Tower, how Lord Cobham told me I might have to die for the truth's sake?
I am very glad to go. I did not think it would be so easy; but I would
have liked to be able to preach Christ before I went. I am sorry to
leave you, brother, but perhaps when I am gone they will take pity on
you, and let you go. When you are free, you will go away together, you
and Kate--I have prayed God for that. And when you are happy together,
you will think often, won't you, of the days we have passed together in
our prison? See, I have made these for you; they are not much, but it
is all I could do, and father will like to see them, and you will tell
him about to-night, and how I loved you both." He drew out from under
the straw two little bags, or flat cases, made of plaited straw, and
placed them in Kate's and Geoffrey's hands.
"There are some texts written on parchment in each; I wrote them last
summer because they are so beautiful. I wanted to tell you more, but I
am very sleepy now. Good night!"
The low, faint voice had grown fainter from exhaustion, and he sank down
in a deep sleep on Kate's shoulder as he finished. She laid him
carefully down, for the convent-bell was warning her that it was time to
go. Wrapped in her sheet again, she passed, with Geoffrey's aid, through
the narrow window, and as he stood and watched her by the white gleam of
her drapery among the leafless trees, it seemed as though all the light
that was left for him in this world had departed with the bright words
and kindly smile of Lady Katharine Hyde.
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
_*Free Again.*_
Very much surprised was dame Redwood when, the week after Easter, she
received a message that the abbess of the convent of Our Lady of the
Seven Sorrows wished to see her on particular business, that very
morning.
"I have been at no tricks, mother," said poor frightened Phoebe, who was
the messenger, "unless it might be about the key, but that has been
hanging on its nail ever since. Do you think she means about me,
mother?"
"And why should she not be meaning you, you heedless thing?" replied her
mother, though in her inmost heart she believed it _was_ for her own
tricks she was to be called before that high dignitary, and foresaw
nothing but the loss of her farm, if not something worse. But she would
not let her daughter see this; so she went on scolding her with all the
breath she could spare while running round to get ready for her
departure.
It was a pair of very frightened women who presented themselves to
Mother Beatrice as she sat erect and stately in the convent parlor. The
good dame, however, was thinking less of her own safety than how she
could manage to keep from criminating Lady Katharine in case her part of
the plot had been discovered.
"You may go to your work, girl," said the abbess in an unusually
gracious manner, when they had made their courtesies to her. "Dame
Redwood, your daughter will make a good porteress if she is as prompt in
her duty as you are."
This took a load off both their hearts, and the dame could listen
quietly to the long speech which the Mother Superior addressed to her as
soon as Phoebe had closed the door. She told her how she had there with
her for safe keeping, and, if possible, for restoring to the church, two
young heretics, committed to her care by his grace Chichely, archbishop
of Canterbury. She told how the younger was ill, and that she was about
to show the extreme clemency of the church toward its wayward, by
letting them go free on condition that they should leave the country,
and never set foot on English soil again. Moreover, as the one was ill,
and the other not strong, it might be necessary for them to rest and
recover before their departure, for which she would allow them the space
of one week, which time she wished them to pass under the roof of so
faithful a tenant of the convent as dame Joan Redwood. Furthermore, she
would hold her and her husband responsible if, during that time, they
held communication with any other Lollards, and if at the end of that
period they were allowed any further shelter.
The dame had great difficulty in concealing her delight at this turn of
affairs; but she managed to account for her smiles and agitation on the
ground of the unexpected favor just bestowed.
"And now, think you," continued Mother Beatrice, "your good husband
could bring some one with him and come this evening while we are at
chapel? Phoebe shall have them ready to go."
In her delight, happy Joan managed to get down on her knees and kiss the
hem of the abbess' robe, which gratified her, and made her so
condescending that it was with difficulty they could conclude their
respective blessings and courtesies, and have the door fairly shut
between them.
