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."Then began a fierce struggle, in which the soldier's strength and military knowledge were well matched by the supple limbs and clear, cool eye of the forester. It was truly a conflict for life or death on which the calm moonbeams looked down that lovely spring night. Hither and thither went the combatants over the fallen trees and stones, and through the brushwood, the object of Bertrand being to get as far as possible from the brink of the fatal precipice. Sometimes one party gained a slight advantage, sometimes the other; but both were evidently becoming exhausted. It seemed an even chance whether the Lollard would succeed in his benevolent object of saving his comrade's life from his own violent hands, or would be obliged to yield, in order to preserve his own. The struggle was carried on, however, in the utmost silence, neither caring to waste strength in outcries, so that the only sounds to be heard during the combat were the crackling of the branches, the trampling of feet, and the panting breath of the wrestlers.Just at the moment when Bertrand had the other in a position to give him a heavy fling on the grass, his foot slipped, and they rolled together to the ground; the forester's head struck heavily, and he lay for a moment stunned.In that moment the soldier disengaged himself from Bertrand's relaxed grasp, and, with a yell of triumph, sprang toward the pool. A few strides, and he was at the brink, parting the bushes with a trembling hand.The moon cast a shimmer of light on some inky-black water--a rush of a heavy body, a shriek, a plunge--and the smooth surface, broken into a thousand points of light, was settling itself once more into tranquillity.Just then there appeared another figure on the scene: a man was flinging himself from point to point down the steep descent Bertrand, who arrived at the spot only to find himself too late, watched him; but his head was so confused by his fall, that he could not have told whether it took hours or minutes for this unexpected actor in the scene to throw off his outer garment, plunge in the pool, and drag the drowning man to land. By that time he became roused enough to go to his aid, and the two bore the soldier up the bank, and seated him with his back against the trunk of a tree, the water dripping from his garments, and the scared, bewildered expression changing to the old look of dogged, sullen defiance, as his senses returned.When the forester found that the soldier was not injured by his cold bath, he turned to look at the man who had stepped in so opportunely to the rescue, and the sight did not at all delight him, for the tonsured head, the cowl, and the knotted-rope girdle all proclaimed him an individual whom a Lollard disliked especially to meet, namely, a Benedictine monk.Dick recognized him further, and springing up, flung himself at the stranger's feet, his teeth chattering with cold and terror as he tried to speak."Father Paul! Father Paul! drive them out, drive them away, for heaven's sake, for the blessed saints' sake drive them away! You are holy, and they will fear you. Bring the book and candle, and say a prayer! Oh! they dragged me down"--and the man shuddered through all his frame--"they clutched me so under the water! Good Father! holy Father! save me from the devils!""My son," replied the monk kindly, "I wish to help thee in thy distress, but I am neither holy nor good--only a weak sinner like thyself. If thou hast committed sin, there is One that can pardon and absolve. What is it that lies so heavy on thy conscience?""Absolve aJudas!" shrieked the wretched man. "Ay, Father, I will tell you all, that you may know what a devil you have saved to curse the world."He began and told the whole story, still crouching down at the Benedictine's feet, while Bertrand gave all up for lost, for he could not stop him, and could only look for one result from the disclosure of the tale to one whom he had every reason to suppose their deadliest foe. But, to his utter astonishment, when the confession was finished and he expected to hear the monk comfort his penitent by pronouncing the deed to be commendable rather than sinful, he began in a way directly opposite to the teachings of the order to which he seemed to belong."My son, thou hast indeed greatly sinned; but since thou hast so well remembered the story of the betrayer, hast thou pondered as well on the history of the Betrayed? Hast thou heard of him who forgave his murderers even while they were nailing him on his cross? I make no doubt but that he had a pardon ready even for Judas, had he asked it. Remember this, my son, the betrayal was not the crime which destroyed Judas utterly, but his despair of Christ's mercy. He was never forgiven, because he never asked for forgiveness. When that blessed Saviour said, 'Whoso cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,' he did not add, 'except Dick Redwood.' When the apostle says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he did not finish, 'except the sin of ingratitude.' Dick, thereispardon there--free, full, absolute pardon for thee and for me; all that is required is that we ask for it, that we believe in it, that we trust in nothing else, and that we have a steadfast purpose to live hereafter a better and holier life. Art thou willing so to do? Is it thy purpose henceforth to give up thy wicked desires and do that heavenly Master's will, loving thy brother man and forgiving him, even as he hath loved and forgiven thee?"The penitent was sobbing like a child as he crouched at the