home of my ancestors; ye have made my father a penniless exile; ye have
slain with fire and sword our dearest friends; ye seized us when we were
living quietly and peaceably, not even seeking to teach to others these
doctrines which you call heresy; ye have shut us up here in this noisome
place, having done no wrong, and having never even had a trial; ye have
taken away from us the light and air of heaven, and I wot well ye think
never to let us forth again. So be it. Hunger and thirst and weariness
will soon open for us gates which ye cannot shut, and give to us a home
which ye can neither destroy nor ever inhabit."
The boy's highly-wrought feelings had proved too much for his feeble
frame, for though his voice rang clear and high to the end, he sank down
the moment he had finished and burst into a violent fit of sobbing.
Hubert, excited by the interview, had become flushed with fever, and he
seemed to have partly lost consciousness of the subject of discourse;
but, catching the last words, he began in a weak and wandering way to
talk:
"Home? Oh! yes, I think it is time we went home, Geoffrey; they want us
home, and it is warm and bright and beautiful there. Take hold of my
hand, brother, and let us go home together!"
The monk turned again to the bedside, and drawing from under his robe an
illuminated missal, held up before the child's face one of the pictures.
"My son, seest thou this Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God?"
"God's lamb?" said the child dreamily. "I know he is the Good Shepherd;
but tell me, doesn't a shepherd sometimes forget one poor little lamb,
and leave it out on the mountains alone, with the wind roaring, and the
snow falling, to die?"
The monk only shook his head, and turned to a picture of the
crucifixion.
"I know! I know!" cried Hubert, roused almost to eagerness. "He died
for you and me, for us all, and so we are safe; his precious blood is on
me, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted. I am his
little lamb, as he is the Lamb of God; and he cannot forget one for whom
he suffered so much. He will soon turn back on his way and take me up
in his bosom, and I shall be so warm while he is carrying me home! But
the rocks are so cold and hard! Do you think he will soon remember me,
and come?"
Father Paul's stern features were working with emotion; perhaps it was
to hide this that he bent lower down over the child and felt again his
forehead and hands.
"Are you a minister?" said Hubert, suddenly looking up into his face.
"I wish you would tell me some of Jesus' words, you know so much better
than I do. Tell me about the Bridegroom coming in the night, and being
all ready."
Poor Father Paul! In all his long life--for the hair left by the
tonsure was already beginning to turn gray--he had never heard those
sweet, solemn words in his mother tongue, and so hastily and carelessly
had he repeated them in Latin when the service required it, that he
could not recollect them now. Instead, he commenced a prayer in Latin
but Hubert interrupted him:
"Not now, please; my head is so bad I cannot say my Latin task now.
Geoffrey, just say one verse before I go to sleep."
Geoffrey rose in an instant, and pushing the monk away, knelt at his
brother's side and repeated the whole passage.
"Ready, ready," murmured the boy; "yes, I think I am ready. I wish he
would come to-night. I know it is only to trust in Jesus, and I think I
do that. I am very glad, for that brings peace now, when everything
else is so full of pain and weariness. Are _you_ ready too?" He lifted
his large, earnest eyes full in the face of the ecclesiastic.
Father Paul turned abruptly and left the room. He drew each bolt and
bar with energy as he fastened the door behind him, as though by closing
that oaken portal he could shut out certain new and very painful
thoughts which had arisen in his mind; but it had no such effect; and
thinking perhaps that a little fresh air might blow away such dungeon
damps, he procured the key which Phoebe had just found suspended in its
usual place, and with his cowl drawn over his face paced for some time
the little garden.
The truth was, that a mighty problem had come up before his mind, and
would allow him no rest till he had solved it. If that Master should
come, whose advent might even then be nigh at hand--if he, as Judge,
were suddenly to appear, was he ready for his coming? Paul Hyde had not
entered the church merely as a matter of taste, as did many of his
companions, but as the only means of escaping the consequences of a wild
and wicked youth. He was the brother of Lady Eleanor; but so completely
had he withdrawn himself from his family, especially after rumors of his
sister's Lollardism began to float about, that though he knew somewhat
of their movements, he was to them as one dead, and Mother Beatrice was
entirely unaware that her favorite confessor was also the uncle of her
troublesome charge.