Never had the road appeared so long between the convent and her home,
though the good woman trudged along it almost on a run. When she
imparted the news to her husband, his delight almost exceeded hers, for
the demon of remorse had been tormenting him again since he had heard of
Hubert's sufferings. Now, however, it seemed as if his sin had been
expiated, and he was to be certified of this by having the boys placed
in his hands to minister to their wants, and serve them in every
possible way.
It seemed also a most favorable coincidence that Bertrand had just
arrived that morning, having appointed that the boys should meet their
father, if it were possible for them to escape, at the house of Philip
Naseby the trader, which had been their asylum soon after they left
home. Bertrand and Redwood employed themselves in making a rude litter
of boughs, cushioned with all the dame's skill, and furnished with many
a soft wrap to shield the sick boy from contact with the cold air.
They had hardly finished their preparations before the hour designated
by the abbess; but as the bells were tolling for vespers they stood in
the convent court-yard eagerly waiting for their expected guests.
Bertrand and Dick waited without, while the dame and her daughter went
with Sister Ursula to bring them out; but when they at last appeared,
the men could hardly recognize in the gaunt, haggard-looking boy who
came feebly along, with a bewildered look in the hollow eyes which he
was trying to shield from the light with his hand, the young master whom
they had seen so fresh, and ruddy, and vigorous six months before.
But the thoughts of all were concentrated on the little form borne, as
though lifeless, in dame Redwood's arms. He had fainted from sudden
exposure to the air; but the good woman had been so horror-struck at the
scene of misery which met her eyes when Sister Ursula opened the
dungeon-door, that she would not now suffer them to wait to restore him,
but for once speechless with indignation, hurried the whole party out of
the gates. It was not until she had heard them clash behind her, and
saw the grim old towers disappearing behind the hill, that she felt at
all secure, but kept all the while looking back, as if in fear of
pursuit.
The little figure in the litter lay so still that more than once
Bertrand bent down to catch the sound of the faint breathing which alone
gave token of life. Geoffrey, mounted on the pony, was so bewildered
that he could neither ask questions nor answer them. He seemed troubled
if the narrowness of the way caused the dame to lead the horse either in
front of or behind the litter; the only sign he gave of being conscious
of his change of position being a dread of being separated from his
brother. All felt relieved when they reached the cottage. Not that the
bearers were weary; that little emaciated form would scarcely have been
felt in Bertrand's strong arms; but his heart was bearing a load of
grief such as it had never borne before. Until then, hope had buoyed him
up, and supported him through all the toil and danger which he had
undergone for his master and his sons: even hope seemed dead now.
But it was worse still with poor Dick. The demons of remorse which he
hoped had been driven out forever returned with renewed power. "We have
thee again, Judas!" they seemed to say to the wretched man. "Didst thou
think to escape us, poor fool? _He_ too threw down the money, and tried
to save, but it was _too late_, TOO LATE! The blood was on his head,
and on yours too. Come, why not do as that famous namesake of thine
did? His work and thine can never be undone, and there is no repentance
or forgiveness for either!"
It was only because he held one end of the litter that he did not obey
his tormentors' suggestions, and more than once he looked shudderingly,
but almost wistfully, as they passed some gloomy-looking dells, where
the newly-loosened brooks were rushing like mountain torrents or lying
in deep, dark pools under the shadow of the oaks.
Poor man! He sadly needed a comforter then, some one to tell him that
now was the time to prove his belief in the creed that had been
nominally his from childhood, to show him that the words, "I believe in
the forgiveness of sins," were just as necessary to believe as the
preceding, "I believe in God the Father." But, alas! for poor Dick.
His creed was locked up, as well as his Bible, in an unknown tongue, and
the God whom he had been taught to worship was one to be feared and
dreaded, not reverenced and loved; a God whose vengeance must be turned
aside by costly offerings and pilgrimages, whose highest favor could
only be obtained by renouncing all pleasures and enduring all pains.
"Cursed is every one that keepeth not all the words of the law to do
them," taught the purest of the priesthood; they never declared: "God is
merciful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all
unrighteousness."
