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room—Mother Mary Monica, at her own earnest request, being allowed to remain with us and oversee our proceedings. We began with a good washing and combing all round (not a nice piece of work by any means), and then dressed them in clean clothes, of which we had a plenty by us made up for our regular autumn doles. The dear old Mother was as pleased as a child with a new doll. I can't say the same for the poor children, who were strange, and scared, and at first hardly to be pacified; but by degrees they seemed to find the comfort of being clean, and by night they were all merrily at play, as if nothing had happened to them. We made up as many cot beds as there were children, and my own bed was moved into the room. Sister Anne also slept in the room till she was taken sick, when Amice was allowed to take her place.
I don't think, for my own part, that I was ever happier than when playing with these children, or teaching them their hornbook and the use of their little fat fingers. The oldest is about ten, a wise motherly little maid, and a great help to us with the others. The youngest is only three—the sole survivor of Roger Smith's family. Considering what the family was like, we may hope her loss may prove a gain.
There were many different opinions in the house concerning the sheltering of these orphans. Sister Catherine, who has not had so much to say about discipline since her dismissal from office, opened her mouth once more to protest against the great irregularity of our taking the babes, and the utter impropriety of their being committed to the care of the youngest person in the house. But Sister Placida, who is great in the history of this and other orders, and who has no objection (or so I think) to putting down Sister Catherine, brought so many precedents to bear against her, that she was fain to betake herself to her humility, her usual refuge when worsted. Some were terrified at the notion of
bringing infection into the house; but in general, I must say, the Sisters were very kind to the poor children, and very glad of an excuse to slip away, and play with them.
It was two weeks after the pestilence broke out in the village before it appeared in the house. Sister Bridget was the first victim. She was taken in the night, with the heat and sweat, and, poor creature, had no more wit than to rise and stand for half an hour or more at the open window of her cell, till Mother Gertrude, making her rounds, discovered her state. She was taken at once to the infirmary, and died in a few hours, very happy and resigned, and saying, with almost her last breath, poor thing, that everybody had been very kind to her. From that time we had a new case or two every day for a week. Almost every one who had resolution enough to remain quietly in bed and bear the all but intolerable discomfort of the heat and bad odor, recovered; but many were lightheaded, and unless watched every moment, would throw off the clothes and otherwise expose themselves: and every one who got the slightest chill died without remedy.
It was a trying time, and one which showed what people were made of; for the discipline of the family was necessarily much relaxed, the care of the sick being the principal matter, and each one showed in her true colors— very unexpected colors some of them have been. Mother Gabrielle, who has always been rather fussy and fidgetty, and especially apt to be scared on small occasions, and to fret over little accidents and losses, was as calm and cheerful as a summer morning, till she was taken down herself, when she made a most edifying end. Mother Superior, though calm and composed, was very sad. Mother Gertrude, just as usual.
In general I must say the Sisters have behaved very well. Sister Catherine was the most alarmed of anybody, and made herself rather a trouble by going round asking everybody's pardon and wanting to kiss their feet, which was not always quite convenient when one had a jug of barley water, or a crying babe in one's arms. She wanted to help in the infirmary, but she cried so, and was besides so unwilling to obey orders without some little variation of her own, that Sister Placida dispensed with her help very suddenly. At last she took to her own bed with a kind of nervous fever; and as she was not very sick, everybody was rather glad to have her out-of-the-way.
Sister Mary Paula was quite different. From the first she attended steadily to her work, speaking but little, but very kind and sober in her demeanor. One morning, when I went to the kitchen for the children's dinner, at ten o'clock, she stopped me.
"Rosamond, did you know who it was told the Bishop of your sending a love token to your cousin?"
"Nay!" said I. "I had not an idea, nor do I wish to know, since no harm has come of it."
"Well, it was I!" said she, bluntly, turning scarlet as she spoke. "My brother is the Bishop's chaplain, and when he came to see me, I managed to slip a note into his hand, telling him the whole story, as I had heard it!"
"But, dear Sister, how could you do that, since yourself told me you could not write?" I asked, in amazement.
"I did not write it—that was done by another hand!" she answered me. "But 'twas I conveyed it to my brother. I fancied, or tried to fancy, that I was moved by zeal for religion and for the honor of this house; but my eyes have
been opened lately, and I see things more clearly. 'Twas mere spite and envy, because I thought you a favorite. I desired to bring you into disgrace, or to cause your removal from the house; and I beg your pardon."
