You will never leave each other any more, will you? You will take her to
father, and tell him I loved you both so much! You will all have happy
days together in some far-off land, and then when you are so happy, you
will sometimes think and talk about to-night."
Here the elder boy's stout heart broke down. To look forward to a
future which was not to be shared by Hubert, his second self--the only
one with whom he had taken sweet counsel through all his
childhood--dearer still for the sufferings they had borne side by side!
"O Hubert! you will not be there!"
"I would rather not be, I am so tired, so very, very weary; I am not
strong to battle for the truth, as you are, Geoffrey. It is so nice to
lie here and think that all the work and toil is over, and I am only
waiting for him to come. He is coming fast now; when it is quiet, I can
hear his footsteps and his voice. He will take me right up in his arms,
and I will put my head on his breast while he is carrying me home.
Isn't he come yet? Don't you hear him calling? Don't you see him
coming? He is very, very near now."
They _did_ perceive his coming; they saw his approaches in the fast
glazing eye, in the death-damp on the forehead; they heard him in the
gasping breath.
Father Paul stepped forward and bent over him.
"Yes, my child, he _is_ coming; he is almost here. Hast thou no fear?"
A look of surprise passed over the child's face.
"Why, it is Jesus! I cannot fear Jesus! I love him so, and I have
waited for him so long! I am so glad that you love him too! Now we will
all meet in the Beautiful Land--kind Dick and all, all, every one!" And
his eye glanced at each in turn, resting lovingly, but searchingly, on
every face, as if he would read there the secret of the heart, and know
if that soul were at peace with its Maker.
Coming, coming, faster and faster, nearer and nearer, the footsteps were
at the door; they had entered; the unbidden guest was in their midst.
He would not depart alone. All felt his presence, and there was silence,
only broken by the gasping breath, each moment growing shorter. The
very wind had lulled, and listened with them.
Then they came--those last words which echo so long in desolate hearts,
which we remember so much longer than any other utterances of our
beloved. Low, but clear and distinct, they sounded in the stillness.
There was awe, joy, and great wonder in the tone:
"_Hush! hark! see!_"
They were hushed; no sound was heard, save the gentle crackle and hiss
of the logs on the hearth; they saw--the little white form lying on its
pillows, with the red firelight beaming on opened, sightless eyes,
parted breathless lips.
_He_ hearkened, and heard 'the angels' song of welcome--_he_ looked, and
beheld the face of his Saviour!
*CHAPTER XXI.*
_*Father Paul.*_
There was no noisy grief, no boisterous lamentation when, one lovely
spring morning, the small funeral-train left the soldier's cottage, and
passed through the forest-paths toward the last resting-place of the
little Lollard martyr. Dick and Bertrand had dug the grave in just such
a spot as a child might choose to rest in after a long day of
happiness--a glade with a southern slope, purpled with violets, and
enlivened by a little brook, which leaped out of a thicket of wild
roses, and, after dancing awhile in the sunshine, and hugging the worn
rocks as though it loved them, plunged again into obscurity, under the
arms of a great overspreading willow, and went dancing on to the sea.
There were no chanting monks with flaming tapers, but the returning sun
spoke to them of nature--awake again after its long sleep--and of little
brown seeds, hidden away in the ground all winter, now bursting forth
into beauty and fragrance, every seed having its own body. "I am the
resurrection and the life"--how glorious those words sounded as echoed
by a thousand voices in that grand cathedral of God's own handiwork!
Every budding branch, every flower, every tiny blade of grass the
mourners crushed beneath their feet was to them a witness of that fact.
We, who have all our lives been used to the consolation which the pure
gospel gives to all thoughts connected with death, can hardly imagine
what were the Benedictine's feelings when he stood by that little grave,
and read that glorious funeral anthem, the fifteenth chapter of
Corinthians, for the first time in his mother tongue. It was all new
and striking to him. He had now no need to let his mind dwell on a
fearful purgatory, from which the departed soul could only be released
by the prayers and penances of living friends. He now knew that all
connection had ceased between the disembodied spirit and those it had
left behind. In due time they might go to it, but it was at that very
moment safe in its Saviour's bosom, whence none could pluck it away.