They could indeed gloss over the foulest crimes, and calling vices by
the names of virtues, think they had changed their nature; but when an
awakened spirit was aroused to a sense of its lost condition, and cried
to the successors of the apostles for help, they could give the agonized
soul no aid, no comfort, no hope. If penance and mortification and
priestly absolution failed to satisfy the guilty spirit, it must perish,
for Christ's atonement was utterly rejected.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
_*From Darkness to Light.*_
When Geoffrey was roused from the bewilderment caused by this sudden
change in his fortunes, his first thought was for Lady Katharine Hyde,
who, when she visited them in her ghostly attire that night as she had
promised, would wonder what had become of them. Bertrand reassured him,
however, by telling him that Dick had almost completed the work of
digging out the old underground passage to the convent vaults, and that
by an hour's work that night he could enter their late prison, meet
Kate, and bring her forth to freedom. Even had the abbess not been so
unexpectedly merciful their captivity need not have lasted over that
night.
"God has been very good to us, Bertrand," said the young Lollard, his
pale cheek flushing with emotion, and his eyes by the light of the
blazing fire showing full of tears; "for if we had come out that way, we
should have had to escape immediately; but now we have a whole week for
Hubert----" He stopped; he had meant to say, "for Hubert to get strong
in;" but even his love could not thus deceive itself. His lips would
not utter the words, but they both finished it for themselves: "That
Hubert may die in peace."
For the end was evidently approaching. Cold, and damp, and hunger had
done their work as effectually on the Lollard heretic as if the
archbishop had immediately sentenced him to the stake. The warmth, and
food, and motherly care which had been longed for during those weary
months were bestowed in abundance now: but it was too late; all dame
Redwood's tender nursing could not keep alive the glimmering spark which
was all that persecution and tyranny had left of the flame of that young
life. He still lay in the same dull stupor which had been on him when
he left his dungeon. He had only replied to their caresses and services
by a few wandering words about the shepherd coming back for his sheep in
the mountains, and being warm at home.
Poor Dick had stood the whole evening, never moving his eyes from his
young guests, but, in his misery, so unconscious of what was going on
around him, that he was in every one's way, and of no use at all. It
was therefore no small relief to himself, as well as the others, when
Bertrand bade him shoulder his tools and go off to his work. For a
while the two men marched along in silence, till they came to one of the
deep, dark pools into which the soldier had looked so wistfully that
afternoon. Here he stopped, flung down his burden, and turned toward
his companion with the reckless look of a wild beast brought to bay on
the brink of a precipice, preferring to leap from the dizzy height to
certain destruction rather than fall into the hands of its enemies.
Bertrand was startled at the change in the man's face.
"I tell you, 'tis of no use; they are after me again, and there is no
driving them off, He saved me, and I have killed them both. There is no
changing it--the devils may as well have me first as last. The other
Judas hanged himself, but I think it was because there was no pool near.
Ha! how they would dance around me if I were dangling to yon branch!
No; this is better. Fare thee well, comrade!"
He turned, and was pushing aside the branches to take the fatal leap,
when he felt himself seized from behind in a powerful grasp.
"Hold, Dick Redwood! What meanest thou, man? Art thou mad?"
"Let me alone!" said the soldier, struggling with his captor. "It is
the only place for peace; I shall be one of them there, and there they
cannot torment so. Take off thy hand, man, or it will be the worse for
thee!"
"Not so fast," replied Bertrand coolly. "Dost think I will see murder
committed before my eyes--ay, and the worst of murder, the murder of a
soul? We will try a bout for that first, my man."
Then began a fierce struggle, in which the soldier's strength and
military knowledge were well matched by the supple limbs and clear, cool
eye of the forester. It was truly a conflict for life or death on which
the calm moonbeams looked down that lovely spring night. Hither and
thither went the combatants over the fallen trees and stones, and
through the brushwood, the object of Bertrand being to get as far as
possible from the brink of the fatal precipice. Sometimes one party
gained a slight advantage, sometimes the other; but both were evidently
becoming exhausted. It seemed an even chance whether the Lollard would
succeed in his benevolent object of saving his comrade's life from his
own violent hands, or would be obliged to yield, in order to preserve
his own. The struggle was carried on, however, in the utmost silence,
neither caring to waste strength in outcries, so that the only sounds to
be heard during the combat were the crackling of the branches, the
trampling of feet, and the panting breath of the wrestlers.