He was a man of rather a contemplative than active disposition, and not
so inclined to cruelty as many of his brethren. He had studied
thoroughly the business he had undertaken. His prayers were numerous,
his penances and mortifications incessant, his fasts frequent and
severe, and all this discipline he had been taught, and learned to
believe, had atoned for all the evil of his former life, and made him
not only pure, but worthy in the sight of God. But, strange to say, a
few words from the lips of a sick child had shown him, as by a
lightning-flash, that all this sin had only been covered, not driven
out--concealed, but never canceled, and that all the sins of his youth
were ready to spring up and confront him--ay, and confound him in the
great day of account.
In vain he considered, again and again, his austere and holy life; he
could not see that one sin had been lessened in its enormity by it all.
Father Paul had a clear, vigorous mind; it had been slumbering for many
years under the influence of the sleeping-draught which Popery always
administers so skillfully to its victims; but now that it was aroused,
it grasped, systematically, the arguments, and rapidly drew its
conclusions. Sin and its punishment, man's utter depravity and God's
just wrath, were painted in glowing colors before his eyes. His natural
sense of justice told him that we only perform our duty in living the
holiest of lives, for we cannot be more perfect than his laws. How then
can we lay up any righteousness in one part of our lives, to balance the
wickedness of another portion?
Lower and lower sank the monk's head on his bosom, wilder and fiercer
rushed through his mind thoughts of remorse, horror, and despair. He
gave one glance toward Heaven for aid, but the thick leaden clouds
seemed placed there for a sign that Heaven was barred against his
prayers, and the words of supplication to which he was accustomed,
seemed as though they would pass from the lips of a wretch so utterly,
so hopelessly vile!
Just at that moment the convent bell tolled, but he had to pass his hand
several times across his brow before he could remember that he must
perform vespers in the chapel. He turned his steps toward the vestry
door; there was no escape for him from that duty, though the thought
seemed pressing him down to the earth that he, with such a fearful
weight of unforgiven sin hanging over him, was to kneel at God's holy
altar, and lead the devotions of yonder band of simple, dependent women.
All noticed his haggard look and abstracted air, and the weak, almost
tottering step with which he mounted the chancel steps; but it was
Easter Eve--doubtless the holy Father had sunk under the austerities he
had been inflicting on himself during the Lent just passing away, and
they gazed on him almost with awe, as a being elevated above the world
by his voluntary sufferings--so little do we know each other in this
world!
Easter Eve! a day full of deep and holy thoughts for thinking minds.
Sad, as it brings over our minds the shadow of the garden tomb; joyful,
as it points to the glories of the coming morrow.
Father Paul never thought of seeking his couch that night. Back and
forth he strode the length of his cell; rest seemed banished from him
forever. Again and again he passed each argument in review--those which
justified God grew more and more powerful; those which justified himself
broke one by one like a flaxen band in the flame. More than once he
flung himself at full length on the stone floor, and groaned aloud in
his anguish.
At length, almost unconsciously, he took up his missal which lay on the
table beside him, and opened it. The faint gray streaks of the coming
daylight revealed to him the very picture he had been showing the sick
boy, and with the sight came back the child's words:
"He died for you and me, and so we are safe. His precious blood is on
my head, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted."
He laid the book down softly, then seated himself and buried his face in
his hands. That one thought, like the command of Christ, had driven out
the demons who were tormenting and mocking his soul. Like Christian, he
had come to the foot of the cross, and his burden had fallen into the
open sepulchre. Self-righteousness he saw must be exchanged for
Christ's righteousness, and, as in a vision, he beheld the Lamb of God
submitting to the punishment due to his sins, and saw how beneath the
cross God's justice might clasp hands with his mercy, how God might be
justified, and yet the sinner be pardoned. The morning had dawned, the
Easter sun was lifting itself from the horizon, and climbing by golden
ropes toward the zenith; but far more gloriously was the risen Sun of
Righteousness shining in the long benighted heart of the Benedictine
monk!
Again the convent bell sounded, but this time he joyfully obeyed its
summons. If all had wondered at the priest's appearance the preceding
evening, they wondered still more at his conduct in the morning. As he
passed up the choir, through the crowd of country folk who had gathered
to keep the holy day, his "Benedicite" had a depth and fervor of tone in
it which none had ever heard before from the stern, cold man. His very
face was changed. It was very, very pale, with deep lines and furrows
around the compressed mouth, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets; but
the expression of joy, peace, and thanksgiving that rested upon it was
unmistakable. When the service was over, he mounted the pulpit and
began his sermon.