"I am sure you have it, with all my heart!" said I, kissing her. "Nay, there is naught to pardon, since all turned out to my advantage at last."
"Yes, the stones we threw returned on our own heads!" she answered. "And so they ought. Here, take these cakes for your brats. Do they all keep well?"
"All!" I told her, but added that she did not look well herself, and I feared she was working too hard.
"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my prayers are of little value."
I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.
Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three
children who survived, and have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!
I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My father is coming home in a few weeks.
October 28.
AMICE, is sick I don't know what ails her, but she has been growing thin and pale ever since the pestilence, and now she has been obliged to take to her bed. She does not suffer much, save from her weakness, which so affects her nerves that she can hardly bear any one in the room with
CHAPTER XVII.
her, but prefers to stay alone. The doctor says she is to have her way in all things—a sentence which always sounds to me like that of death. My heart is like to break with the thought, but there is no help. Nobody will ever know what she has been to me.
CHAPTER XVIII.
All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.
IT seems as if there were never more to be peace in this devoted house. Magdalen Jewell, the woman who lived at Grey Tor, the woman who nursed her neighbors all through the sickness, and has since been a mother to many an orphan, and a dutiful daughter to many a widow, Magdalen Jewell is accused of heresy, apprehended, and shut up in Saint Ethelburga's vault, till she can be removed to a stronger prison. 'Tis a shame, and I will say it. They have no business to put such an office on us, but Father Fabian, who, I do suspect, likes the business no more than I do, says 'tis done in hopes that the persuasions of himself and Mother Superior may bring her to a better mind. They say there is no doubt of her guilt.
Indeed, she herself denies it not, but glories in it, and is full of joy. I heard her myself singing of some hymn, as I judged. They say she was suspected a long time, and a man
whom she had nursed in the sickness, spying upon her at night through the window, saw her many times reading in a great bound book she had. He giving information, the house was searched, and the book found. It proved to be a copy of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue. Magdalen being apprehended, showed neither surprise nor fear, but confessed all, and gloried, as she said, that she was counted worthy to die for her religion. And now she is shut up in that horrible place, and Mother Gertrude—she who has always seemed too kind to hurt a fly, is her keeper, and unless she recants she must needs be burned. It is utterly horrible!
And they are all so hard-hearted against her! Father Fabian says it is a sin to pity a heretic, and so say all the Sisters. Even Mother Gertrude, though she offers many prayers for her conversion, says she deserves her fate, and even that the man who betrayed her did a good deed, in thus laying aside all the ties of natural affection. But I cannot think so. The man seems to me a horrible wretch and traitor, far more deserving of the stake than this good, kind woman, who has sacrificed everything to her neighbors.
My whole mind is in a tumult, and for the first time I feel as if I would give anything to leave the shadow of this roof and never see it again. And that dear old chapel, that I so loved, and where I had such sweet comfort, to be so used! I cannot write nor even think. I would Amice were well, but she is more feeble than she has been, and last night she begged that Mother Gertrude might sleep in the room with her, though she would not have her sit up.
CHAPTER XIX.
Nov. 4.
MAGDALEN JEWELL hath escaped, at the least she hath disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her. It seems impossible that she could have got out, as there are no means whatever of opening the door from the inside, and the key hath never left Mother Gertrude's care. Some of the Sisters think that the ghost or demon, or whatever it is that hath heretofore avenged sacrilege in that chapel, hath torn her in pieces and carried her off bodily, but they say there are no signs of any such struggle. The very cruse of water which Mother Gertrude carried to the prisoner last
night is standing half emptied on the floor, but the bread is all gone, so she must have eaten her supper.
Mother Gertrude, on rising, found poor Amice very much worse, faint and exhausted, which delayed her a little. When she went to the prison, she called as usual, but there was no answer. She looked through the grating in the door, usually masked by a panel on the outside, but could see nothing. Becoming scared, she sent for Mother Superior and Father Fabian, who had the tower and vault thoroughly searched, but nothing was to be found, save what had always been there. It is a most wonderful chance. I don't think Father Fabian believes very much in the demon, or he would not have searched the grounds so carefully, or asked so many questions. Mother Gertrude takes charge of all the keys at night, and places them under her pillow; and beside that, who was to steal them, supposing that such a theft were possible? Mother Gertrude is a heavy sleeper, but Amice is a very light one, specially since her illness, and she declares most positively, that she is certain nobody was in the room last night, save herself and Mother Gertrude.
