they had rested and were refreshed, they settled themselves resolutely
to think of the future. There was one thing certain--Estly Court was no
safe residence for any of them. As soon as Lady Katharine's flight was
discovered, the abbess would conjecture where she would be most likely
to take refuge, and send Lord Harcourt to take her away. Fortunately
Lady Eleanor possessed a small estate in Wales, which would afford her a
livelihood, and, under her brother's care, she determined to set off for
it immediately with her children.
Sir John, with his son and Bertrand, saw nothing better for them than to
go to Germany, and take honorable service under some of the petty
princes, who were always at war with each other; for, from the
confiscation of their property, there was nothing left to them in
England.
As the first day had been given up to rejoicing, and the second to
planning, so the third saw their departure, for there was no saying but
that at any moment their enemies might discover their retreat. Their
parting was very sorrowful, for in those troublous times there seemed
little hope that they would ever meet again on earth. How precious,
then, to them was their faith that sooner or later, come grief, come
joy, they would all meet in a place that has never and will never
witness a parting, though it has been the scene of more blessed reunions
than we can conceive.
Geoffrey and Kate were walking together by the river-side on the last
evening. Neither spoke for a long time--they only gazed at the dark
water flowing so rapidly toward the sea, and thought how soon it would
separate them for years, perhaps forever. Kate broke the silence:
"I wonder if we will ever see each other again, Geoffrey."
For some moments her companion did not answer; then he said in a low
voice, very earnestly:
"Kate, do you remember the night when Hubert gave us these?" and he drew
from his bosom the little bag of plaited straw which those dear fingers
had made in the lonely prison.
Her only answer was to draw out hers, and lay it beside his on his open
palm.
Geoffrey continued:
"You remember what he said then, and afterward when he was dying, and
what I promised. If God spares me a few years longer, I will come back,
and ask you to help me do what he wished so much. I am a boy yet in
years, I know, but I am a man in many things, and in token that you will
think of me sometimes, shall we exchange gifts, dear Kate? Then, when
that day comes, I will ask mine back again."
Her only answer was to take up Geoffrey's bag and put it where her own
had been: then Geoffrey did the same with hers, and both were content.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
_*Waiting for the Dawn.*_
Twenty years have passed since a boy and girl walked sadly side by side
on the banks of the Thames one sweet spring evening. It is autumn now,
and the slanting rays of a setting sun are gilding the vine-clad hills
of the Rhine. The castles which in these days delight the traveller by
their picturesque ruins, were, at the time of which we are speaking, in
their glory, and frowned down on the peaceful water from many a lofty
summit.
The peasants are gathering in the vintage, and yonder, slowly climbing
the hill toward a great building, whose turrets, catching the latest
beams, seem burnished with gold, is a heavy cart laden with the rich
purple clusters, and surrounded by a group of women and children, who
are urging on the patient oxen with shouts and songs.
This has been a wonderfully abundant year. The great granaries of the
owner of the valley are bursting with corn, and the vines are bending
with their luscious load. Nor is there one who does not rejoice in their
master's prosperity; for far and near, high and low, all love and honor
the baron of Arnstein--Geoffrey the Good.
It is true that some say he is only an adventurer, who had landed a
penniless exile on their shores, and who owed all his present fortune to
his sword and his sovereign's favor; but none dare say that his wealth
and power have not been fairly and nobly won, and generously and justly
used. He had not gone far in the path of military glory and ambition;
but soon quitting the court and the field, he he had settled down on his
estate, and contented himself with governing his people, and attending
to their welfare.
The vintage-cart has mounted higher and higher, and now it has turned
into a court, and is depositing its load. Farther on, in an inner
court, where a porch opens into the great castle-hall, stands the lord
and master; and the peasants pay him their respects with many an awkward
but sincere reverence.
He is a fine, hale, sunburnt man. A few silver hairs are to be seen in
his dark curls and heavy beard; but his martial air and stalwart form
proclaim him in the prime of life. He is leaning with one shoulder
against the doorway, and the other arm is thrown round a rosy little
lady, very matronly in her cap and plaited kerchief, but showing, in her
twinkling eyes and dimpled mouth, much of the roguish spirit which
characterized the Lady Katharine Hyde of yore. She looks rather too
stout and portly to flit about by night as a convent ghost; but it will
be very wonderful if that small image of her, now engaged in teasing an
old wolf-hound, should arrive at the age of discretion without some
mischievous adventure.
A little farther on, in an arm-chair, so placed that the sunbeams light
up his bent figure, and glisten in his snow-white hair, making it seem
like a halo of glory about his head, sits a very old man. He is tracing
with his stick letters in the sand; while a boy, some six or seven years
old, is pronouncing their names, giving a scream of joy every time he
finds, by the old man's smile, that he is right.
"Hubert," says his father's cheerful voice, "Father Paul will let you
leave your lesson now. Run and meet uncle Guy; he is coming up the
hill."