The soothing effect of the scene and the simple service was felt in
every heart; and when at last they saw Bertrand arrange the last sod
that covered the dear one from their eyes, there were no outbursts of
grief; for the peace which is not of this world, and therefore over
which the prince of this world has no power, was upon them, and rested
in each soul.
No tombstone marked the spot; they did not even dare to raise a mound,
lest the precious remains should be desecrated; but each, as he passed
by, laid on it a handful of the sweet spring flowers. Those who loved
him knew where he lay, and God would guard the ashes of his saint.
Their preparations must now be made speedily, for only two days remained
of the time granted them by the abbess. While they were looking for a
fishing-boat, the master of which might be induced, by the promise of a
large reward, to convey them to London, they were also busy contriving
how they might best take Lady Katharine Hyde without endangering the
safety of any who had aided them in their flight. Fortunately, the
abbess had never seen her young charge hold any communication with her
other prisoners; she was also entirely unaware that the young lady
possessed means of access to the garden, and indeed to the outer world,
whenever she was pleased to avail herself of them. The ghost also had
never been laid, but remained as great a mystery as ghosts generally do.
All this greatly favored their plans. It was at last arranged that she
should come down to the garden at as early an hour as possible in the
evening, locking the door behind her; that she should then enter the
little room under the tower, where Bertrand would meet her with her
disguise, which was to be that of a monk of Father Paul's order. They
were then to fasten up the entrance to the secret passage, and meet the
others at the designated spot on the coast. The others were to pretend
to start at sunset, that afterward, when Lady Katharine should be
missed, the abbess would not imagine that she had joined them. It would
be very easy for them, when it was dark, to turn back and take up the
rest of their load.
Geoffrey had been gaining strength rapidly the last few days, and his
spirits rose also. Not that Hubert was forgotten: there was not a moment
in which he did not miss that dear brother, rendered doubly dear by the
trials they had undergone together for their mutual faith, and who had
been for so long the object of his care; but though he was not gay, he
could not be sad. Hope was awake again, and that calm, peaceful
death-scene had left no bitterness behind. The little grave in the
forest glade, with the golden light flickering through the elm-branches
on its violets and snow-drops, was not brighter than the sunny memories
the child had left behind him. Life was not so very precious a thing to
a Lollard in that age of oppression and tyranny, that he should grieve
deeply over one who had laid aside its burden, and received the reward.
During the weary hours of his imprisonment, Geoffrey had learned many a
lesson of unselfishness and self-sacrifice, and besides, heaven had
grown nearer and more real to him--more real in fact, than the world
from which he had been so long separated. From his tomb in the
convent-dungeon he had arisen to a new spiritual life, he who had
entered his prison a haughty, passionate boy, fired, it is true, by many
noble impulses, but with an untamed spirit and unsanctified will, came
forth a calm, collected young man, disciplined in soul and mind, older
by many years than he had been six months before. He had learned to
read in a different way the history of his past life, as well as that
which opened before him day by day. He had also learned in his
loneliness to comprehend and to trust more fully that pure gospel truth
which he had until then received more as a political than a religious
creed, as intended to lead to freedom from worldly tyranny, rather than
from the dominion of sin and death.
He held several conversations with Father Paul about his future plans.
The ecclesiastic had the best means of judging concerning the spiritual
state of the kingdom, and its readiness for the reception of the
reformed doctrines, and he pronounced the movement premature. The
people were not, as a general thing, ready for any change in religion.
Papistry had too firm a hold on the lives and property of every class to
be dislodged, except by a combined movement of the masses, and that
could not be hoped for until the superstition and bigotry which now
enshrouded the whole land had been driven away by the diffusion of
education and a pure gospel. But how could the gospel be diffused when
not one in a hundred could read or write their mother tongue? And how
could education be brought to bear on the common people when it would
cost the laborer all he received for months of toil to purchase a single
book?
"I tell you," said the priest emphatically, "that as long as the Bible
is locked up from men, and men are shut out from the Bible, we can have
no general reformation in the church. When the Word of God shall be so
multiplied that every man may have it if he will, and every man's mind
is so enlightened that he may read it if he will, then let Rome tremble,
for her power over the nations will be gone."