Just at the moment when Bertrand had the other in a position to give him
a heavy fling on the grass, his foot slipped, and they rolled together
to the ground; the forester's head struck heavily, and he lay for a
moment stunned.
In that moment the soldier disengaged himself from Bertrand's relaxed
grasp, and, with a yell of triumph, sprang toward the pool. A few
strides, and he was at the brink, parting the bushes with a trembling
hand.
The moon cast a shimmer of light on some inky-black water--a rush of a
heavy body, a shriek, a plunge--and the smooth surface, broken into a
thousand points of light, was settling itself once more into
tranquillity.
Just then there appeared another figure on the scene: a man was flinging
himself from point to point down the steep descent Bertrand, who arrived
at the spot only to find himself too late, watched him; but his head was
so confused by his fall, that he could not have told whether it took
hours or minutes for this unexpected actor in the scene to throw off his
outer garment, plunge in the pool, and drag the drowning man to land. By
that time he became roused enough to go to his aid, and the two bore the
soldier up the bank, and seated him with his back against the trunk of a
tree, the water dripping from his garments, and the scared, bewildered
expression changing to the old look of dogged, sullen defiance, as his
senses returned.
When the forester found that the soldier was not injured by his cold
bath, he turned to look at the man who had stepped in so opportunely to
the rescue, and the sight did not at all delight him, for the tonsured
head, the cowl, and the knotted-rope girdle all proclaimed him an
individual whom a Lollard disliked especially to meet, namely, a
Benedictine monk.
Dick recognized him further, and springing up, flung himself at the
stranger's feet, his teeth chattering with cold and terror as he tried
to speak.
"Father Paul! Father Paul! drive them out, drive them away, for
heaven's sake, for the blessed saints' sake drive them away! You are
holy, and they will fear you. Bring the book and candle, and say a
prayer! Oh! they dragged me down"--and the man shuddered through all his
frame--"they clutched me so under the water! Good Father! holy Father!
save me from the devils!"
"My son," replied the monk kindly, "I wish to help thee in thy distress,
but I am neither holy nor good--only a weak sinner like thyself. If
thou hast committed sin, there is One that can pardon and absolve. What
is it that lies so heavy on thy conscience?"
"Absolve a _Judas_!" shrieked the wretched man. "Ay, Father, I will
tell you all, that you may know what a devil you have saved to curse the
world."
He began and told the whole story, still crouching down at the
Benedictine's feet, while Bertrand gave all up for lost, for he could
not stop him, and could only look for one result from the disclosure of
the tale to one whom he had every reason to suppose their deadliest foe.
But, to his utter astonishment, when the confession was finished and he
expected to hear the monk comfort his penitent by pronouncing the deed
to be commendable rather than sinful, he began in a way directly
opposite to the teachings of the order to which he seemed to belong.
"My son, thou hast indeed greatly sinned; but since thou hast so well
remembered the story of the betrayer, hast thou pondered as well on the
history of the Betrayed? Hast thou heard of him who forgave his
murderers even while they were nailing him on his cross? I make no
doubt but that he had a pardon ready even for Judas, had he asked it.
Remember this, my son, the betrayal was not the crime which destroyed
Judas utterly, but his despair of Christ's mercy. He was never
forgiven, because he never asked for forgiveness. When that blessed
Saviour said, 'Whoso cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,' he did
not add, 'except Dick Redwood.' When the apostle says, 'The blood of
Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he did not finish, 'except the sin
of ingratitude.' Dick, there _is_ pardon there--free, full, absolute
pardon for thee and for me; all that is required is that we ask for it,
that we believe in it, that we trust in nothing else, and that we have a
steadfast purpose to live hereafter a better and holier life. Art thou
willing so to do? Is it thy purpose henceforth to give up thy wicked
desires and do that heavenly Master's will, loving thy brother man and
forgiving him, even as he hath loved and forgiven thee?"