Away runs the boy right joyously, his sister not so far behind; and when
they return, little Eleanor is seated on a tall horse, in front of a
young man in student's dress, and Hubert is leading the horse by the
bridle.
Young Guy had joined his brother and sister after his mother's death,
and was now making rapid progress toward distinction in a German
college. His frank manners and bright, merry face make him a welcome
everywhere, and the children receive him with joyful shouts.
"My new pony is to come home to-morrow, uncle Guy!" says little Eleanor,
jumping up and down with glee, for he has dismounted himself and her,
and is greeting her parents. "Gerhard is to train him for me, and I mean
to call him Rollo, after the horse you were riding when papa and mamma
came out of prison."
"Uncle Guy!" says Hubert, in a lower but no less eager tone, his face
crimsoned with delight, "Father Paul says I know all my letters now, and
to-morrow I am to begin in Papa's big book!"
"I am glad to hear that, my boy," Sir Guy says kindly; "we will have you
at Wittemberg soon, I think. But now I want a moment with Father Paul.
White Star is not very tired, and if you can get Bertrand or Gerhard to
hold you on, you might ride him round the outer court."
Away go the happy children, and Sir Guy turns to the old monk, now
chaplain of the castle--for after the death of his sister, and the cruel
murder of his friend, Lord Cobham, he had joined the exiles in Germany.
"Is there any news, my son?" says the good old man.
"Not much, father, save that there is some stir about this new invention
which some men say comes straight from the Devil, while others are
equally certain that it has descended from heaven."
"Ah! you mean the wonderful art of printing," said Father Paul; "both
parties have somewhat of truth in their assertions. Old men can see
deeper into the depths of the future than young men; and those who, like
me, are drawing very near the golden gates, are permitted to see, though
but dimly, far down the slope of time into days that are to come; and I
see, in this way of multiplying books, a great curse and a great
blessing for the world. Have you seen any of the work?"
"That have I, Father--several works; and I have brought you here one
sheet, that you may see it for yourself."
The old man takes the sheet with trembling hands; it is the first
chapter of Matthew's gospel.
"One of the men from whom I purchased this is very sanguine; he thinks
that when they have all their _metal_ type, they may be able to print a
Bible in a day. Surely that would be a wondrous thing!"
"A wondrous thing, and a glorious thing!" said Father Paul, rising to
his feet, and steadying himself with his staff, while his eye
brightened, and his whole face beamed with what seemed almost the spirit
of inspiration. "Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,
for the day of the Reformation is breaking! The day promised so long is
coming, O Lord! I have waited for thy salvation! The chains which have
kept thy precious Word from the people are breaking, one by one. In the
Lord's good time will he accomplish it. Glorious is the perfect liberty
of the sons of God--the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and
which he is about to proclaim to the whole world! When each peasant can
have his Bible in his hand, then shall arise men mighty to preach it.
Then shall Rome tremble on her seven hills, and the song of the redeemed
captives go up to the Lord from all the ends of the earth!
"Lord, how long? Lord, how long? Hasten the day, for thine elect's
sake. O Lord Jesus! come quickly!"
The old man sank back again on his seat, the tears dropping slowly on
his white beard, his head bowed on the hands which rested on the top of
his staff.
Geoffrey and his wife have drawn near, and heard the old man's last
words.
"Forgive me, my children," he says at last. "From the top of this Pisgah
I see a glorious land. There are visions opening to my mind such as
words cannot paint. Let me be a little while in silence."
They are all still. Higher and higher up the mountains are creeping the
evening shadows; already there are twinkling lights in the cottages
below. Far in the distant west the purple and golden glories are
melting, shade by shade into the intense azure of the zenith. In the
east, almost touching yonder blue hill, is the evening star. The last
sunbeam is linking the earth and sky, and over that golden bridge is
passing a ransomed soul.
"Father Paul," says Geoffrey, "the twilight is gathering fast; will you
not come within?"
There is no twilight for him, for he is looking into the face of his
God!
* * * * * * * *
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FRIENDS OR FOES. A Story for Boys and Girls . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
JONAS HAGGERLEY. The Story of L100 Reward . . . J. JACKSON WRAY.
THE LOST JEWEL. A Tale . . . A. L. O. E.
OUR CAPTAIN; or, The Heroes of Barton School . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
MISTRESS MARGERY. A Tale of the Lollards . . E. S. HOLT.
THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE. A Tale . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
CABIN AND CASTLE; or, Barney's Story . . . E. A. BLAND.
I WILL. A True Story for Boys . . . ARTHUR HALL.
IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
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THE GABLED FARM; Young Workers for the King . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
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FLOSS SILVERTHORN; The Little Handmaid . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
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JEAN LINDSAY, The Vicar's Daughter . . . EMILY BRODIE.
SEEKETH NOT HER OWN. An Old Time Story . . . M. L. SITWELL.
MOTHER MEG. The Story of Dickie's Attic . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
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NELLIE ARUNDEL. A Tale of Home Life . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
WALTER ALISON: His Friends and Foes . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER Row, E. C.
No. 854