monk's feet and clung to his robe. "O Father! if I could but show you! I would do any penance.""There is none required," said Father Paul, "none at all. Christ hath borne our penance in his sufferings on the tree; nothing that we can do would be of any avail; it is free grace that saves, remember that--never, never forget it; that is the good tidings, the glorious Easter gospel!"The monk paused, as if overcome by emotion; then laying his hand on the head of the kneeling man, he added very solemnly:"Not as thoughIhad any power, not in my own name, but in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose servant I am, I pronounce that thou, being penitent, art released from thy sins and made a partaker of his kingdom. Go in peace, and sin no more."Dick sprang to his feet when the gentle touch was removed. The dull, sullen look had vanished from his face, the frightened, staring eyes were calm; but his voice, when he tried to speak, was husky and choked, and he turned aside a moment into the bushes. They had no need to follow him now, for with his tormentors had departed all thoughts of self-murder.The Benedictine advanced toward Bertrand and held out his hand."I think I can recognize you from our friend's story," he said kindly; "but do not be afraid; it is not often, I know, that a garb like mine covers a heart friendly to your faith; but I too have a story to tell."He then explained in a few words to the still astounded Bertrand the marvelous effect of the few words uttered by Hubert."Thus you see," he concluded, "that where I expected to teach, I was taught; and where I went to convert, I was myself converted. But what are you doing here at this hour with these tools?"Bertrand's fear was quite gone by this time, and he related how nearly they had liberated the captives, and were now on their way to meet the remaining one, and bring her also away.But Father Paul strongly urged upon them the danger of withdrawing Lady Katharine from the convent until they had made preparations for her escape from the neighborhood, as a search would be made for her as soon as she was missed which would endanger the safety of all parties; but he said there might be no danger in her coming by night to visit the dying boy, and offered himself to assist in arranging a plan for her removal to her home. This he could the more easily do, as it was not yet known that he had changed his faith.CHAPTER XX.One more Lamb safe in the Fold.The sun had risen and set again upon the cottage in the wood and its quiet household. It had been a lovely spring day, such a day as makes the violets and anemones lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot in the forest; but the evening had closed in much colder. Heavy clouds were gliding across the moon, throwing weird shadows upon sea and land, and the wind was rising almost to a tempest.Within, the scene was different. The fire in the great chimney was blazing merrily, for Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their duty to keep it as large as though it were Christmas-time; and little Dick was continually running in with his apron full of dried sticks and leaves to add to the flame.Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the dame had converted into a bed, and drawn up close to the hearth. There had been a change that day, that mysterious, indescribable change which all know so well, but which no one can define--the shadow of the dark mountains falling on the pilgrim's face as he enters the valley of death. Not a painful change. The lines of suffering were passing away, the dark blue eyes were beaming with a holy light, the high white forehead looked more like chiseled marble, and about the lips was playing a smile, not gay or mirthful, but full of contentment and peace. The stupor had passed away, and his mind seemed perfectly clear. He recognized those about him, and was very grateful for every little service rendered him; but he spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise or bustle in the room. Perhaps it was because he had been so long accustomed to the stillness of his prison; it may have been that sounds were breaking on his ear with which earth's noises formed jarring discord.Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little bench, handing him anything he wanted, and holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp. Another who rarely took his eyes from the dying boy was the soldier. He had received from them both freely the pardon which was alone needed to make his heart lighter, notwithstanding the present grief, than it had ever been before in his life. An atmosphere of love filled the little dwelling; pardon and peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing coals on the hearth lightened the rough walls of the cottage.There was a little stir at the door--a whispered question and answer; then Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"He raised himself a little, and as Kate approached, put both his arms around her neck and drew her down close to him."I am so glad you have come," he said; "now Geoffrey will not be alone. 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."Theydidperceive 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, heiscoming; 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.Hehearkened, and heard 'the angels' song of welcome--helooked, 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. "Youhavecome 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 hadheto 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 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."
