Part 9

The next morning, there was an unwonted confusion in the ordinarily quiet convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. In spite of all the strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule, there was an audible hum of voices in the refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of delight, on every face. For what earthly power could keep still the tongues of fifty women, when such an excellent subject for gossip had arisen in their very midst? Some told the story one way, and some another, but one thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to several of the inmates of the convent the preceding night. Sister Hilda, who had fallen behind-hand with some aves and paters which had been given her by way of penance, had been in the chapel on her knees before the figure of the Virgin at midnight, and she declared that just as the last stroke of the bell died away, she lifted her head, and saw a very tall, white figure pass through the choir, and out at the door behind the altar. Sister Ann had been passing down the corridor leading to the infirmary, as it was her duty to watch Sister Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had brushed by her and passed up the tower stairway.

Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all, though she did not dare to relate the horrible encounter _she_ had had with the spectre, for reasons which will shortly appear. It was her duty to hand the great bunch of keys to the abbess every night, and on the preceding evening when she got into bed, she suddenly remembered that she had left the key of the garden-door hanging in its lock. In great terror lest her forgetfulness should draw upon her some severe punishment, she had stolen softly down-stairs to recover it before it should be found in the morning; but just as she came to the door and had taken the key out, a tall white figure approached, and laid a deathly cold hand on hers. She had shrieked with fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her life; and now the key could not be found anywhere. The prioress had not yet missed it--that was the only comfort; the weather was not pleasant enough to make the garden an agreeable resort, and it might be some days before she was disgraced, but it must come at last; so she did not care to give her experiences with the ghost.

When dame Redwood appeared at the grate to ask for the plaster Lady Katharine had been so kind as to promise her, she noticed her daughter's pale face, but was too much occupied with her particular business to ask her many questions. It seemed so long to her before the lady came that she feared lest something should have happened to prevent their meeting altogether; but at last she appeared, walking as demurely as Mother Beatrice herself. As soon as she was sure of being free from observation, however, she raised her hood and showed to the dame a face so expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the good woman could not help catching the infection.

"Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate, imitating the nuns' tone, "how is that emaciated back of thine to-day?"

Fortunately the dame never laughed very loud; she only screwed up her round face and shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and as soon as she had indulged in this irresistible fit of merriment, she answered:

"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as about the bottle you'll be asking, and here it is, and a little meat in this package, if you can hide so much."

"That can I," replied Kate, opening her cloak and showing some ingeniously arranged pockets. "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if for naught else. But here is another matter: do you think your good man could make another key like that? Phoebe told me he had replaced one once that had been lost, but that he needed a copy." Here she produced, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the identical key which had caused the poor under-porteress such trouble and fright. "It is the key of the garden-gate, and it is very necessary for my comfort that Mother Beatrice and I should each have a means of entrance there."

"The saints preserve me, lady! but how got you hold of a key that not even my Phoebe herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's permission? She has told me as much herself."

"Ah! I have a way," said Kate, her mouth twitching with fun; "and as to daring, I dare anything--for those I love," she added to herself; but the very thought sent a flush of color to her cheek, and moisture to her eye.

"As to the key," said the dame, turning it over and over in her hands, "it is as like as a twin to the one that opens the big oak chest at home. I know it well, for I have handled it now nigh upon forty years."

"That is good news," replied the young schemer. "I am to go into the garden to-day, but with Mother Beatrice. When she turns her back I think I can throw a string with a stone at the end over the east side, close by the tower turret. Could not Bertrand fasten the key to it then, so that I could draw it up at the next turn? They would not notice such a little thing from the windows."

This led to a full account of the hidden entrance, and when they parted, it was with the agreement that a note should be thrown over the wall by a string in case of any emergency, and, until Bertrand and Dick could clear out the passage, the prisoners should remain quiet, and be, above all, particular to excite no suspicion.

Mother Beatrice being now pretty well assured that her prisoners were subdued by hunger and long confinement, thought it high time to begin the work of their conversion, and on this very day she had sent Father Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to have a conversation with them.

When he entered the room it was afternoon, and some sunbeams which had lost their way among these grim walls and towers, shot through the grated window and rested on the face of a pale, thin boy, who was reclining on the straw in the corner, partly supported by the wall, while with his long, thin fingers he was braiding some straw into fancy shapes. Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin around him a tattered cloak in such a way as to keep off the cold air from the window. He sprang to his feet as the door opened, and placed himself as if for a shield in front of the sick child.

"Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk, softening his tones involuntarily at the sight of such suffering. He drew a wooden stool to the side of the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's high forehead with such a tender touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the moment disarmed.