It is all a dark mystery. Magdalen was to have been removed to Exeter to-day, but now Father Fabian must go instead, and give the best account he may of the matter. I cannot say that I believe very much in the demon, any more than Father Fabian. My notion is that some friend from outside hath found a way of helping the poor woman, or that there is some way of escape from the tower which we know not of.
Anyhow, I am glad she is gone, and so I can't but think there are some others, if they would say so. The tower being open, some of us young ones ventured to explore it, and even into the vaults below. The tower is simply what it looks to be—a structure of great unhewn stone, with
projections here and there like shelves, and the remains of a stone staircase, though where it should lead to I cannot guess. Another stone stairs leads down to the vault, which is perfectly dark, save for one narrow slit at the very top, going into the garden. Here was once a shrine, whereof the altar and crucifix still remain. A row of niches runs all round, of which two have been built up, doubtless for burial purposes, and there are the dusty remains of several coffins, such as are used for nuns, beside two or three of lead and stone. 'Tis a dismal and dreadful place, and it seems horrible to think any living being should be confined there. Yet, the story goes that it has sometimes been used as a prison for nuns guilty of grave offences.
I drew a long breath, when I got into the free air of heaven once more, and I must say, I was glad to think poor Magdalen had escaped.
I could be as light-hearted as a bird, only that my dear Amice is so much worse. She is very low indeed, too exhausted to speak; but she lies quietly in her bed, with a look of most heavenly peace on her face. She seems most of the time engaged in inward prayer and thanksgiving, for her eyes are closed and her lips move, and now and then she opens her eyes with such a wondrous smile, as if she saw the glories of heaven open before her. What shall I do when she is gone? I dare not think. I have been sitting by her a great part of the day, and now Mother Gertrude tells me, she has asked that I may watch beside her this night, and dear Mother hath given permission. I am most thankful for the privilege, for I would not lose one moment of her dear society.
CHAPTER XX.
Nov. 8th.
AMICE CROCKER, my dearest friend, is dead and buried— buried in a dishonored grave, by the poor lady who was prisoner in the Queen's room so long. She died a heretic, they say, without the sacraments, and they tell me it is sinful in me to love her longer. But I will love her, to the latest day of my life. I don't believe she is lost either, and nothing shall ever make me think so. Oh, that last night when I sat by her side, and she told me all!
Well, she is gone, and naught can hurt her more. I think Mother Gertrude will soon follow, for she seems utterly broken down. She might well say that no good would come of the Queen's visit. And if Amice should be right, after all, and we wrong! I must not, I dare not think of it! Alack and woe is me! I would I had died in the sickness, or ever I had lived to see this sorrowful day!
CHAPTER XXI.
Corby End, April 20, 1530.
I LITTLE thought, a year ago, that another April would see me quietly at home in my father's house, and with such a companion—still less that I could be quite content in such a companionship. If any one had told me so, I should have laughed or been angry, I hardly know which, and yet I am quite ready to confess that 'tis all for the best.
My father, my Lady and Harry are all gone to make a visit at Fulton Manor, where is now much company to celebrate the wedding of Sir Thomas' eldest daughter. I was to have gone with them, but when the day came the weather was damp and cold; and as I am only just beginning to be strong again, my Lady and I both thought I should be better at home. Father and Harry were much disappointed, and I saw Harry was a little disposed to lay the blame on my Lady, but a little quiet reasoning and some coaxing finally made him own that all was for the best. So here I am, in sole possession of the house, and for the first time I have got out my book of chronicles.
I have read it all over, and pasted in the loose leaves where they belong, as even should I return to the convent I shall not take it with me. I am minded to continue it, especially as I can now write freely and without concealment. My stepmother never interferes in my private matters. Even Mrs. Prue, who began by attributing to her almost every fault of which woman is capable, now grudgingly admits
that my Lady minds her own business, and is passing goodnatured. In fact, only for that one mortal sin of marrying my father, I think the old woman would allow her new lady to be a mistress of good conditions.
I suppose I had better begin just where I left off.