"Has all this blood been expended, then, in vain?" asked Geoffrey.
"No," replied the monk; "that cannot be. God in his providence wastes
nothing; certainly not human suffering. Those who shall live after us
in future ages, and look back on the history of these times, will
understand how God is working with this land and its inhabitants; we
cannot; we can only trust. A thousand years are but a day in his sight,
and one day as a thousand years. We must only labor on, seeking to
lead, here and there a soul out of darkness into light. Do you know
that I intend to be your fellow-traveller to-morrow?"
"No," said Geoffrey, joyfully; "but whither and for how long?"
"I cannot answer the last question," replied Father Paul, "and the first
only in part. I am now, like yourself, an exile, for my life will not
be worth an hour's purchase when the archbishop hears of my heresy. My
plan is first to go with you to London, see my sister, Lady Katharine's
mother, and convey her and her children to a place of safety; then to
join Lord Cobham in Wales, and there, under him and other godly men,
learn more of these glorious truths, for I am but a child in the true
knowledge, and have much to unlearn, as well as to learn. After that,
if God will grant to me, so unworthy, the privilege of preaching his
good tidings, I will go about the country and seek to lead home some of
his lost sheep by telling them how I was restored."
"That was Hubert's great desire," said Geoffrey rather sadly; "but God
thought otherwise."
"Nay, there you mistake," replied the Father with emotion. "I have
stood in many pulpits and pronounced many discourses, for men say I have
the gift of an eloquent tongue; but as I look back on them all, I cannot
remember that one has been the means of saving a single soul. I have
bidden men subdue the flesh by penance--never the spirit by penitence; I
have taught sinners to seek a release from the consequences of their
crimes in the cloister, in pilgrimages, in costly offerings, but I have
never directed them to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the
world. I have taught my people to fear the wrath of the church, but
never warned them to prepare for the judgment of God. Oh! my burden is
heavy, heavy! Be thankful, my son, that you are spared from knowing
that thousands have gone down to the grave depending on your false
teaching. A blind leader of the blind I had been for nearly half a
century, until a few words from the lips of a child taught me myself.
What I now am, whatever hereafter God will permit me to do for my
fellow-sinners, will all be owing to your brother.
"And not to me alone has he unfolded the truth as it is in Jesus. His
holy life and death have left lessons behind whose effects only God can
know. Even Mother Beatrice seems softened, and I have left with her a
few simple truths and searching questions which may, through God's
blessing, work to her eternal profit. And poor Dick, how changed he
seems! How wonderful is this doctrine of Christ's righteousness atoning
for sin without any effort on our part but that of accepting it! That
is the only thing which can heal the festering, cankering wounds of
remorse. How glorious is the liberty wherewith Christ has made us
free!"
*CHAPTER XXII.*
_*Meeting and Parting.*_
The sun was shining brightly on the garden of a pretty Gothic mansion
near the Thames, one glorious spring morning, about a week after the
Lollard exiles had sailed from the Yorkshire coast. The house seemed to
have fallen somewhat out of repair, and the garden looked as if a dozen
gardeners might find employment in putting it in order for the summer.
But still, nothing had an untidy aspect; there was rather a bright look
about it, as if it were trying to put the very best face possible on the
matter, and conceal the ravages of time by a veil of ivy and spring
flowers.
In one of the grassy paths, just where it divided to embrace a fallen
sun-dial, stood a group matching well with the surrounding scene. The
venerableness of the old mansion, the nobleness of the clinging ivy, and
the bright freshness of the flowers had each its counterpart in the
animate objects. The most prominent figure, perhaps, was that of an old
white war-horse in faded trappings, but still retaining a trace of his
former glories in the way he arched his neck and lifted his stiffened
limbs. Leading him by the bridle was a fine-looking, weather-beaten old
man, with somewhat of the old war-horse's disposition, if one might
judge from the piercing eyes which looked out from under shaggy gray
brows, and the grim though kindly smile lighting up a face that would
have been handsome if it had not been for the deep scar of a sword-cut
which disfigured his brow and cheek. His smile was occasioned by the
merry sallies of a little child of some four or five summers who was
mounted on the horse's back, but giving little heed to the management of
his steed, and rather intent on ornamenting him with the flowers with
which his lap was filled. He had thrown down his plumed cap on the
grass, that he might have more space to bestow his treasures, and the
sunbeams and the violets nestled together in the golden curls which the
wind was sweeping back from his broad white brow, and rolling in shaded
masses on his crimson velvet-dress. Two laughing blue eyes followed the
motions of a pair of fat baby hands, as they tried to twine some
primroses in the old charger's stiff mane, where they were determined
not to stay, but kept dropping out as fast as he put them in, strewing
the ground beneath them.
