
the apartment, had rushed through the doorway that separated the two
court-yards, and, seizing a large splinter of wood that lay on the
ground, now stood with his back against the wall of the stables.
Those to whom the command was addressed now encompassed the smith,
who, with astonishing dexterity, warded off the blows that were aimed
at his hands and arms to compel him to relinquish the stave. His hands
were bleeding, and his arms swollen; but his heart was like the roused
lion's, and, if unable to conquer his opponents (for the exertion of
parrying prevented him from dealing blows), he would undoubtedly have
at least tired their mettle, had not a stable boy, who saw the fray
from a window above, mischievously flung down a quantity of chaff on
his head. In the surprise and annoyance this created, the weapon was
wrested from his relaxed grasp, and the retainers fastened on him like
wolves. In the manual struggle which now succeeded, Turner was dragged
towards the tumbrel; but, as it met his eyes, he seemed suddenly
endowed with more than human strength. The retainers fell around him,
either from blows or kicks, and blood streamed copiously. At length De
Boteler (who would not permit steel to be used against an unarmed man),
ashamed that so unequal a conflict should so long continue, ordered
that, instead of the tumbrel, Turner should be conveyed to the keep.
This, after much resistance, was effected, and a prison-door was, for
the first time, locked on the intrepid smith.
The abbot of Winchcombe had now become a frequent guest at Sudley.
The feelings enkindled by the detention of Edith, and the defiance
of De Boteler had passed away and were forgotten. Expiatory presents
had been made to the abbey, and a promise given that a gift of land
should be added to its already ample endowments. Sudbury, as we have
already related, had questioned the monk respecting Holgrave and the
child, and, from the evasive replies returned, was strongly inclined
to favour the opinion of Isabella, who now, that the application to
the smith had failed, became more urgent that some compulsory measure
should exact an unequivocal avowal from father John. The wishes of one
so powerfully connected as the wife of the influential De Boteler,
were, no doubt, of some weight with the abbot; but these certainly
would not have influenced him so far as to induce him to adopt a
conduct incompatible with the dignity of his character, had not father
John been known of late to express strange opinions; and the monk,
though poor and friendless, was one of those whose opinions somehow
(it can scarcely be said why) appeared of consequence. It was true
that, although but an illiterate bondman when he gained admission
to the cloister, he was now, if not entirely, the most learned,
undoubtedly the most talented and industrious within its walls: no monk
transcribed so much, none was more devout, more strict in discipline,
more attentive to the numerous and fatiguing duties of his situation
as a secular monk in administering the sacraments, attending the
sick, &c. But, though thus exemplary, strange things were said of
him. He had been heard to declare, for instance, that villeinage was
oppressive, and in every sense unjust; and that every villein was
justified, whenever an opportunity offered, in escaping from bondage.
These opinions, although not sufficiently heinous to have subjected
him to ecclesiastical punishment, were yet considered sinful;--the
first as uncharitable, and the second as subversive of good order: and
they induced Sudbury to act with more rigour than he would have been
inclined to adopt had there been only the vague suspicions of the lady
to urge his interference. Father John, therefore, was again questioned,
and commanded, by his vow of obedience, to disclose the retreat of
Holgrave, and reveal all he knew respecting the lost child: but threats
availed not. In the midst of these adjurations, the abbot received a
paper from a messenger, who burst breathless into the room, with the
intelligence that the Lady Isabella had fallen down in a swoon in her
own chamber.
While perusing this document, and more especially an enclosure it
contained, he looked first amazed and then enraged, casting ever and
anon a look of much meaning upon the monk, who stood cold and calm by
his side.
"Read!" thundered the abbot suddenly, as, after a moment's hesitation,
he thrust the parchment into the monk's hand. "This paper was found on
the dressing-table of the baroness of Sudley!"
