The breeze which swept away the rolling smoke from Norham, curled not
the Tweed alone. Far upon Northumbrian waters, it blew fresh and strong,
bearing on its wings a barque from the Abbey of Whitby on the coast of
Yorkshire, sailing to St. Cuthbert's at Lindisfarne, on Holy Isle.
"The merry seamen laugh'd to see
Their gallant ship so lustily
Furrow the green sea-foam.
Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
"'T was sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage;
How timid, and how curious, too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage."
Light-hearted were they all, except the Abbess and the novice Clare.
Fair, kind, and noble, the Abbess had early taken the veil. Her hopes,
her fears, her joys, were bounded by the cloister walls; her highest
ambition being to raise St. Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample
fortune--to build its bowers, to adorn its chapels with rare and quaint
carvings, and to deck the relic shrine with ivory and costly gems. The
poor and the pilgrim blessed her bounty and shelter.
Her pale cheek and spare form were made more striking by the black
Benedictine garb. Vigils and penitence had dimmed the luster of her
eyes. Though proud of her religious sway and its severity, she loved her
maidens and was loved by them in return.
The purpose of the present voyage was most unhappy, and to the Abbess
most painful. She came to Lindisfarne upon the summons of St. Cuthbert's
Abbot, to hold with him and the Prioress of Tynemouth an inquisition on
two apostates from the faith, if need were, to condemn them to death.
On the galley's prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful,
lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed. She had been betrothed
to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a dishonored
fugitive. After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare had been
commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord Marmion, who loved
her for her lands alone. Heartbroken at the fate of her true-love, and
to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take the vestal vow,
and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes, her youth and
beauty.
As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths,
seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave
murmured, no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning
sands: the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.
Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland. Towns,
towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of
maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns
told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide was at
its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the
island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and
the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalled foot.
As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its
battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile. In Saxon
strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by
short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor. It stood
at the very water's edge, and had been built long before the birth of
Gothic architecture. On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen Dane
alike had vainly poured their impious rage. For more than a thousand
years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay. The deep walls of
the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.
As they drew near, the maidens raised St. Hilda's song. Borne on the
wind over the wave, their voices met a response of welcome in the chorus
which arose upon the shore. Soon, bearing banner, cross, and relic,
monks and nuns filed in order from the grim cloister down to the harbor,
echoing back the hymn. Among her maidens, conspicuous in veil and hood,
stood the Abbess, even then engaged in holy devotion.
When the reception at harbor and hall was over, and the evening banquet
ended, the vestal maidens and their visitors, secure from unhallowed
eyes, roamed at will through each holy cloister, aisle, gallery, and
dome. Though it was a summer night, the evening fell damp and chill, the
sea breeze blowing cold, and the pure-minded girls closed around the
blazing hearth, each in turn to paint the glory of her favorite saint.
While, round the fire, legends were rehearsed by the happy group, a very
different scene was taking place in a secret underground aisle, where a
council of life and death was being held. The spot was more dark and
lone than a dungeon cell. Light and air were excluded, as it was a
burial place for those who, dying in sin, might not be laid within the
Church. It was also a place of punishment, whence if a cry pierced the
upper air, the hearer offered a prayer, thinking he heard the moaning of
spirits in torment.
Few save the Abbot knew the place, and fewer still, the devious way by
which it was approached. When taken there, victims and judge were led
blindfold. The walls were rude rocks, the pavement, gravestones sunken
and worn. The noxious vapor, chilled into drops, fell tinkling on the
floor. An antique lamp, hanging from an iron chain, gave a dim light,
which strove with darkness and damp to show the horrors of the scene.
Here the three judges were met to pronounce the sentence of doom.
In the pale light sat the Abbess of St. Hilda. Closely she drew her veil
to hide the teardrops of pity. Near her was the Prioress of Tynemouth,
proud and haughty, yet white with awe. Next was the aged Abbot of St.
Cuthbert, or, as he was called, the "Saint of Lindisfarne." Before them,
under sentence, stood the guilty pair. One was a maiden who, disguised
in the dress of a page, had been taken from Marmion's train. The cloak
and hood could not conceal or mar her beauty. On the breast of her
doublet was Lord Marmion's badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly
attempted to conceal.
At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the young
girl's long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form fell
the rich golden ringlets. Before them stood Constance de Beverley, a
professed nun of Fontevraud. Lured by the love of Marmion, she had
broken her vow, and fled from the convent. She now stood so beautiful,
so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing,
she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.
Her companion in misery was a sorry sight. This wretch, wearing frock
and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to
crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom
without a sound, without a tear.
Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and
high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close
to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing
torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the
culprits were to be immured.
Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed
in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering
her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her
quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood,
curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein. Light came to her
eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered
strength at every word. It was a strange sight to see resolution so high
in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.
"I speak," she said, "not to implore mercy, for full well I know it
would be vain. Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering,
living death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul
of every sin. I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged
though he never did me wrong; one who, if living, is now an exile under
the ban of the King. I speak to clear the fair name of Ralph de Wilton,
and to accuse Lord Marmion of Fontenaye, the traitor, to whose false
words of love I listened when I left my veil and convent dear.
"Long, weary days, I bowed my pride, and humbled my honor, to ride as
squire to this false knight, who daily promised me marriage. To be his
slave, hoping to be his wife, I forfeited all peace on earth, all hope
beyond the grave; but when he met the betrothed of Ralph de Wilton, the
Lady Clare, when he learned of her vast wealth and broad lands, when he
saw her face more fair than mine, he foreswore his faith. I, Constance,
was beloved no more. It is an old story, often told.
"The King approved the scheme of Marmion. Vainly de Wilton pleaded his
right to the hand of Clare, and when all fair means were exhausted,
Ralph was accused of treason. By my woman's unworthy hand, at the
command of Marmion, was forged the papers which sealed de Wilton's fate.
The two men fought in mortal combat.
"'Their prayers are prayed,
Their lances in the rest are laid.'
"The result was told by the loud cry, 'Marmion! Marmion! De Wilton to
the block!' Justice seemed dead, for he, ever loyal in love and in
faith, was overthrown by the falsehearted. This packet will prove de
Wilton innocent of treason, how innocent, these letters alone can tell,
and I now give them to the sacred care of the Abbess of St. Hilda. Guard
them with your life, till they rest in the hands of the King."
She paused, gathered voice and strength and proceeded:
"The Lady Clare hated the name of Marmion, mourned her dishonored lover,
and fled to the convent of Whitby. The King, incensed at her action,
declared she should be his favorite's bride even though she were a nun
confessed. Marmion was sent to Scotland and I, cast off, determined to
plan a sure escape for Clare and for myself. This false monk, whom you
are about to condemn with me, promised to carry to Clare the drugs by
means of which she would soon have been the bride of heaven. His
cowardice has undone us both, and I now reveal the story of the crime,
that none may wed with Marmion, that his perfidy may be made known to
the King, who, when he reads these letters, will see his favorite
deserves the headsman's axe. Now, men of death, do your worst. I can
suffer and be still.
"'And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.'"
The old Abbot raised his sightless eyes to heaven and said:
"'Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
Sinful brother, part in peace!'"
Up from the direful place of doom, to the light of day and to the fresh
air, passed those who had held this awful trial. Shrieks and groans
followed the winding steps. The peasant who heard the unearthly cries
bowed his head, the hermit told his beads, the brother crossed himself,
even the stag on Cheviot hills bounded to his feet, listened and then
trembling lay down to hide among the mountain ferns.
[Illustration: THE STUDY, ABBOTSFORD.]