Part 12

"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.

This whole day was devoted to recalling the past; but on the next, when 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!

* * * * * * * *

*ATTRACTIVE GIFT BOOKS.*

*UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.*