The night before Amice died, she begged that I alone might sit with her, saying that Mother Gertrude needed unbroken rest, which was true. Amice was so manifestly near her end that Mother Superior did not like to refuse her anything, and Mother Gertrude somewhat unwillingly gave way. The dear Mother would have spent the whole night in prayer for her niece at the shrine of St. Ethelburga, had not Mother Superior laid her commands on her to go to bed and rest all night.
"Sit close by me, dear Rosamond," said Amice, "you know I cannot speak loud now, and I have much to say."
"You must not tire yourself by talking," said I.
"It will make no difference," she answered.
"I feel that my end is very near. Doubtless what I did last night may have hastened my death, but I do not regret it; I would do it again."
"What you did last night!" I repeated, struck with a sudden, most strange thought. "Do you mean, Amice, that you—" I could not finish the sentence.
"Hush!" said she. "Even so, Rosamond. I took the keys from under Mother Gertrude's pillow (you know how sound she sleeps, especially when she has been disturbed), opened the doors and let the prisoner free."
"But the outer door—that heavy iron door!" I exclaimed, in amazement.
"I did not open the outer door. She climbed over the wall there by the beehives. The gardener had left his ladder close by. I wonder they did not find it in the search this morning."
"I dare say he had taken it away before that he might not be blamed for his carelessness," said I. "But Amice, even then I see not how you accomplished it. We have thought you so weak."
"And so I have been," said she. "The day before, I could hardly rise without help, and after I got back to my bed, I lay for many hours so utterly exhausted that I many times thought myself dying. But at least I had the strength to call nobody, for I wished above all things that Magdalen might have time to escape. She told me at parting that with three hours' vantage, she would defy even the King's bloodhounds to find her; and I was determined she should lose that vantage through no fault of mine."
"But, if you had died, Amice—died without confession and the sacraments," said I. I knew that she had not confessed for a long time, putting off the Father by saying she was too weak, and that it hurt her to talk.
"I should not have died without confession, dearest Rosamond," said she, with an heavenly smile. "I have known this many a day that there needs no priest to make a confession valid, but that to every truly penitent heart the way to the very throne of Heaven is open, and that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. If I regretted aught, it was that I must die without another kind of confession—the confessing my faith openly before men. I
have longed to do so, but I shame to say it—I have been afraid. But now I fear no longer."
I was utterly dumbfounded, and could not speak a word.
"Shall I tell you the whole?" she asked, presently. "Or are you too much shocked to hear more? You will not cast me off, will you, Rosamond?"
"Never!" said I, finding my voice at last. "But, dearest Amice, consider. Think of your fair fame—of Mother Gertrude and dear Mother Superior!"
"I have thought of all," she answered; "yea, many times overt and though I grieve to grieve them, yet I must needs speak. I have denied Him before men too long already: I must needs confess Him before I die, come what may. Give me some cordial, Rosamond. I must keep myself up till tomorrow, at least."
I gave her the cordial, and after a little rest, she began once more:
"Rosamond, do you remember the day we were dusting the chairs in the Queen's room, and you showed me one, the velvet whereof was spotted with small spots, as of drops of water? Mother Gertrude sent you to the wardrobe just then."
"I remember it well," I answered; "and that looking from the window I saw you reading some ragged leaves which you put into your bosom. I meant to ask what they were, but in the multitude of business, I forgot."
"Exactly so!" said Amice. "I was dusting the chair, and on taking up the cushion, which I found to be moveable, there fell out these leaves. I took them up to read them, thinking
they might throw some light on the poor lady's history, but I had read little when I knew what I had found—something I had long desired to see. It was a written copy of the Gospel of St. John, done into English. Doubtless the poor prisoner had managed to bring it with her, and had found a convenient hiding-place for her treasure in this chair, which she had watered with her tears."
"I had read but a few words when I was interrupted; but those words were engraven on my mind as with a pen of steel. They were these: 'God so loved the world that he gave his only son for the intent that none that believe in him should perish, but should have everlasting life. For God sent not his son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved.'"
"Rosamond, I was as a man walking through desolate moors and among quaking bogs and thorny thickets, to whom a flash of light from Heaven showed for one moment the right and safe road. It was but a glimpse. I had no more time to read then, nor for some hours after; but that night, in recreation, I did find time for a few more verses. By the first peep of light next morning I was up and at my window, and thenceforth the morning star seldom found me sleeping. I placed the book of the Gospel inside my prayerbook, for better concealment, but after I had once read it through, and for fear it might be taken from me, I learned it all off by heart."