Then began a fierce struggle, in which the soldier's strength and military knowledge were well matched by the supple limbs and clear, cool eye of the forester. It was truly a conflict for life or death on which the calm moonbeams looked down that lovely spring night. Hither and thither went the combatants over the fallen trees and stones, and through the brushwood, the object of Bertrand being to get as far as possible from the brink of the fatal precipice. Sometimes one party gained a slight advantage, sometimes the other; but both were evidently becoming exhausted. It seemed an even chance whether the Lollard would succeed in his benevolent object of saving his comrade's life from his own violent hands, or would be obliged to yield, in order to preserve his own. The struggle was carried on, however, in the utmost silence, neither caring to waste strength in outcries, so that the only sounds to be heard during the combat were the crackling of the branches, the trampling of feet, and the panting breath of the wrestlers.
Just at the moment when Bertrand had the other in a position to give him a heavy fling on the grass, his foot slipped, and they rolled together to the ground; the forester's head struck heavily, and he lay for a moment stunned.
In that moment the soldier disengaged himself from Bertrand's relaxed grasp, and, with a yell of triumph, sprang toward the pool. A few strides, and he was at the brink, parting the bushes with a trembling hand.
The moon cast a shimmer of light on some inky-black water--a rush of a heavy body, a shriek, a plunge--and the smooth surface, broken into a thousand points of light, was settling itself once more into tranquillity.
Just then there appeared another figure on the scene: a man was flinging himself from point to point down the steep descent Bertrand, who arrived at the spot only to find himself too late, watched him; but his head was so confused by his fall, that he could not have told whether it took hours or minutes for this unexpected actor in the scene to throw off his outer garment, plunge in the pool, and drag the drowning man to land. By that time he became roused enough to go to his aid, and the two bore the soldier up the bank, and seated him with his back against the trunk of a tree, the water dripping from his garments, and the scared, bewildered expression changing to the old look of dogged, sullen defiance, as his senses returned.
When the forester found that the soldier was not injured by his cold bath, he turned to look at the man who had stepped in so opportunely to the rescue, and the sight did not at all delight him, for the tonsured head, the cowl, and the knotted-rope girdle all proclaimed him an individual whom a Lollard disliked especially to meet, namely, a Benedictine monk.
Dick recognized him further, and springing up, flung himself at the stranger's feet, his teeth chattering with cold and terror as he tried to speak.
"Father Paul! Father Paul! drive them out, drive them away, for heaven's sake, for the blessed saints' sake drive them away! You are holy, and they will fear you. Bring the book and candle, and say a prayer! Oh! they dragged me down"--and the man shuddered through all his frame--"they clutched me so under the water! Good Father! holy Father! save me from the devils!"
"My son," replied the monk kindly, "I wish to help thee in thy distress, but I am neither holy nor good--only a weak sinner like thyself. If thou hast committed sin, there is One that can pardon and absolve. What is it that lies so heavy on thy conscience?"
"Absolve aJudas!" shrieked the wretched man. "Ay, Father, I will tell you all, that you may know what a devil you have saved to curse the world."
He began and told the whole story, still crouching down at the Benedictine's feet, while Bertrand gave all up for lost, for he could not stop him, and could only look for one result from the disclosure of the tale to one whom he had every reason to suppose their deadliest foe. But, to his utter astonishment, when the confession was finished and he expected to hear the monk comfort his penitent by pronouncing the deed to be commendable rather than sinful, he began in a way directly opposite to the teachings of the order to which he seemed to belong.
"My son, thou hast indeed greatly sinned; but since thou hast so well remembered the story of the betrayer, hast thou pondered as well on the history of the Betrayed? Hast thou heard of him who forgave his murderers even while they were nailing him on his cross? I make no doubt but that he had a pardon ready even for Judas, had he asked it. Remember this, my son, the betrayal was not the crime which destroyed Judas utterly, but his despair of Christ's mercy. He was never forgiven, because he never asked for forgiveness. When that blessed Saviour said, 'Whoso cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,' he did not add, 'except Dick Redwood.' When the apostle says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he did not finish, 'except the sin of ingratitude.' Dick, thereispardon there--free, full, absolute pardon for thee and for me; all that is required is that we ask for it, that we believe in it, that we trust in nothing else, and that we have a steadfast purpose to live hereafter a better and holier life. Art thou willing so to do? Is it thy purpose henceforth to give up thy wicked desires and do that heavenly Master's will, loving thy brother man and forgiving him, even as he hath loved and forgiven thee?"