Sometimes, when he found a prettier one than usual, he would hold it out
to a tall, noble-looking lady who walked at his side. "For you, mamma!"
he would say, and the lady would receive the child's gifts in her hand,
but would not suffer him to put them in her hair. Her dress was that of
a widow; and her pale, sad face and abstracted look, as if she were
dwelling on a dreary past rather than a cheerful present, told that her
grief was still fresh in her mind. All the little one's merry shouts
and loving speeches could only draw from her a faint, sad smile, that
vanished again almost as soon as it appeared.
"Dress old Rollo's head with flowers if you will, little Guy, but not
mine; they would only wither there."
"Well, then, mamma," said the little one, "Rollo has enough; see how he
shakes them out of his ears! I will now make a wreath for sister Kate
to wear when she comes home. Has she gone to find papa, and will she
bring him back with her? How long will it be before we are together and
happy again? Tell me mamma."
The tears rose in the lady's eyes; she threw one arm around her child,
and drawing him toward her, pressed kisses fast and thick on lip and
cheek and brow.
"Papa cannot come again, my child; he has gone to another world, and
would not wish to come back to one so full of care and trouble; and
sister Kate is far away; perhaps she has gone to papa, and some day we
will go to meet them, but they cannot come to us again. You and I must
love each other dearly now, Guy, for I have no one left but you."
"Dear mamma, don't cry," said the boy stoutly, though his own lip was
curling as he spoke, and dropping all his treasures, he flung both arms
around her neck.
The old servant, as though he wished the privacy of the mother and child
to be undisturbed, had gone forward a few paces; but now he returned
with a face expressive of both surprise and anxiety; and interrupted
them:
"My lady, the boat! It has stopped at the water-gate, and several
persons are landing from it."
"What boat?" said the lady hurriedly, grasping her child tighter as she
spoke, and leading the horse forward in the direction indicated.
"The one we noticed awhile ago from the hill coming up from London.
Shall I go forward and ask their errand?"
"Yes, Thomas, go quickly, but be calm, and do not irritate them; we will
follow. There is no need of escaping if they are friends," she added to
herself when the old servant was gone, "and if they are foes, there is
no time."
Her look grew even more alarmed when she turned a corner and came in
full sight of the advancing party, for her eyes fell first on the dress
of a monk whose features were only too well known to her. But she had
hardly time to consider what the danger was, before a figure detached
itself from the group and came bounding toward her. "Mamma and Guy!"
shouted a glad girlish voice, and in another moment the pale lady's arms
were loosened from her son to clasp them around her daughter, and draw
her tightly to her breast. Neither spoke for a moment--their joy and
thankfulness were too great for words. Kate first broke the silence:
"O mamma! is it all true?" she cried, half laughing, half sobbing. "Am
I really at home again? Oh! I am so glad! so glad! I thought the time
would never come. And little Guy--what a big boy he has grown! And
Rollo, and Thomas! O mamma! I do believe I am at home!"
"Sister Kate! sister Kate!" shouted the child, whose blue eyes had been
opened wide with wonder at the scene, and who now just began to
understand what was going on. "You _have_ come back, though mamma said
you would not; and there is papa, too!"
The lady started; after this wonderful meeting it seemed as though even
the dead might return.
"O mamma! it is our kinsman, Sir John De Forest, and Geoffrey, and
Father Paul. I should have told you at first, but I am so happy I
forgot." And away bounded the happy girl to meet the others now close
to them in the path.
