Part 10

"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."

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.

"Do you remember, Geoffrey, that day before we left dear old Forest 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."