The penitent was sobbing like a child as he crouched at the monk's feet
and clung to his robe. "O Father! if I could but show you! I would do
any penance."
"There is none required," said Father Paul, "none at all. Christ hath
borne our penance in his sufferings on the tree; nothing that we can do
would be of any avail; it is free grace that saves, remember
that--never, never forget it; that is the good tidings, the glorious
Easter gospel!"
The monk paused, as if overcome by emotion; then laying his hand on the
head of the kneeling man, he added very solemnly:
"Not as though _I_ had any power, not in my own name, but in the name of
the Lord Jesus Christ, whose servant I am, I pronounce that thou, being
penitent, art released from thy sins and made a partaker of his kingdom.
Go in peace, and sin no more."
Dick sprang to his feet when the gentle touch was removed. The dull,
sullen look had vanished from his face, the frightened, staring eyes
were calm; but his voice, when he tried to speak, was husky and choked,
and he turned aside a moment into the bushes. They had no need to
follow him now, for with his tormentors had departed all thoughts of
self-murder.
The Benedictine advanced toward Bertrand and held out his hand.
"I think I can recognize you from our friend's story," he said kindly;
"but do not be afraid; it is not often, I know, that a garb like mine
covers a heart friendly to your faith; but I too have a story to tell."
He then explained in a few words to the still astounded Bertrand the
marvelous effect of the few words uttered by Hubert.
"Thus you see," he concluded, "that where I expected to teach, I was
taught; and where I went to convert, I was myself converted. But what
are you doing here at this hour with these tools?"
Bertrand's fear was quite gone by this time, and he related how nearly
they had liberated the captives, and were now on their way to meet the
remaining one, and bring her also away.
But Father Paul strongly urged upon them the danger of withdrawing Lady
Katharine from the convent until they had made preparations for her
escape from the neighborhood, as a search would be made for her as soon
as she was missed which would endanger the safety of all parties; but he
said there might be no danger in her coming by night to visit the dying
boy, and offered himself to assist in arranging a plan for her removal
to her home. This he could the more easily do, as it was not yet known
that he had changed his faith.
*CHAPTER XX.*
_*One more Lamb safe in the Fold.*_
The sun had risen and set again upon the cottage in the wood and its
quiet household. It had been a lovely spring day, such a day as makes
the violets and anemones lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot
in the forest; but the evening had closed in much colder. Heavy clouds
were gliding across the moon, throwing weird shadows upon sea and land,
and the wind was rising almost to a tempest.
Within, the scene was different. The fire in the great chimney was
blazing merrily, for Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their duty to
keep it as large as though it were Christmas-time; and little Dick was
continually running in with his apron full of dried sticks and leaves to
add to the flame.
Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the dame had converted into a bed,
and drawn up close to the hearth. There had been a change that day,
that mysterious, indescribable change which all know so well, but which
no one can define--the shadow of the dark mountains falling on the
pilgrim's face as he enters the valley of death. Not a painful change.
The lines of suffering were passing away, the dark blue eyes were
beaming with a holy light, the high white forehead looked more like
chiseled marble, and about the lips was playing a smile, not gay or
mirthful, but full of contentment and peace. The stupor had passed
away, and his mind seemed perfectly clear. He recognized those about
him, and was very grateful for every little service rendered him; but he
spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise or bustle in the room.
Perhaps it was because he had been so long accustomed to the stillness
of his prison; it may have been that sounds were breaking on his ear
with which earth's noises formed jarring discord.
Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little bench, handing him anything
he wanted, and holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp. Another
who rarely took his eyes from the dying boy was the soldier. He had
received from them both freely the pardon which was alone needed to make
his heart lighter, notwithstanding the present grief, than it had ever
been before in his life. An atmosphere of love filled the little
dwelling; pardon and peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing coals
on the hearth lightened the rough walls of the cottage.
There was a little stir at the door--a whispered question and answer;
then Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:
"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"
He raised himself a little, and as Kate approached, put both his arms
around her neck and drew her down close to him.