Never had such a discourse been delivered within the time-worn walls of
Our Lady's church. He took no text--his theme was the story of the
cross. Never had it seemed so wonderful, so simple, and yet so majestic
before. He drew such a picture of divine love and compassion, the slain
Lamb washing away sin with his own blood, God smiling at the sinner over
Calvary, that there was scarcely a head in the whole assembly that was
not bowed down to hide the falling tears. Then he bade them notice the
snow which, under the bright beams of a returning sun, was melting away
to be replaced by flowers and fruits, and he compared it to their dead
faith and affections which Christ's resurrection should rouse to life
and activity.
Lower sank his voice, more solemn, more thrilling grew his tone as he
spoke to them of the second coming of that Lord and Master who had risen
from his tomb more than fourteen hundred years before, and he seemed so
to realize in his own mind the fact that at any moment, even that very
day, the angel's trumpet might call priest and people to the judgment,
that his eloquence fell with irresistible force on even his most
careless or ignorant hearers; and when at last he descended the
pulpit-steps, his last words were ringing like a death-knell in many a
trembling heart, for they were spoken for the first time in their own
tongue:
"Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man
cometh. What I say unto you, I say unto all, _Watch!_"
Mother Beatrice met her confessor in the convent parlor soon after the
sermon. She stood more in awe of him than of any one else with whom she
came in contact. Perhaps it was because she could not understand him:
we are generally afraid of characters whose depths we cannot fathom,
unless we are exceedingly ignorant or conceited--then we despise them.
But however this was, she feared and reverenced him, and these feelings
were not likely to be lessened by the new expression of his countenance.
"Well, Father, how have you found our prisoners? I have strong hopes
for the younger; he is but a child, and not yet hardened in iniquity,
perhaps. Think you he is yet convinced of his folly? I heard such
tales of Lollard wiles and witchcraft, that it behooved me to put them
in safe keeping."
Only yesterday had Father Paul talked with those children. Could it be
possible that between one sunset and the succeeding one, so fearful a
conflict could have been fought, so glorious a victory won?
"Daughter," he replied, as soon as he could arrange his thoughts, "no
bolts or bars can keep that younger child with us. There is a Deliverer
approaching before whom we must all bow."
"How, Father?" said the startled lady; "who is it will take them from my
guardianship? Has the archbishop sent----"
"Nay, daughter," said the priest solemnly; "the deliverer I spoke of is
greater than he, and will pass through yonder dungeon walls without
asking our favor. The lad is dying."
"Dying!" Mother Beatrice appeared really shocked. "I meant not that; I
may have kept them over strictly; they are but children."
It may have been the kindly influences of Eastertide, it may have been
the result of thoughts stirred up by the sermon she had just
heard--whatever it was, the abbess was strangely softened. Father Paul
saw this, and took advantage of it.
"What shall I do, Father? They are heretics--enemies of our holy
church."
"Then, daughter," replied the monk very gravely, "think how Christ
forgave his torturers, and let this be your Easter sacrifice, far more
acceptable in his sight than the rushes with which you have strewn the
chapel in memory of his resurrection. Let us forgive as we have been
forgiven."
*CHAPTER XVII.*
_*A Midnight Supper.*_
At midnight on the preceding night, when the convent was still, and even
the inmates of the dungeon under the east tower were sleeping, Geoffrey
was aroused by a tap at the door which led into the inner cell. He did
not seem at all surprised, but arose and opened it. As he expected,
Kate stood on the other side, a white sheet thrown around her, and a
lamp in one hand. The brilliancy of the light seemed to dazzle him for
a moment, but perhaps it was Kate's own bright face, looking in so
suddenly on his loneliness.