Father John read aloud as follows:--
"Thy child is not dead, but sleepeth. At thy bidding, he shall awaken,
and make the desolate heart rejoice. Let Roland de Boteler, Baron of
Sudley, swear, at the altar of Saint Peter's, that, on the day on which
his lost child shall be restored, he will release for ever those whom,
under the law of villeinage, he can claim as his property. Let him
swear this, and, as the Lord liveth, the child shall be restored!"
"Now, what think you of this?" demanded the abbot, when he had finished.
"The sentiments," replied Father John, calmly, "resemble, in part,
those that I have publicly avowed."
"And this is all!--you refuse explanation! you do not even deny the
authorship! Are you not aware, that he who could obtain access to the
chamber now must necessarily be considered the robber of the child?"
"And what is that to me?" coldly demanded the monk.
"Hence, sir! away, unworthy son of the church! away for the present--we
shall soon find a means of bending your stubborn heart!"
Father John's situation from this period became every day more irksome.
He was forbidden to approach the sacraments, and strictly interdicted
from administering them. His brethren passed without noticing him, and
he was not permitted to eat at the board common to all. A small table
was set apart on which his bowl and platter stood, and hints were given
that if his obstinacy continued, he would, ere long, be confined to his
cell.
It was reported that the Lady Isabella had been in a state of great
excitement from the moment of perusing the parchment--that she had
urged De Boteler to make the required vow, alleging that if the
contract was not fulfilled, the engagement would, of course, be
void--and, it was added, that De Boteler himself, had at first appeared
disposed to comply; but, on further consideration, had resolved to wait
till something further should transpire.
There lived, at this time, at the distance of nearly a mile beyond the
town, a man named Giles Gray; and about ten years previous to the time
of which we write, there were few round Winchcombe of whom it might
with more reason be imagined that his days would pass amidst peace
and plenty. Possessed of a farm, which, if not the most extensive in
the parish, was well cultivated and fruitful, and sufficiently ample
to place him among the class of respectable yeoman; with a little
gentle wife, two fine rosy children, and an exuberance of animal
spirits, he seemed placed above the chances of fortune. But his wife
fell into a consumptive illness, which, rendering her incapable of
attending to the domestic affairs, her sister, a pretty, active,
young woman, kindly left her home, at Campden, to take charge of the
family. In less than a twelve-month the wife died, and Jane, the
sister, still continued to superintend, and much was she praised for
her management and for the attention she paid the little orphans.
However, many months had not elapsed, ere strange whisperings went
through the neighbourhood;--groups might be seen conversing earnestly
together;--and, if it chanced that Gray's sister-in-law passed, every
eye was turned up, and every head significantly shook, and Gray was at
length compelled, in vindication of Jane, to produce a certificate,
setting forth that they were married at St. Crypt's Church, in the city
of Gloucester, about six months previously.
But it would have been better for Giles to have left his wife to
the mercy of uncharitable whisperers than have adopted this mode of
justification. The first intimation of his indiscretion was signified
by an order from the parish priest instantly to separate, and by
public penance to merit absolution from the church. A month was allowed
them. The four weeks elapsed, and the incorrigible pair were still
living beneath the same roof; and, on the fifth Sunday, at St. Peter's,
the parish church of Winchcombe, the congregation were assembled; the
tapers lighted, and the missal opened. Some words were then said,
acquainting the people with the crime of Giles and Jane, and cautioning
them against holding any communication with such obdurate sinners. The
bell was next rung--the book closed--the tapers were extinguished, and
the incestuous pair pronounced accursed of God and man. This ceremony
was performed thrice, and when the unfortunate Jane was seized with the
pangs of child-birth, Gray, after having the doors of fifty houses shut
in his face, as he implored assistance for his wife, was compelled to
go to Campden, a distance of thirteen miles, to try what the force of
nature might effect. There his application was not rejected; the aged
mother, although her heart was breaking at the lost and degraded state
of her youngest child, yet consented to accompany Gray; and disguising
herself, that none might recognize her, hastened to Winchcombe.