"Thou art very ill, my son. Wouldst thou not like to leave this sad place and go out into the bright world? It is almost spring now--the flowers will soon be out in the woods."

The boy did not answer for a moment; he only gave a long, deep sigh, but it was such a longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's brow waxed dark with indignation, and he walked away toward the window to conceal his feelings.

"Ah! Father, if you had been a prisoner all these weary months, you would not ask that question."

"Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to kneel down here at my knee and confess thy sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the sunshine; for I think thou hast borne penance enough for all the wrong thou canst have committed, poor child!"

Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on his lips, but Hubert's quiet voice was already replying:

"I shrive me to God morning and evening, and Christ hath long since borne my penance. He only stands betwixt my God and me."

"How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding such opposition at the very outset. "So young, and a heretic already! Dost thou set thyself against the holy mother church and all her teachings?"

"By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!" Geoffrey burst out, no longer able to restrain himself, "your holy mother church hath showed herself but a sorry jade of a step-mother to us. What obedience do we owe to one who has robbed us of our home and our friends, and who thirsts for our blood? You had better choose another place to preach the papistrie in than this foul dungeon!"

"Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to bring you a message of peace, but you will make me turn it to one of wrath and justice. If you are old enough thus to brave authority, you are old enough for the rack to force from you more seemly speech."

Geoffrey was cooler now, but none the less determined. He stood before his visitor with such resolution in his hollow eyes, and stern contempt in the rigid lines about his mouth, that the monk involuntarily stepped back a space. He spoke in a low, deep tone:

"Look you, sir priest, ye and your fellows have razed to the ground the home of my ancestors; ye have made my father a penniless exile; ye have slain with fire and sword our dearest friends; ye seized us when we were living quietly and peaceably, not even seeking to teach to others these doctrines which you call heresy; ye have shut us up here in this noisome place, having done no wrong, and having never even had a trial; ye have taken away from us the light and air of heaven, and I wot well ye think never to let us forth again. So be it. Hunger and thirst and weariness will soon open for us gates which ye cannot shut, and give to us a home which ye can neither destroy nor ever inhabit."

The boy's highly-wrought feelings had proved too much for his feeble frame, for though his voice rang clear and high to the end, he sank down the moment he had finished and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. Hubert, excited by the interview, had become flushed with fever, and he seemed to have partly lost consciousness of the subject of discourse; but, catching the last words, he began in a weak and wandering way to talk:

"Home? Oh! yes, I think it is time we went home, Geoffrey; they want us home, and it is warm and bright and beautiful there. Take hold of my hand, brother, and let us go home together!"

The monk turned again to the bedside, and drawing from under his robe an illuminated missal, held up before the child's face one of the pictures.

"My son, seest thou this Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God?"

"God's lamb?" said the child dreamily. "I know he is the Good Shepherd; but tell me, doesn't a shepherd sometimes forget one poor little lamb, and leave it out on the mountains alone, with the wind roaring, and the snow falling, to die?"

The monk only shook his head, and turned to a picture of the crucifixion.

"I know! I know!" cried Hubert, roused almost to eagerness. "He died for you and me, for us all, and so we are safe; his precious blood is on me, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted. I am his little lamb, as he is the Lamb of God; and he cannot forget one for whom he suffered so much. He will soon turn back on his way and take me up in his bosom, and I shall be so warm while he is carrying me home! But the rocks are so cold and hard! Do you think he will soon remember me, and come?"

Father Paul's stern features were working with emotion; perhaps it was to hide this that he bent lower down over the child and felt again his forehead and hands.

"Are you a minister?" said Hubert, suddenly looking up into his face. "I wish you would tell me some of Jesus' words, you know so much better than I do. Tell me about the Bridegroom coming in the night, and being all ready."

Poor Father Paul! In all his long life--for the hair left by the tonsure was already beginning to turn gray--he had never heard those sweet, solemn words in his mother tongue, and so hastily and carelessly had he repeated them in Latin when the service required it, that he could not recollect them now. Instead, he commenced a prayer in Latin but Hubert interrupted him:

"Not now, please; my head is so bad I cannot say my Latin task now. Geoffrey, just say one verse before I go to sleep."

Geoffrey rose in an instant, and pushing the monk away, knelt at his brother's side and repeated the whole passage.

"Ready, ready," murmured the boy; "yes, I think I am ready. I wish he would come to-night. I know it is only to trust in Jesus, and I think I do that. I am very glad, for that brings peace now, when everything else is so full of pain and weariness. Are _you_ ready too?" He lifted his large, earnest eyes full in the face of the ecclesiastic.