"I come, you see, as I promised," she said, passing him into the room,
and setting down her lamp on the shelf occupied by the crucifix, which
she pushed aside without scruple to make room. Then, with nimble
fingers, she pinned a dark cloth over the window, lest the light shining
without should betray them, and continued, as she unburdened herself of
several packages:
"I have not been a very bad purveyor, I think. This bottle of wine our
good friend dame Redwood brought, and the chicken, too; but see here,
now, this is what I call fair spoil. This piece of venison is cut from
the haunch prepared for the abbess' own dinner to-morrow, and this
pastry was meant as a tid-bit for Sister Ursula's breakfast, to reward
her for the privations of Lent."
Even Geoffrey, who did not smile often now, was moved to laughter at
this history of their feast, and Hubert tried to raise himself at the
mention of such luxuries. They had no plates; but she, like a dainty
housewife as she was, contrived to set it out quite tastily on the floor
beside the bed, using the sheet for a table cloth. The pastry and the
venison she put one at each end, the bottle of wine in the middle, the
chicken and bread and cheese by way of side-dishes.
"We might as well do it in style," she said, laughing. "I am Lady
Katharine Hyde of Estly Court, and you are the heir of Forest Tower."
But her gayety was mostly put on to hide the tears which would come
welling up in her eyes, as she saw the famished looks with which the two
boys regarded the provision.
"Let us say grace first," said Hubert. And slowly, and reverently, the
sick child thanked God for his great benefits to such unworthy children,
and prayed that if it were his will, they might soon all go home. This
over, they began their meal, and it was touching to mark how Geoffrey
pressed each bit upon his brother, unwilling to taste any himself till
he had seen him satisfied, and how Hubert watched each dish lest he
should receive more than his share. It was but little, after all, that
the younger could eat; the wine seemed most refreshing, and brought a
little color to his cheeks; but to Geoffrey the food was life itself.
He went on eating and eating, hardly looking up at Katharine till he was
quite satisfied, while she watched him with smiles playing about her
lips, but tears glistening in her eyes. At last the boy stopped,
actually unable to eat another mouthful.
"There, now, you have left a little, after all. I began to think that
the very cloth would not be left to take me back in safety. Now, do you
not want to know how your supper got here?"
"That would I, indeed," replied Geoffrey with some compunction in his
tone. "Forgive me; I think I have forgotten what courtly manners I ever
had since I came here, and I was so hungry. But how could you enter the
garden at this time, and how could you get at the abbess' own larder?"
"Ah!" said Lady Kate, roguishly, "you may thank the convent ghost for
that, or, as it will be called by future generations of nuns, the
walking lady of the convent."
"What do you mean--a ghost?" said both boys, surprised.
"That is just it: a ghost, but with a substantial body attached. But I
must begin at the beginning," and she settled herself comfortably, ready
to begin her tale, for dearly Lady Katharine loved to talk, and she
seldom had a chance in the convent.
"You see, it just came into my wise head, that though it would never do
for _me_ to walk about the house and pry into things a little, there was
no law against a _ghost_ doing it; so I wrapped myself up in this cloth.
It was so funny to see Sister Hilda's look when I passed her in the
chapel! I guess she forgot after that how many aves and paters she had
to say. But I did not think of meeting any one there. I went in to
practise gliding on the pavement, and she frightened me almost as much
as I did her. But Phoebe was the best of all. I was in the garden
refreshing myself, when she came stealing along, ready to jump at her
own shadow. I meant to try to speak with you after I had secured the
key; but when she screamed, I was afraid it might arouse the house, and
hasted back to my room. The next night I had to try it again, in order
to put back the key. That silly Phoebe thinks it must be one of the
saints, to whom she prayed so earnestly, who brought it back and hung it
on its own nail, and who kept Mother Beatrice from wanting to go in the
garden that whole day. Now, I do it for the fun of the thing, and, as
you see, I have made famous pockets in my robe, and go foraging, as the
soldiers say, for truly I think we are in an enemy's country, and if
they won't give us enough to eat, and won't let us go where we might
have it gladly, I think we have a right to take it wherever we can find
it. But now that I have brought you a supper, will you help me in a bit
of work?"
"Ay, that I will gladly," replied Geoffrey, with a look of admiring
wonder. "Kate, I always thought it was a man's place to provide for the
ladies, but you are taking care of us."
"Never mind that," replied the girl, blushing partly from confusion and
a feeling as if she might have been too bold, and partly from pleasure.