Jane had been delivered of a dead child about two hours previous to the
arrival of her mother, and lay, trembling and exhausted, in a January
evening, without light or fire. A fever, with violent periodical
shiverings, was the consequence. She slowly recovered; but the two
little children, fondling over their sick mother, (as they called the
unfortunate woman), caught the fever, and in a few days, probably
through want of care, expired.
Things had been getting worse and worse ever since. No labourer would
work for them--no neighbour would purchase from, or sell them, any
necessaries, and all the produce of Gray's individual industry was
carried to Gloucester; for at the populous market of that city, he sold
and bought without it being known that the ban of excommunication cut
him off from all social intercourse with his kind.
It would have been still worse if Gray had rented his farm of one
whose religious principles were more defined than De Boteler's; but
even he, though he would not drive them from the soil, refused to take
recompense for the small portion of land that the man himself could
attend to, and even this portion, small as it was, presented little
of the healthy and cultivated appearance that his broad fields had
formerly exhibited. Sickness often came; and there was the enervating
consciousness of being a shunned and solitary man. Then, too, there
were domestic bitterness and mutual upbraidings and reproaches; and
often did the once industrious and light-hearted Giles, instead of
saving his hay or cutting down his slender crop, lie the whole day
beneath the shadow of a tree, brooding in gloomy discontent over the
dark prospect before him.
Father John, who, for obvious reasons, had not been forbidden to leave
the abbey, was, one evening, in the course of a solitary walk, accosted
by the wife of this man.
"Holy Father," said she, sinking on her knees before him, and raising
up a countenance which exhibited the traces of deep, mental suffering:
"Holy Father, hear me? This entire day, have I been watching for
you.--Oh, do not leave me!" she continued in agony, as the monk,
disengaging his habit from her grasp, with a shudder of disgust would
have hurried on. "Oh! do not leave me?" she repeated, clinging to his
dress. "Have I not heard, when it was permitted me to enter the house
of prayer, that the Blessed Lord had suffered a sinful woman to kneel
at his feet and wash them with her tears! Alas! she could not be as
sinful as I, but"--she bent down her face upon her hands--
"Unhappy woman!" said the monk, in a tone that seemed to encourage her
to proceed--"what would you of me?"
"Oh, father!" said she, raising up her eyes, that were filled with
tears; "it is not for myself--it is for _him_."
Again the monk looked stern, and strove to loosen her hold, but
she held with too firm a grasp to be shaken off, and the trembling
diffidence of her speech changed into the eager and fervent
supplication of one who would not be denied.
"Oh, father! he is dying--the death-sweats are upon him! and can I, who
brought him into sin, see him die under the curse of God? Oh, mercy,
holy father! have pity upon him!--his soul is repentant--indeed it is!
We have vowed, if he should recover, to part for ever--oh, come to him!"
"I dare not--let me go! Is he not excommunicated? has he not lived on
in sin? Let me go."
"Never! never!" replied the woman, with a convulsive scream. "No one
but you dare I ask--and I will not leave my hold, unless you force me!
You know not what is in the heart: even in the last hour there may
be--there is mercy. Let him not die with the curse upon him--and, by
all your hopes in this life, and by the blessedness that will gladden
you hereafter, do not deny the last hope of the wretched!" The woman
again bent down her head, as if exhausted by the intensity of her
feelings.
Father John gazed upon her with a look of compassion; and, though aware
of the danger he should incur, he said, after a short struggle:
"I will go. Can we measure the mercy of the Lord?"
"Will you?" said the rejoiced creature, starting on her feet, clasping
her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven--"may the Lord grant the
prayer that you pray!"
It so happened, that no one passed during this interview; and, as the
monk followed the rapid steps of the woman, he often looked anxiously
around, hoping he might not be observed.
As they entered the dwelling, a child came running forward to meet
its mother: Father John shrunk from the little one, as if its touch
would have been pollution, and approached the sick man. His dim eyes
brightened as they fell upon the monk, and he strove to rise in his
bed, but sank back on the pillow.