The penitent was sobbing like a child as he crouched at the monk's feet and clung to his robe. "O Father! if I could but show you! I would do any penance."
"There is none required," said Father Paul, "none at all. Christ hath borne our penance in his sufferings on the tree; nothing that we can do would be of any avail; it is free grace that saves, remember that--never, never forget it; that is the good tidings, the glorious Easter gospel!"
The monk paused, as if overcome by emotion; then laying his hand on the head of the kneeling man, he added very solemnly:
"Not as thoughIhad any power, not in my own name, but in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose servant I am, I pronounce that thou, being penitent, art released from thy sins and made a partaker of his kingdom. Go in peace, and sin no more."
Dick sprang to his feet when the gentle touch was removed. The dull, sullen look had vanished from his face, the frightened, staring eyes were calm; but his voice, when he tried to speak, was husky and choked, and he turned aside a moment into the bushes. They had no need to follow him now, for with his tormentors had departed all thoughts of self-murder.
The Benedictine advanced toward Bertrand and held out his hand.
"I think I can recognize you from our friend's story," he said kindly; "but do not be afraid; it is not often, I know, that a garb like mine covers a heart friendly to your faith; but I too have a story to tell."
He then explained in a few words to the still astounded Bertrand the marvelous effect of the few words uttered by Hubert.
"Thus you see," he concluded, "that where I expected to teach, I was taught; and where I went to convert, I was myself converted. But what are you doing here at this hour with these tools?"
Bertrand's fear was quite gone by this time, and he related how nearly they had liberated the captives, and were now on their way to meet the remaining one, and bring her also away.
But Father Paul strongly urged upon them the danger of withdrawing Lady Katharine from the convent until they had made preparations for her escape from the neighborhood, as a search would be made for her as soon as she was missed which would endanger the safety of all parties; but he said there might be no danger in her coming by night to visit the dying boy, and offered himself to assist in arranging a plan for her removal to her home. This he could the more easily do, as it was not yet known that he had changed his faith.
CHAPTER XX.
One more Lamb safe in the Fold.
The sun had risen and set again upon the cottage in the wood and its quiet household. It had been a lovely spring day, such a day as makes the violets and anemones lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot in the forest; but the evening had closed in much colder. Heavy clouds were gliding across the moon, throwing weird shadows upon sea and land, and the wind was rising almost to a tempest.
Within, the scene was different. The fire in the great chimney was blazing merrily, for Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their duty to keep it as large as though it were Christmas-time; and little Dick was continually running in with his apron full of dried sticks and leaves to add to the flame.
Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the dame had converted into a bed, and drawn up close to the hearth. There had been a change that day, that mysterious, indescribable change which all know so well, but which no one can define--the shadow of the dark mountains falling on the pilgrim's face as he enters the valley of death. Not a painful change. The lines of suffering were passing away, the dark blue eyes were beaming with a holy light, the high white forehead looked more like chiseled marble, and about the lips was playing a smile, not gay or mirthful, but full of contentment and peace. The stupor had passed away, and his mind seemed perfectly clear. He recognized those about him, and was very grateful for every little service rendered him; but he spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise or bustle in the room. Perhaps it was because he had been so long accustomed to the stillness of his prison; it may have been that sounds were breaking on his ear with which earth's noises formed jarring discord.
Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little bench, handing him anything he wanted, and holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp. Another who rarely took his eyes from the dying boy was the soldier. He had received from them both freely the pardon which was alone needed to make his heart lighter, notwithstanding the present grief, than it had ever been before in his life. An atmosphere of love filled the little dwelling; pardon and peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing coals on the hearth lightened the rough walls of the cottage.
There was a little stir at the door--a whispered question and answer; then Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:
"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"
He raised himself a little, and as Kate approached, put both his arms around her neck and drew her down close to him.
"I am so glad you have come," he said; "now Geoffrey will not be alone. 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."
Theydidperceive 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, heiscoming; 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.
Hehearkened, and heard 'the angels' song of welcome--helooked, 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. "Youhavecome 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 hadheto 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.