Lady Eleanor greeted Sir John with affection and respect, for his wife
had been her distant cousin and very dear friend, and she had, besides,
met him in Lollard assemblies several times. But the sight of her
brother both perplexed and troubled her. What had _he_ to do at such a
meeting? A proscribed Lollard and a Benedictine monk walking peaceably
side by side was a sight as strange as would be a wolf asleep in a
sheep-fold.
Father Paul's fine features were working with emotion as he took both
his sister's hands in his, and looked down into her face.
"Peace be unto your house, Eleanor, and to all that are within it. I
come not to break your peace, but rather to add to it. God has taught
me many things since you and I parted. One is, that it is not serving
him to leave the station in life in which he himself has placed us, or
to break the ties of family affection, which every law of his only binds
more firmly. I come to you no proud, self-righteous, persecuting
Benedictine, but a sinner saved and cleansed by the blood of Jesus
Christ. Your God is my God, your people are my people from henceforth.
Are you still afraid to receive me into your home?"
Lady Eleanor was almost overwhelmed by her happiness, and could only
murmur:
"God answers prayer, O Paul! Why is my faith so weak? He has bestowed
all that I ever wished; my cup is full of joy!"
Geoffrey had lingered behind, under pretense of helping Bertrand to
fasten the boat and attend to their luggage, but in reality because he
was feeling a little sad and lonely. We all know how, when one with whom
we have been holding constant companionship, who has been all in all to
us, and to whom we have seemed to be very important, is suddenly
surrounded by other near and dear friends who are entire strangers to
us, what a desolate feeling comes over us as we feel that we are no more
necessary to their happiness. We immediately imagine ourselves forgotten
because, having been so long prominent, we are now thrown into the
background. This is all very selfish, no doubt, but it is human nature.
Geoffrey was feeling more desolate, perhaps, than he had felt since his
entrance into the convent-dungeon, when he was aroused by Kate's merry
laugh.
"Come, come, sir captive knight, you are demeaning your noble birth by
doing servants' work. My mother is just asking which is Bertrand, and
which is master Geoffrey. And here is little Guy, who wants to see who
it was that sister Kate used to go and see wrapped up like a ghost, and
who at last brought her home to him and mamma. There now, Guy, make your
reverence, like a nice little page as you are, to this famous hero; and
I shouldn't wonder if he could tell you better stories than even old
Thomas."
Geoffrey was by this time heartily ashamed of his foolish fancies, and
stooping down, he lifted the child in his arms to hide his confusion.
"Geoffrey," said Kate, her voice suddenly changing from its light,
bantering tone, "one reason why I noticed Hubert that day in the
convent-chapel was because he made me think of little Guy--he had just
such a brow, and eyes, and hair. Oh! if he were only here to be happy
with us at home!"
"He is even happier than we," said Geoffrey, touched by her
thoughtfulness for him. "He, too, has met his long-lost mother, and he
only is really at home; we are still wanderers."
"Yes, I know it," she replied, sighing. "I think I can imagine better
what heaven must be than I could before this morning. Just such happy
meetings as this, but with no drawbacks. See how bright mamma looks,
leaning on Father Paul's arm! She is talking very earnestly to Sir
John, and they are pointing to us. Come, you must make haste if you do
not want all your story told for you."
How swiftly flew the hours at Estly Court that long, bright spring day!
There were so many questions to be asked, so many stories to tell, so
many plans to discuss, that it was a wonder they had any powers of
speech left for future conversations. Kate kept close at her mother's
side, and Lady Eleanor could not help following with her eyes every
motion of that long lost, strangely found brother. Sir John had much to
hear from his son of his other child's life and death; and even old
Thomas and Bertrand, seated at a respectful distance, but still not too
far away to hear every word of the conversation and join in it
occasionally, were discussing the adventures of their superiors with
affectionate interest. Little Guy kept running from one to the other,
now resting his curly head against Geoffrey's shoulder--for they had
taken a great fancy to each other--and now climbing into Kate's lap,
that he might hear better the marvellous adventures of the
convent-ghost, and how the two prisoners frightened each other at their
first interview.