"Do not disturb yourself," said the father, in a soothing tone; and,
as the wretched wife left the room, he prepared himself to listen to
the dark catalogue of long-growing crime. Father John exhorted and
encouraged, and with all the fervour of his soul joined the dying man's
prayer for mercy. It seemed as if the spirit had lingered for the
parting consolations of religion; for scarcely were the last prayers
said, ere a slight tremor was perceptible through the whole frame; the
eyes fixed, the jaw fell, and the soul went forth to judgment.
Father John, rejoicing that he had listened to the woman's prayer,
knelt a few minutes in earnest supplication for the departed, and then
rose; but ere he left the cottage, he gently informed the unfortunate
Jane of the event.
It would be a vain task to attempt a description of what followed--of
the agony with which she threw herself by the bed, and kissed the
cold hand and cold cheek, and upbraided herself as the cause of his
sins, and sorrows, and early death; of the desolation that filled her
heart as she looked on the dead, and felt that there was no one now,
except the little child, with whom she dare claim affinity; of the
feeling with which, on the following evening, assisted by a singularly
charitable neighbour, she deposited the body of him she had loved, in
an unhallowed grave, at the bottom of the garden, and went forth in
the darkness of that night, with the child in her arms, to seek, as a
wandering mendicant, the charity of strangers.
It is said, that charity covers a multitude of sins; but how often does
an uncharitable spirit convert that into sin which may in reality be
an act of benevolence; or, at worst, nothing more than the weakness of
humanity? Father John's attention to the dying man was thus distorted.
He was unfortunately perceived parleying with the woman, and followed
to Gray's cottage, by a person employed to watch his motions. The
information was instantly conveyed to Calverley; and as Father John
left the cottage, he started at beholding two officers from the abbey,
standing at a sufficient distance to avoid the contamination of the
dwelling, but near enough to prevent the egress of any one without
their observation. Concealment was impossible; so he stepped boldly
forward, and with the brothers one on each side, proceeded in silence
to the abbey, where he was instantly conducted to his cell, and the
door closed and bolted upon him.
His heart swelled for an instant as the brothers retired; but the
indignant flash presently passed from his eyes, and he rejoiced that
no selfish consideration had prevented him from, as far as in him lay,
saving the guilty soul of the deceased.
The next morning the monk was summoned before the abbot; and with the
same calm and dignified demeanor that generally characterized him, he
obeyed the summons. The two brethren who had conducted him from Gray's
cottage, stood at the table, and the abbot proceeded to say, that upon
the oath of a respectable witness, he had been observed conversing with
an excommunicated woman, and accompanying her to her house, and that
those two brethren (pointing to the officers) were ready to avow they
had beheld him leave it. "Now," continued Sudbury, "what have you to
say? Did you converse with the woman?"
"My lord," replied the monk, "I listened to her earnest prayers."
"Did you accompany her home?"
"I did, my lord."
"For what purpose?"
"To calm the last moments of a sinner."
"Did you not know that his crime had shut him out from the aid of
religion?"
"Yes, my lord; but I was assured, that if he survived, their sinful
intercourse would cease, and that by public penance they would strive
to obtain forgiveness."
"Have you never heard of the fallacy of death-bed promises?" The monk
was silent.
"Did you administer the sacrament of penance to the incestuous wretch?"
"I did, my lord," returned the monk firmly.
"A most obedient son of the church, truly," said the abbot (the
calmness with which he had before spoken, changing into a quicker and
harsher tone). "You have read that obedience is better than sacrifice;
and yet, though suspended from the exercise of the priestly functions,
you have presumed of your own will to absolve a sinner, who, setting
at nought the voice of the church, has lived in sin--a scandal to his
neighbours, and a dreadful example of hardness of heart."