"I remember how we used to smile at your early rising," said I; "we little thought what you were about."
"This went on for a while," continued Amice, (I set down her own words as near as I can remember them): "and then I came near a discovery. You know how light of foot was Mistress Anne. Well, one day, when I had ventured, as I
seldom did, to take out my book while I was waiting in the Queen's anteroom, she came behind me and peeped over my shoulder, and before I could hinder, snatched the leaves from my hand. I thought then that all was lost; but after teasing me awhile in her childish fashion, she gave me back my treasure, and said she would get me a better book than that, even the whole New Testament, done into fair English by one Master Tyndale."
"But mind!" she added, "I don't stand sponsor for all his notions, and I wont be answerable for the consequences to yourself. This much I may say. 'Twas a very learned and good man gave me the book, and he says 'tis true to the original Greek, out of which it was translated by Master Tyndale."
"And have you read it?" I asked her.
"Not I," says she, "save only a chapter, here and there; but let me tell you, Mistress Amice, if this book gains ground, as 'tis like to do, your priests and nuns and mitred abbots will fly away like ghosts and owls before the sunrising. Nay, unless some I know are the more mistaken, the cock has crowed already."
"That very night she gave me the book, and before she left, she added another which was sent her from London, namely Master Tyndale's exposition of certain passages. But I cared not so much for that, as for the other. Then came the sickness, when the discipline of the house being so much relaxed, I had more time to read and study and compare. Rosamond, how amazed was I to find that there is in the New Testament no single hint of any worship being paid to our Lord's mother—nay, our Lord Himself saying, that those who did His Father's will, were even to Him as His own mother."
"'Tis not the right Gospel," said I. "Why Amice, only think how our Lady is honored throughout all Christendom. Depend upon it, you have been deceived."
"Who would dare to carry out such a deception?" said she. "Every learned man in Christendom would be against him."
I cannot now write down all she said, as how she had found the teaching of our Lord so much more simple and plain, than those in the lives of the saints—how Himself had declared that whosoever did but believe on Him, had already everlasting life—how Christ being already offered for sin, there was no more sacrifice, but all was perfected in Him; and much more which I did not, and do not yet understand. But she ended by saying, that she could no longer keep silence, since the Lord had commanded all to confess Him before men, and had declared that He would deny all who did not thus confess Him.
"I cannot die with a lie on my lips," she said. "I dare not thus go into the presence of my God, where I must soon stand; for God doth hate lying above measure, inasmuch as He hath declared that all liars shall have their part in the second death. Besides, were it not utterly base to deny Him, who hath done and will do so much for me?"
I used many arguments with her, but could prevail nothing, even when I spoke of Mother Gertrude and her sorrow, at which Amice wept so vehemently, that I was alarmed; but when she was again composed, she said she had thought of that many times, and with many prayers and tears, but yet she could see her duty in no other way.
Oh, I cannot tell all she said. I would I could remember and set down every word, but much has gone from me. She bade me take comfort concerning her, when she was gone,
saying that nothing they could do would work her any real injury. She told me how happy her new faith had made her, despite many perplexities concerning her duty—how at the last she had seen her way clear, and what peace she had felt in the thought that her free salvation had been provided for in Christ, and she had but to believe, and be saved.
"What, even if you were wicked?" said I.
"Don't you see, dear Rosamond, that one who really believed in our Lord could not be wicked? If he really and truly believed that the Lord died for him, he would desire to do what that Lord commanded, and to be like Him. He would know that Christ makes keeping His commands the very test of faith and love, even as He saith: 'He that hath my commands and keepeth them, He it is that loveth me.'"
I asked what she had done with her Testament, and she told me she had given it to Magdalen Jewell, knowing that she should need it no longer.
"There are many things therein which I don't understand, but they will soon be made plain," said she. "Is it not almost morning, Rosamond? Draw the curtain and see."
I did so. Lo the dawn was stealing on, and in the east shone, glorious to see, the morning star.
"There is the emblem of my Lord!" said Amice, clasping her hands; "There is the bright and morning star. It is the last dawning I shall see on earth! To-morrow. Rosamond, and whenever you think of me, remember that I am resting where there is no need of sun or moon: 'For the brightness of God did lighten it, and the Lamb was the light of it.' 'They shall hunger no more neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the seat shall feed them and shall lead them
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