Father Paul turned abruptly and left the room. He drew each bolt and bar with energy as he fastened the door behind him, as though by closing that oaken portal he could shut out certain new and very painful thoughts which had arisen in his mind; but it had no such effect; and thinking perhaps that a little fresh air might blow away such dungeon damps, he procured the key which Phoebe had just found suspended in its usual place, and with his cowl drawn over his face paced for some time the little garden.

The truth was, that a mighty problem had come up before his mind, and would allow him no rest till he had solved it. If that Master should come, whose advent might even then be nigh at hand--if he, as Judge, were suddenly to appear, was he ready for his coming? Paul Hyde had not entered the church merely as a matter of taste, as did many of his companions, but as the only means of escaping the consequences of a wild and wicked youth. He was the brother of Lady Eleanor; but so completely had he withdrawn himself from his family, especially after rumors of his sister's Lollardism began to float about, that though he knew somewhat of their movements, he was to them as one dead, and Mother Beatrice was entirely unaware that her favorite confessor was also the uncle of her troublesome charge.

He was a man of rather a contemplative than active disposition, and not so inclined to cruelty as many of his brethren. He had studied thoroughly the business he had undertaken. His prayers were numerous, his penances and mortifications incessant, his fasts frequent and severe, and all this discipline he had been taught, and learned to believe, had atoned for all the evil of his former life, and made him not only pure, but worthy in the sight of God. But, strange to say, a few words from the lips of a sick child had shown him, as by a lightning-flash, that all this sin had only been covered, not driven out--concealed, but never canceled, and that all the sins of his youth were ready to spring up and confront him--ay, and confound him in the great day of account.

In vain he considered, again and again, his austere and holy life; he could not see that one sin had been lessened in its enormity by it all. Father Paul had a clear, vigorous mind; it had been slumbering for many years under the influence of the sleeping-draught which Popery always administers so skillfully to its victims; but now that it was aroused, it grasped, systematically, the arguments, and rapidly drew its conclusions. Sin and its punishment, man's utter depravity and God's just wrath, were painted in glowing colors before his eyes. His natural sense of justice told him that we only perform our duty in living the holiest of lives, for we cannot be more perfect than his laws. How then can we lay up any righteousness in one part of our lives, to balance the wickedness of another portion?

Lower and lower sank the monk's head on his bosom, wilder and fiercer rushed through his mind thoughts of remorse, horror, and despair. He gave one glance toward Heaven for aid, but the thick leaden clouds seemed placed there for a sign that Heaven was barred against his prayers, and the words of supplication to which he was accustomed, seemed as though they would pass from the lips of a wretch so utterly, so hopelessly vile!

Just at that moment the convent bell tolled, but he had to pass his hand several times across his brow before he could remember that he must perform vespers in the chapel. He turned his steps toward the vestry door; there was no escape for him from that duty, though the thought seemed pressing him down to the earth that he, with such a fearful weight of unforgiven sin hanging over him, was to kneel at God's holy altar, and lead the devotions of yonder band of simple, dependent women. All noticed his haggard look and abstracted air, and the weak, almost tottering step with which he mounted the chancel steps; but it was Easter Eve--doubtless the holy Father had sunk under the austerities he had been inflicting on himself during the Lent just passing away, and they gazed on him almost with awe, as a being elevated above the world by his voluntary sufferings--so little do we know each other in this world!

Easter Eve! a day full of deep and holy thoughts for thinking minds. Sad, as it brings over our minds the shadow of the garden tomb; joyful, as it points to the glories of the coming morrow.

Father Paul never thought of seeking his couch that night. Back and forth he strode the length of his cell; rest seemed banished from him forever. Again and again he passed each argument in review--those which justified God grew more and more powerful; those which justified himself broke one by one like a flaxen band in the flame. More than once he flung himself at full length on the stone floor, and groaned aloud in his anguish.

At length, almost unconsciously, he took up his missal which lay on the table beside him, and opened it. The faint gray streaks of the coming daylight revealed to him the very picture he had been showing the sick boy, and with the sight came back the child's words:

"He died for you and me, and so we are safe. His precious blood is on my head, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted."

He laid the book down softly, then seated himself and buried his face in his hands. That one thought, like the command of Christ, had driven out the demons who were tormenting and mocking his soul. Like Christian, he had come to the foot of the cross, and his burden had fallen into the open sepulchre. Self-righteousness he saw must be exchanged for Christ's righteousness, and, as in a vision, he beheld the Lamb of God submitting to the punishment due to his sins, and saw how beneath the cross God's justice might clasp hands with his mercy, how God might be justified, and yet the sinner be pardoned. The morning had dawned, the Easter sun was lifting itself from the horizon, and climbing by golden ropes toward the zenith; but far more gloriously was the risen Sun of Righteousness shining in the long benighted heart of the Benedictine monk!