"My lord, I was unwilling that a soul should be lost----"
"Rebellious son! Do you dare to justify your conduct? But this comes
of admitting base blood to the privileges of the gentle. What better
could be expected of a man who held your principles? Now hear me! You
have sinned against the authority of the holy church, and violated your
vow of obedience. You have also exhibited a most contumacious spirit
in refusing to recant those pernicious opinions you professed, and
to answer the questions I before put to you. Retire now to your cell,
and there remain solitary for eight days, that grace may have power to
operate on your soul; and then, if you still remain incorrigible, you
shall be degraded from your order. Retire," he added, waving his hand,
and pointing to the officers to lead him away.
Father John raised his eyes as Sudbury repeated the threat of
degradation. He had expected censure; but he was not prepared for this
extremity of punishment; and the wounded feelings of a high spirit
spoke in the silent glance he cast upon the abbot, as he turned proudly
away, and followed his conductors to the cell.
In eight days he was again brought before Sudbury; but solitude had
effected no change in his sentiments. Three days more were granted, and
on the fourth, all the members of the community were assembled, and the
monk was led from his cell to the chapel. There, in the presence of
the brethren, he was once more asked whether he would publicly confess
his fault in administering a sacrament to an excommunicated man, and
profess his desire to perform public penance for the scandal he had
given; and when he made no reply, he was asked if he would disclose the
place of concealment of the bondman, Holgrave. To this, also, no reply
was given; and finally he was promised, that if he knew aught of the
stolen child of the Lord de Boteler, and would unreservedly declare
all he knew--if he had not actually assisted in the abduction--all
his past errors should be forgiven, in consideration of this act of
justice. But Father John knew, that although by a disclosure he might
avert his own fate, yet he would assuredly draw down inevitable ruin
on Holgrave, and that the hopes he had himself cherished--for the
reader cannot be ignorant that it was he who was the author of the
mysterious document--would utterly fall to the ground; and with that
noble-mindedness, that would rather sacrifice self than betray the
confidence of another, he still refused to answer.
Sudbury scarcely expected such firmness; and there was a minute or two
of breathless excitation and profound silence through the chapel, as
the abbot ordered two brothers to approach the obdurate monk, and strip
off the habit he had rendered himself unworthy longer to wear.
Father John's lips grew pale and quivered; and there was a slight
tremor perceptible through his whole frame, as the monks reluctantly
proceeded to obey the command of their superior. His eyes were fixed
upon the ground; he dared not raise them, for the chequers of the
pavement seemed indistinct and trembling; and yet for twelve days he
had been preparing himself to meet this catastrophe with firmness.
The outer garments were removed; their place was supplied by a coarse
woollen jerkin and cloak, and then the monk, for a moment resuming the
energy that was more natural to his character than the subdued spirit
he had as yet evinced, stood forth from the brothers who had been the
unwilling instruments in the act of degradation, and fixing his eyes
upon the abbot, who stood upon the topmost step of the altar, with his
face turned towards the brotherhood, said in a tone that filled the
whole chapel--"My lord abbot, I shall appeal against this severity.
It is not because I administered a sacrament to a sinner that I am
thus degraded--it is because the Lord de Boteler desires to humble
me--because he foolishly imagines, that a spirit conscious of its own
strength would bend beneath injustice and oppression, that I am thus
dealt with. But remember, my lord, that 'with what measure you mete
to others, the same shall be meted to you again.'" So saying, without
waiting for the ceremony of being driven from the gates, he turned, and
with a quick step left the abbey.
But here his firmness again forsook him;--he had stepped from his
home--from the quiet seclusion that was endeared to him by years of
residence and holy recollections, into a strange world, to struggle and
contend--to sin, and be sinned against; and he leaned against the abbey
wall with such a feeling of desolation as a child may be supposed to
feel, as he bends over the grave of his last surviving parent. A few
bitter drops of wounded pride, and deep regret, forced their way down
his cheeks, and it was not until he became conscious that a group of
persons of different ages and sexes were silently and sympathizingly
gazing upon him, that it occurred to him he ought to remove to a less
conspicuous situation.