"The time will soon come, I hope, when you and I can take our proper
places, and then I will be more ladylike and useless, and then"--she
hesitated, then finished her sentence with a laugh--"then you may take
care of me if you wish. But come, I think I can show you somewhat in
your lodging that you never knew before."
[Illustration: Leaving the Convent.--Page 277.]
With lamp in hand she led the way to the inner room, and began examining
carefully the stones in the wall under where the steps had formerly led
down from the closed doorway. Geoffrey meanwhile, his curiosity roused
to its greatest height, watched her every movement. At last she found a
little stone let into the wall, and slightly marked with a triangle at
one corner. On this corner she pressed with all her strength, at first
unsuccessfully, but at last it rolled back, and with it a part of the
wall, disclosing a narrow doorway leading to some steps; beyond, all was
darkness.
In her delight she would have entered at once, but Geoffrey drew her
back. He was far better acquainted with such places than she was, and
conjectured that since it had evidently been closed so long, the steps
might be in too dilapidated a condition to bear her weight. He
therefore insisted on trying them by blows with a stick, and on being
the first to descend; but, except for the dust, and a confined smell,
they appeared as if they might have been in daily use. Down some twenty
feet they descended, Geoffrey leading, and carrying the lamp, Kate
breathless with excitement, yet talking as fast as possible, explaining
the secret entrance and its former object. Soon they found themselves
stopped; the passage was filled with rubbish; from this part they must
depend on their friends outside. And hark! even now they could
distinguish a dull, thumping noise. Dick was at his work in the
midnight; at every blow deliverance was coming nearer.
According to Kate's direction, he measured with some cord the distance
from the foot of the steps to the obstruction, in order that Dick, who
knew exactly the length of the passage when it was first made, might be
able to judge whether it were possible to remove the rocks and earth.
They then returned to tell the news to Hubert.
He was suffering from great oppression and exhaustion, so that he did
not appear either as surprised or as delighted as they supposed he
would. His breath came in hard, short gasps, and Kate seated herself so
that his head could rest on her shoulder, while Geoffrey bathed his face
and moistened his parched lips.
"Sing to me, Kate--the song you sang the other night about Jesus."
"I will," she replied. And her voice, though at first trembling and
husky with emotion, soon rose, as she became roused with her theme, to
that clear, calm tone which is so soothing to the sick. She sang a
Latin hymn, written by a monk in a far southern land, but sounding none
the less sweet to those three Lollard children in their cold and gloomy
dungeon.
"Jesu dulcis memoria
Dans vera cordi gaudia;
Sed super mel et omnia
Ejus dulcis praesentia.
"Nil cantitur suavius,
Nil auditur jocundius,
Nil cogitatur dulcius,
Quam Jesus, Dei Filius.
"Jesus, spes poenitentibus,
Quam pius es petentibus,
Quam bonus te quaerentibus,
Sed quis invenientibus!
"Nec lingua videt dicere,
Nec littera exprimere;
Expertus potest credere
Quid sit Jesum diligere!"
"Sweet memories of thee impart
True joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;
But far beyond all sweets will be
Thy holy presence, Lord, to me.
"No sweeter song can chanted be,
More joyful news be brought to me,
Or sweeter thoughts to think upon
Than Jesus Christ, God's only Son.
"Thou hope of every contrite heart,
Since them so very glorious art,
To those who SEEK so good, so kind,
What must thou be to those who FIND?
"No language can the story hold,
No words the mystery unfold;
Experience alone can prove
How good it is our Christ to love."
There was silence for several minutes after the hymn was finished, then
the sick boy seemed quite revived.
"Thank you; how good that is! I feel stronger now, and I would like to
talk with you both. Sit close to me, Geoffrey, and wrap my cloak around
you; you are shivering."
Geoffrey _was_ shivering, but not with bodily cold--it was that chill
that creeps over us when Death suddenly appears, and dropping all
disguise, shows us his stern features. He had long felt that this great
sorrow was approaching, but since he had had so strong a hope of
restoration to liberty, he had imagined the fresh air and bright
sunshine bringing back a healthy glow to those pale cheeks and vigor to
that wasted frame. But now he saw, all at once, his mistake. Death
would not thus be robbed of its victim. The bolts and bars through
which he was to break were such as no man could fasten; the sunshine in
which he was to bask would be the light of his much-loved Saviour's
face.