Again the convent bell sounded, but this time he joyfully obeyed its summons. If all had wondered at the priest's appearance the preceding evening, they wondered still more at his conduct in the morning. As he passed up the choir, through the crowd of country folk who had gathered to keep the holy day, his "Benedicite" had a depth and fervor of tone in it which none had ever heard before from the stern, cold man. His very face was changed. It was very, very pale, with deep lines and furrows around the compressed mouth, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets; but the expression of joy, peace, and thanksgiving that rested upon it was unmistakable. When the service was over, he mounted the pulpit and began his sermon.

Never had such a discourse been delivered within the time-worn walls of Our Lady's church. He took no text--his theme was the story of the cross. Never had it seemed so wonderful, so simple, and yet so majestic before. He drew such a picture of divine love and compassion, the slain Lamb washing away sin with his own blood, God smiling at the sinner over Calvary, that there was scarcely a head in the whole assembly that was not bowed down to hide the falling tears. Then he bade them notice the snow which, under the bright beams of a returning sun, was melting away to be replaced by flowers and fruits, and he compared it to their dead faith and affections which Christ's resurrection should rouse to life and activity.

Lower sank his voice, more solemn, more thrilling grew his tone as he spoke to them of the second coming of that Lord and Master who had risen from his tomb more than fourteen hundred years before, and he seemed so to realize in his own mind the fact that at any moment, even that very day, the angel's trumpet might call priest and people to the judgment, that his eloquence fell with irresistible force on even his most careless or ignorant hearers; and when at last he descended the pulpit-steps, his last words were ringing like a death-knell in many a trembling heart, for they were spoken for the first time in their own tongue:

"Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh. What I say unto you, I say unto all, _Watch!_"

Mother Beatrice met her confessor in the convent parlor soon after the sermon. She stood more in awe of him than of any one else with whom she came in contact. Perhaps it was because she could not understand him: we are generally afraid of characters whose depths we cannot fathom, unless we are exceedingly ignorant or conceited--then we despise them. But however this was, she feared and reverenced him, and these feelings were not likely to be lessened by the new expression of his countenance.

"Well, Father, how have you found our prisoners? I have strong hopes for the younger; he is but a child, and not yet hardened in iniquity, perhaps. Think you he is yet convinced of his folly? I heard such tales of Lollard wiles and witchcraft, that it behooved me to put them in safe keeping."

Only yesterday had Father Paul talked with those children. Could it be possible that between one sunset and the succeeding one, so fearful a conflict could have been fought, so glorious a victory won?

"Daughter," he replied, as soon as he could arrange his thoughts, "no bolts or bars can keep that younger child with us. There is a Deliverer approaching before whom we must all bow."

"How, Father?" said the startled lady; "who is it will take them from my guardianship? Has the archbishop sent----"

"Nay, daughter," said the priest solemnly; "the deliverer I spoke of is greater than he, and will pass through yonder dungeon walls without asking our favor. The lad is dying."

"Dying!" Mother Beatrice appeared really shocked. "I meant not that; I may have kept them over strictly; they are but children."

It may have been the kindly influences of Eastertide, it may have been the result of thoughts stirred up by the sermon she had just heard--whatever it was, the abbess was strangely softened. Father Paul saw this, and took advantage of it.

"What shall I do, Father? They are heretics--enemies of our holy church."

"Then, daughter," replied the monk very gravely, "think how Christ forgave his torturers, and let this be your Easter sacrifice, far more acceptable in his sight than the rushes with which you have strewn the chapel in memory of his resurrection. Let us forgive as we have been forgiven."

*CHAPTER XVII.*

_*A Midnight Supper.*_

At midnight on the preceding night, when the convent was still, and even the inmates of the dungeon under the east tower were sleeping, Geoffrey was aroused by a tap at the door which led into the inner cell. He did not seem at all surprised, but arose and opened it. As he expected, Kate stood on the other side, a white sheet thrown around her, and a lamp in one hand. The brilliancy of the light seemed to dazzle him for a moment, but perhaps it was Kate's own bright face, looking in so suddenly on his loneliness.

"I come, you see, as I promised," she said, passing him into the room, and setting down her lamp on the shelf occupied by the crucifix, which she pushed aside without scruple to make room. Then, with nimble fingers, she pinned a dark cloth over the window, lest the light shining without should betray them, and continued, as she unburdened herself of several packages: