Calverley had no sooner assured himself of the flight of the bondman, than he dispatched a messenger to assemble the vassals12 for the purpose of carrying the hue13 and cry in different directions; and he then entered the castle to inform De Boteler of the event.
Isabella grew pale as she listened; for by some strange instinct she had so connected Holgrave with the abduction of her child, that his flight seemed now to have wrested14 from her her last hope.
"Send forth15 the hue and cry," said De Boteler. "Scour16 the country till the knave17 be found, and promise a noble to him who discovers the runaway18."
"The vassals have been collected, my lord, and John Byles is now sending them off by different routes."
"It is well," replied De Boteler; "but can you learn no certain tidings of his course?" Calverley answered, that the only intelligence he had yet obtained, was, that Holgrave had been seen at dusk on the previous evening, standing19 at his door, talking to his wife's brother.
"What! the audacious monk20 who thrice entered this castle to insult its lord?"
"Steward," said Isabella, turning quickly to Calverley, "see that the vassals have obeyed your orders. Remember, the varlet must be found!" And, as Calverley withdrew, she said to De Boteler with a thrill of apprehension21, "Roland, do you not remember the words of the monk when our first darling was lying a corpse22? 'The blight23 has fallen on the blossom—beware of the tree!'" De Boteler's countenance24 changed while she spoke25, from anger to thoughtfulness.
"It is strange, Isabella, that suspicion never fell upon the monk! He is more artful than the knave Holgrave; and out of revenge for the church being defeated, might have——"
"No, no," interrupted the lady, "it was Holgrave who stole my child, although the monk, perhaps, counselled the deed. At all events, he knows of the bondman's flight."
"Yes, yes, there is little doubt of that: but how can we come at the truth? Sudbury still retains his wrath26 against us, and would oppose an arrest; and even could he be waylaid27, and brought hither, he is stubborn, and might refuse to answer."
"I will write to the abbot," said Isabella.
"Write to Simon Sudbury!"
"Yes, De Boteler," continued the lady, "I will write to him, and try to soothe28 his humour. You think it a humiliation—I would humble29 myself to the meanest serf that tills your land, could I learn the fate of my child. The abbot may have power to draw from this monk what he would conceal30 from us; I will at least make the experiment." The lady then, though much against De Boteler's wish, penned an epistle to the abbot, in which concession31 and apologies were made, and a strong invitation conveyed, that he would honour Sudley castle by his presence. The parchment was then folded, and dispatched to the abbot.
Calverley, after seeing the last, lingering, vassal11 fairly beyond the bounds of Sudley, proceeded himself to search in the immediate32 vicinity of the castle; but at the close of the day returned without having obtained the slightest clue. The hue and cry was equally unsuccessful; and those engaged in the pursuit also returned, cursing Holgrave and the steward for giving them so much fruitless trouble. The idea now prevalent at the castle was, that Holgrave had concealed34 himself somewhere in the neighbourhood, till the vigilance of pursuit should relax, when he would attempt to effect his escape. Fresh orders were, therefore, issued, to search every house, free or bond, on the estate. Calverley himself superintended the scrutiny35; questioned, menaced, nay36, even entreated37, but in vain; nobody could tell, except the smith, because nobody knew; and he would have preferred knocking Calverley on the head, and abiding38 the consequences, to betraying a man whom he had assisted thus effectually to elude39 detection.
The lady Isabella's application to the abbot had been attended with as little effect. Sudbury had met with readiness the overtures40 of reconciliation41, and in accordance with her desire, had interrogated42 the monk; but Father John evaded44 his questions with a firmness which gave offence to his superior, and convinced De Boteler and his lady, that he knew much more than he chose to reveal. Spies were set about his path, but nothing was gained—nothing discovered to prove that any communication existed between the fugitive45, Holgrave, and the obdurate46 ecclesiastic47.
It was about a month subsequent to this, that one morning, as Turner was making the anvil48 ring with the ponderous49 strokes of his hammer, two retainers from the castle entered the shed, and delivered an order from De Boteler for his immediate attendance. Wat laid the hammer on the anvil, and, passing the back of his right hand across his forehead, to clear away the large drops that stood there, looked with a kind of smile at the men as he said,
"My lord wants me at the castle, does he?"
"Yes."
"But does my lord remember the last time I was there? He didn't want me then—he told me he shouldn't be counselled by such as I. There is no rent due, and I have done no wrong—and there can be no business for me at the castle."
"But, Turner," said the men, "we must not take this answer to the baron1."
"Well, then," replied Wat, "tell him that Wat Turner says he has made a vow50 never to enter the hall of Sudley castle again; and if you don't take that answer, you get no other."
It was to no purpose that the retainers strove to persuade him to send a reply more respectfully worded. The smith, without heeding51 them, put the iron that had lost its heat into the embers, and ordered the man at the bellows52 to blow on: and the messengers, after waiting a few minutes, left the shed without obtaining another syllable53. They, however, shortly returned, and with so peremptory54 a mandate55, that the smith, not wishing, from prudential motives57, to provoke hostility58, threw down his hammer: and first making himself, as he said, a little decent, proceeded with the retainers to Sudley castle.
Turner thus far complied with the baron's order—but not a foot would he step beyond the court-yard. He had vowed59, he said, when Holgrave's freedom had been denied him, never to cross the threshold of the hall again; and without being absolved61 by a priest, he would not break his vow, even at King Edward's bidding. De Boteler, accustomed to implicit62 obedience63, was much provoked at this obstinacy64, and, as was natural, his first orders were to use force; but it instantly occurred, that no force could compel the smith to speak, and it would be to little purpose to have the man before him, if he refused to answer his interrogatories. The compulsory65 orders were therefore countermanded66, and Calverley was desired to try what persuasion67 might effect; but De Boteler could not have chosen one less likely to influence the smith. The instant that Calverley strove to induce a compliance68, Turner might be compared to a man who buttons up his pocket when some unprincipled applicant69 commences his petition for a loan—for not only was his resolution strengthened not to enter the hall, but he also determined70 not to answer any question that might be put to him, even should De Boteler condescend71, like Edward to Llewellin, to come over to him. But De Boteler was so incensed72 that the stubborn artizan should presume to hold out even against solicitation73, that, in all probability, he would not have troubled himself farther with one from whom there was so little satisfaction to be expected, had it not been for the remonstrances74 of the lady, who was instigated75 by Calverley to have him interrogated respecting Holgrave's flight. In compliance, therefore, with her earnest desire, he condescended76 so far to humour the smith, as to retire into the adjoining apartment; and as Turner's vow had not extended beyond the hall, he had no longer a pretext77 for refusing to attend.
The frown was still on the baron's brow when Turner was introduced; but Isabella, veiling her displeasure under a smile of courtesy, said, with gentle condescension78,
"It would be well, my good friend, if all men observed their vows79 as religiously as you do."
She paused. The smith bent80 his head in silence, and the lady proceeded—
"My lord has heard from the steward that you are an honest tenant81, and has directed that any alteration82 you may require in your tenement83 shall be attended to, and that the field which lies at the back of your dwelling84 be added to it without additional rent; and, as it gives me pleasure to encourage the industrious85, in any request you may make, my interest shall not be wanting. And now, honest man," added she, with even more suavity86, "my lord has a question to ask—it is but a simple inquiry87, and I feel assured that a person of such strict probity88 will not evade43 it—know you Stephen Holgrave's place of concealment89?" As she put the interrogatory, she looked earnestly in the smith's face.
Turner was prepared for direct and haughty90 questions from the baron; but the covert91 and gentle manner of the lady rather disconcerted him: however, though he paused with a momentary92 embarrassment93, yet, contrary to Isabella's expectation, he firmly, but with a kind of native propriety94, replied—
"Noble lady, I cannot tell you where Stephen Holgrave is concealed."
"It is false, knave!" said De Boteler, who had listened with impatience95 to the persuasive96 address of his lady—"it is false! We are positively97 informed that you aided and abetted98 the flight of this bondman, and that you alone can give tidings of him."
It was in vain that the baroness99 cast on him a glance that said he had adopted a wrong course—it was in vain that his own better judgment100 whispered, that he ought to leave the management of the affair in the hands of her who could smile and sooth, when she had an object to attain101, without the least violence to her feelings: his anger was set in motion, and it would have required an influence much stronger than the Lady Isabella's to have calmed its ebullition. Although De Boteler spoke so rudely, yet Turner was pleased that it was he whom he had now to contend with; and, looking doggedly102 at the angry baron, he said,
"My Lord De Boteler, boy or man, Wat Turner was never a knave, and—"
"My good man," said the lady, preventing the interruption she saw De Boteler was about to make—"my good man, my lord was informed that you were privy103 to the bondman's flight; and if you were so far (as you considered) his friend, I commend your prudent56 reserve—but I pledge my word that no harm is intended him: and if he clears his conduct to my lord's satisfaction, his condition may be better than it has ever yet been——"
"Isabella, make no promises," interrupted De Boteler—"parley not with such as he." And, striving to calm himself so as to speak dispassionately, he added, turning to the smith, "Walter Turner, you are acquainted with the spot that shelters Stephen Holgrave, and I insist that you instantly reveal it."
"And think you, my lord," said Turner, firmly, "that if Stephen Holgrave had told me of his hiding-place, Wat Turner would be the man to bring him back to his bondage104? No, no! I never did any thing yet to be ashamed of."
"Do you know, blacksmith," interrupted the baron, still endeavouring to appear unruffled, "that you are not talking to one of your own class, but to one who has the will—aye, and the power—to compel a satisfactory reply? And I insist," he added, raising his voice, "that you tell me where the bondman abides105!"
Isabella saw, by the undaunted look with which the smith regarded De Boteler, that no good would result from this interview; and as she could not, with propriety, interfere106 any further, she arose, and left the apartment.
"Do you hear me, varlet?" asked De Boteler, in a furious tone, as the smith delayed an answer.
"Why, my lord," answered Turner, with composure, "I told you before that if I knew where Holgrave was, I would not tell."
"Then you admit knowing where he is hidden?"
"It matters little, my lord, whether I do or not," replied the smith, in something of a sullen107 tone; "whatever I know, I shall keep to myself."
"Say you so, knave?" returned the enraged108 baron; and then, turning to an attendant, he ordered that a few retainers should instantly attend.
During the moments that elapsed between the order and the appearance of the men, De Boteler threw himself back in his chair, and was apparently109 engaged in counting the number of studs in his glittering sword-hilt; and the smith (who, although he felt himself a freeman, yet, from a natural principle of deference110, did not consider he was at liberty to depart until the baron had given him an intimation to that effect,) stood, with something of an embarrassed air, awaiting the permission, and the idea every instant crossing his mind whether this summoning of the retainers could have any reference to him. But his suspense111 was not of long duration—the retainers entered, and De Boteler, raising himself in his chair, said, pointing to Turner,
"Bear that man to the tumbrel—an hour or two there may teach him better manners!"
"Bear me to the tumbrel! ha, ha, ha," exclaimed the smith, with that indescribable kind of laugh, combining derision and defiance112.
The retainers approached to execute the order. Turner glanced hastily around, but no weapon, or any portable article that might serve the purpose of one, was at hand: he, therefore, had only to step back a few paces, and to place himself in the best attitude of resistance he could.
"By saint Nicholas!" said he, pushing back the sleeves of his jerkin, and extending his long sinewy113 arms, "the first man of ye that lays a finger on Wat Turner, had better have shrieved himself; for there is that in this hand (clenching his fist in the face of the man who was nearest, and speaking through his set teeth)—there is that in this hand will make ye remember!"
The men paused;—it could scarcely have been through fear, when four or five were opposed to one, even though that one looked at this moment rather formidable; but probably they waited for further orders, before making the apartment a scene of contention114, and, perhaps, of mortal strife115.
"Aye," resumed Wat, as he observed the hesitation116 of the retainers; "stand back, and I'll warrant ye I shall go quicker than the whole tribe of ye could drag me. This is no place for me, where, if a man doesn't tell what's in his mind, the halloo is given to the pack to put him in the—tumbrel! ha, ha, ha!" Taking advantage of their indecision, he had walked on to the door of the apartment while speaking, and his bitter derisive117 laugh was heard as he crossed the threshold.
"Follow him!" said De Boteler, in a voice that was reverberated118 from the high-carved roof, "and place him instantly in the tumbrel, if the whole force of the castle should be employed." But it was easier, however, to command than to enforce; the whole strength of the castle could not attack a single individual; and Wat, on leaving the apartment, had rushed through the doorway119 that separated the two court-yards, and, seizing a large splinter of wood that lay on the ground, now stood with his back against the wall of the stables.
Those to whom the command was addressed now encompassed120 the smith, who, with astonishing dexterity121, warded122 off the blows that were aimed at his hands and arms to compel him to relinquish123 the stave. His hands were bleeding, and his arms swollen124; but his heart was like the roused lion's, and, if unable to conquer his opponents (for the exertion125 of parrying prevented him from dealing126 blows), he would undoubtedly127 have at least tired their mettle128, had not a stable boy, who saw the fray129 from a window above, mischievously130 flung down a quantity of chaff131 on his head. In the surprise and annoyance132 this created, the weapon was wrested from his relaxed grasp, and the retainers fastened on him like wolves. In the manual struggle which now succeeded, Turner was dragged towards the tumbrel; but, as it met his eyes, he seemed suddenly endowed with more than human strength. The retainers fell around him, either from blows or kicks, and blood streamed copiously133. At length De Boteler (who would not permit steel to be used against an unarmed man), ashamed that so unequal a conflict should so long continue, ordered that, instead of the tumbrel, Turner should be conveyed to the keep. This, after much resistance, was effected, and a prison-door was, for the first time, locked on the intrepid134 smith.
The abbot of Winchcombe had now become a frequent guest at Sudley. The feelings enkindled by the detention135 of Edith, and the defiance of De Boteler had passed away and were forgotten. Expiatory136 presents had been made to the abbey, and a promise given that a gift of land should be added to its already ample endowments. Sudbury, as we have already related, had questioned the monk respecting Holgrave and the child, and, from the evasive replies returned, was strongly inclined to favour the opinion of Isabella, who now, that the application to the smith had failed, became more urgent that some compulsory measure should exact an unequivocal avowal138 from father John. The wishes of one so powerfully connected as the wife of the influential139 De Boteler, were, no doubt, of some weight with the abbot; but these certainly would not have influenced him so far as to induce him to adopt a conduct incompatible140 with the dignity of his character, had not father John been known of late to express strange opinions; and the monk, though poor and friendless, was one of those whose opinions somehow (it can scarcely be said why) appeared of consequence. It was true that, although but an illiterate141 bondman when he gained admission to the cloister142, he was now, if not entirely143, the most learned, undoubtedly the most talented and industrious within its walls: no monk transcribed144 so much, none was more devout145, more strict in discipline, more attentive146 to the numerous and fatiguing147 duties of his situation as a secular148 monk in administering the sacraments, attending the sick, &c. But, though thus exemplary, strange things were said of him. He had been heard to declare, for instance, that villeinage was oppressive, and in every sense unjust; and that every villein was justified149, whenever an opportunity offered, in escaping from bondage. These opinions, although not sufficiently150 heinous151 to have subjected him to ecclesiastical punishment, were yet considered sinful;—the first as uncharitable, and the second as subversive152 of good order: and they induced Sudbury to act with more rigour than he would have been inclined to adopt had there been only the vague suspicions of the lady to urge his interference. Father John, therefore, was again questioned, and commanded, by his vow of obedience, to disclose the retreat of Holgrave, and reveal all he knew respecting the lost child: but threats availed not. In the midst of these adjurations, the abbot received a paper from a messenger, who burst breathless into the room, with the intelligence that the Lady Isabella had fallen down in a swoon in her own chamber153.
While perusing154 this document, and more especially an enclosure it contained, he looked first amazed and then enraged, casting ever and anon a look of much meaning upon the monk, who stood cold and calm by his side.
"Read!" thundered the abbot suddenly, as, after a moment's hesitation, he thrust the parchment into the monk's hand. "This paper was found on the dressing-table of the baroness of Sudley!"
Father John read aloud as follows:—
"Thy child is not dead, but sleepeth. At thy bidding, he shall awaken155, and make the desolate156 heart rejoice. Let Roland de Boteler, Baron of Sudley, swear, at the altar of Saint Peter's, that, on the day on which his lost child shall be restored, he will release for ever those whom, under the law of villeinage, he can claim as his property. Let him swear this, and, as the Lord liveth, the child shall be restored!"
"Now, what think you of this?" demanded the abbot, when he had finished.
"The sentiments," replied Father John, calmly, "resemble, in part, those that I have publicly avowed157."
"And this is all!—you refuse explanation! you do not even deny the authorship! Are you not aware, that he who could obtain access to the chamber now must necessarily be considered the robber of the child?"
"And what is that to me?" coldly demanded the monk.
"Hence, sir! away, unworthy son of the church! away for the present—we shall soon find a means of bending your stubborn heart!"
Father John's situation from this period became every day more irksome. He was forbidden to approach the sacraments, and strictly158 interdicted159 from administering them. His brethren passed without noticing him, and he was not permitted to eat at the board common to all. A small table was set apart on which his bowl and platter stood, and hints were given that if his obstinacy continued, he would, ere long, be confined to his cell.
It was reported that the Lady Isabella had been in a state of great excitement from the moment of perusing the parchment—that she had urged De Boteler to make the required vow, alleging160 that if the contract was not fulfilled, the engagement would, of course, be void—and, it was added, that De Boteler himself, had at first appeared disposed to comply; but, on further consideration, had resolved to wait till something further should transpire161.
There lived, at this time, at the distance of nearly a mile beyond the town, a man named Giles Gray; and about ten years previous to the time of which we write, there were few round Winchcombe of whom it might with more reason be imagined that his days would pass amidst peace and plenty. Possessed162 of a farm, which, if not the most extensive in the parish, was well cultivated and fruitful, and sufficiently ample to place him among the class of respectable yeoman; with a little gentle wife, two fine rosy163 children, and an exuberance164 of animal spirits, he seemed placed above the chances of fortune. But his wife fell into a consumptive illness, which, rendering165 her incapable166 of attending to the domestic affairs, her sister, a pretty, active, young woman, kindly167 left her home, at Campden, to take charge of the family. In less than a twelve-month the wife died, and Jane, the sister, still continued to superintend, and much was she praised for her management and for the attention she paid the little orphans168. However, many months had not elapsed, ere strange whisperings went through the neighbourhood;—groups might be seen conversing169 earnestly together;—and, if it chanced that Gray's sister-in-law passed, every eye was turned up, and every head significantly shook, and Gray was at length compelled, in vindication170 of Jane, to produce a certificate, setting forth that they were married at St. Crypt's Church, in the city of Gloucester, about six months previously171.
But it would have been better for Giles to have left his wife to the mercy of uncharitable whisperers than have adopted this mode of justification172. The first intimation of his indiscretion was signified by an order from the parish priest instantly to separate, and by public penance173 to merit absolution from the church. A month was allowed them. The four weeks elapsed, and the incorrigible174 pair were still living beneath the same roof; and, on the fifth Sunday, at St. Peter's, the parish church of Winchcombe, the congregation were assembled; the tapers175 lighted, and the missal opened. Some words were then said, acquainting the people with the crime of Giles and Jane, and cautioning them against holding any communication with such obdurate sinners. The bell was next rung—the book closed—the tapers were extinguished, and the incestuous pair pronounced accursed of God and man. This ceremony was performed thrice, and when the unfortunate Jane was seized with the pangs176 of child-birth, Gray, after having the doors of fifty houses shut in his face, as he implored177 assistance for his wife, was compelled to go to Campden, a distance of thirteen miles, to try what the force of nature might effect. There his application was not rejected; the aged33 mother, although her heart was breaking at the lost and degraded state of her youngest child, yet consented to accompany Gray; and disguising herself, that none might recognize her, hastened to Winchcombe.
Jane had been delivered of a dead child about two hours previous to the arrival of her mother, and lay, trembling and exhausted178, in a January evening, without light or fire. A fever, with violent periodical shiverings, was the consequence. She slowly recovered; but the two little children, fondling over their sick mother, (as they called the unfortunate woman), caught the fever, and in a few days, probably through want of care, expired.
Things had been getting worse and worse ever since. No labourer would work for them—no neighbour would purchase from, or sell them, any necessaries, and all the produce of Gray's individual industry was carried to Gloucester; for at the populous179 market of that city, he sold and bought without it being known that the ban of excommunication cut him off from all social intercourse180 with his kind.
It would have been still worse if Gray had rented his farm of one whose religious principles were more defined than De Boteler's; but even he, though he would not drive them from the soil, refused to take recompense for the small portion of land that the man himself could attend to, and even this portion, small as it was, presented little of the healthy and cultivated appearance that his broad fields had formerly181 exhibited. Sickness often came; and there was the enervating182 consciousness of being a shunned183 and solitary184 man. Then, too, there were domestic bitterness and mutual185 upbraidings and reproaches; and often did the once industrious and light-hearted Giles, instead of saving his hay or cutting down his slender crop, lie the whole day beneath the shadow of a tree, brooding in gloomy discontent over the dark prospect186 before him.
Father John, who, for obvious reasons, had not been forbidden to leave the abbey, was, one evening, in the course of a solitary walk, accosted187 by the wife of this man.
"Holy Father," said she, sinking on her knees before him, and raising up a countenance which exhibited the traces of deep, mental suffering: "Holy Father, hear me? This entire day, have I been watching for you.—Oh, do not leave me!" she continued in agony, as the monk, disengaging his habit from her grasp, with a shudder188 of disgust would have hurried on. "Oh! do not leave me?" she repeated, clinging to his dress. "Have I not heard, when it was permitted me to enter the house of prayer, that the Blessed Lord had suffered a sinful woman to kneel at his feet and wash them with her tears! Alas189! she could not be as sinful as I, but"—she bent down her face upon her hands—
"Unhappy woman!" said the monk, in a tone that seemed to encourage her to proceed—"what would you of me?"
"Oh, father!" said she, raising up her eyes, that were filled with tears; "it is not for myself—it is for him."
Again the monk looked stern, and strove to loosen her hold, but she held with too firm a grasp to be shaken off, and the trembling diffidence of her speech changed into the eager and fervent190 supplication191 of one who would not be denied.
"Oh, father! he is dying—the death-sweats are upon him! and can I, who brought him into sin, see him die under the curse of God? Oh, mercy, holy father! have pity upon him!—his soul is repentant—indeed it is! We have vowed, if he should recover, to part for ever—oh, come to him!"
"I dare not—let me go! Is he not excommunicated? has he not lived on in sin? Let me go."
"Never! never!" replied the woman, with a convulsive scream. "No one but you dare I ask—and I will not leave my hold, unless you force me! You know not what is in the heart: even in the last hour there may be—there is mercy. Let him not die with the curse upon him—and, by all your hopes in this life, and by the blessedness that will gladden you hereafter, do not deny the last hope of the wretched!" The woman again bent down her head, as if exhausted by the intensity193 of her feelings.
Father John gazed upon her with a look of compassion194; and, though aware of the danger he should incur195, he said, after a short struggle:
"I will go. Can we measure the mercy of the Lord?"
"Will you?" said the rejoiced creature, starting on her feet, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven—"may the Lord grant the prayer that you pray!"
It so happened, that no one passed during this interview; and, as the monk followed the rapid steps of the woman, he often looked anxiously around, hoping he might not be observed.
As they entered the dwelling, a child came running forward to meet its mother: Father John shrunk from the little one, as if its touch would have been pollution, and approached the sick man. His dim eyes brightened as they fell upon the monk, and he strove to rise in his bed, but sank back on the pillow.
"Do not disturb yourself," said the father, in a soothing196 tone; and, as the wretched wife left the room, he prepared himself to listen to the dark catalogue of long-growing crime. Father John exhorted197 and encouraged, and with all the fervour of his soul joined the dying man's prayer for mercy. It seemed as if the spirit had lingered for the parting consolations198 of religion; for scarcely were the last prayers said, ere a slight tremor199 was perceptible through the whole frame; the eyes fixed200, the jaw201 fell, and the soul went forth to judgment.
Father John, rejoicing that he had listened to the woman's prayer, knelt a few minutes in earnest supplication for the departed, and then rose; but ere he left the cottage, he gently informed the unfortunate Jane of the event.
It would be a vain task to attempt a description of what followed—of the agony with which she threw herself by the bed, and kissed the cold hand and cold cheek, and upbraided202 herself as the cause of his sins, and sorrows, and early death; of the desolation that filled her heart as she looked on the dead, and felt that there was no one now, except the little child, with whom she dare claim affinity203; of the feeling with which, on the following evening, assisted by a singularly charitable neighbour, she deposited the body of him she had loved, in an unhallowed grave, at the bottom of the garden, and went forth in the darkness of that night, with the child in her arms, to seek, as a wandering mendicant204, the charity of strangers.
It is said, that charity covers a multitude of sins; but how often does an uncharitable spirit convert that into sin which may in reality be an act of benevolence205; or, at worst, nothing more than the weakness of humanity? Father John's attention to the dying man was thus distorted. He was unfortunately perceived parleying with the woman, and followed to Gray's cottage, by a person employed to watch his motions. The information was instantly conveyed to Calverley; and as Father John left the cottage, he started at beholding206 two officers from the abbey, standing at a sufficient distance to avoid the contamination of the dwelling, but near enough to prevent the egress207 of any one without their observation. Concealment was impossible; so he stepped boldly forward, and with the brothers one on each side, proceeded in silence to the abbey, where he was instantly conducted to his cell, and the door closed and bolted upon him.
His heart swelled208 for an instant as the brothers retired209; but the indignant flash presently passed from his eyes, and he rejoiced that no selfish consideration had prevented him from, as far as in him lay, saving the guilty soul of the deceased.
The next morning the monk was summoned before the abbot; and with the same calm and dignified210 demeanor211 that generally characterized him, he obeyed the summons. The two brethren who had conducted him from Gray's cottage, stood at the table, and the abbot proceeded to say, that upon the oath of a respectable witness, he had been observed conversing with an excommunicated woman, and accompanying her to her house, and that those two brethren (pointing to the officers) were ready to avow137 they had beheld212 him leave it. "Now," continued Sudbury, "what have you to say? Did you converse213 with the woman?"
"My lord," replied the monk, "I listened to her earnest prayers."
"Did you accompany her home?"
"I did, my lord."
"For what purpose?"
"To calm the last moments of a sinner."
"Did you not know that his crime had shut him out from the aid of religion?"
"Yes, my lord; but I was assured, that if he survived, their sinful intercourse would cease, and that by public penance they would strive to obtain forgiveness."
"Have you never heard of the fallacy of death-bed promises?" The monk was silent.
"Did you administer the sacrament of penance to the incestuous wretch192?"
"I did, my lord," returned the monk firmly.
"A most obedient son of the church, truly," said the abbot (the calmness with which he had before spoken, changing into a quicker and harsher tone). "You have read that obedience is better than sacrifice; and yet, though suspended from the exercise of the priestly functions, you have presumed of your own will to absolve60 a sinner, who, setting at nought214 the voice of the church, has lived in sin—a scandal to his neighbours, and a dreadful example of hardness of heart."
"My lord, I was unwilling215 that a soul should be lost——"
"Rebellious216 son! Do you dare to justify217 your conduct? But this comes of admitting base blood to the privileges of the gentle. What better could be expected of a man who held your principles? Now hear me! You have sinned against the authority of the holy church, and violated your vow of obedience. You have also exhibited a most contumacious spirit in refusing to recant those pernicious opinions you professed218, and to answer the questions I before put to you. Retire now to your cell, and there remain solitary for eight days, that grace may have power to operate on your soul; and then, if you still remain incorrigible, you shall be degraded from your order. Retire," he added, waving his hand, and pointing to the officers to lead him away.
Father John raised his eyes as Sudbury repeated the threat of degradation220. He had expected censure221; but he was not prepared for this extremity222 of punishment; and the wounded feelings of a high spirit spoke in the silent glance he cast upon the abbot, as he turned proudly away, and followed his conductors to the cell.
In eight days he was again brought before Sudbury; but solitude223 had effected no change in his sentiments. Three days more were granted, and on the fourth, all the members of the community were assembled, and the monk was led from his cell to the chapel224. There, in the presence of the brethren, he was once more asked whether he would publicly confess his fault in administering a sacrament to an excommunicated man, and profess219 his desire to perform public penance for the scandal he had given; and when he made no reply, he was asked if he would disclose the place of concealment of the bondman, Holgrave. To this, also, no reply was given; and finally he was promised, that if he knew aught of the stolen child of the Lord de Boteler, and would unreservedly declare all he knew—if he had not actually assisted in the abduction—all his past errors should be forgiven, in consideration of this act of justice. But Father John knew, that although by a disclosure he might avert225 his own fate, yet he would assuredly draw down inevitable226 ruin on Holgrave, and that the hopes he had himself cherished—for the reader cannot be ignorant that it was he who was the author of the mysterious document—would utterly227 fall to the ground; and with that noble-mindedness, that would rather sacrifice self than betray the confidence of another, he still refused to answer.
Sudbury scarcely expected such firmness; and there was a minute or two of breathless excitation and profound silence through the chapel, as the abbot ordered two brothers to approach the obdurate monk, and strip off the habit he had rendered himself unworthy longer to wear.
Father John's lips grew pale and quivered; and there was a slight tremor perceptible through his whole frame, as the monks228 reluctantly proceeded to obey the command of their superior. His eyes were fixed upon the ground; he dared not raise them, for the chequers of the pavement seemed indistinct and trembling; and yet for twelve days he had been preparing himself to meet this catastrophe229 with firmness. The outer garments were removed; their place was supplied by a coarse woollen jerkin and cloak, and then the monk, for a moment resuming the energy that was more natural to his character than the subdued230 spirit he had as yet evinced, stood forth from the brothers who had been the unwilling instruments in the act of degradation, and fixing his eyes upon the abbot, who stood upon the topmost step of the altar, with his face turned towards the brotherhood231, said in a tone that filled the whole chapel—"My lord abbot, I shall appeal against this severity. It is not because I administered a sacrament to a sinner that I am thus degraded—it is because the Lord de Boteler desires to humble me—because he foolishly imagines, that a spirit conscious of its own strength would bend beneath injustice232 and oppression, that I am thus dealt with. But remember, my lord, that 'with what measure you mete233 to others, the same shall be meted234 to you again.'" So saying, without waiting for the ceremony of being driven from the gates, he turned, and with a quick step left the abbey.
But here his firmness again forsook235 him;—he had stepped from his home—from the quiet seclusion236 that was endeared to him by years of residence and holy recollections, into a strange world, to struggle and contend—to sin, and be sinned against; and he leaned against the abbey wall with such a feeling of desolation as a child may be supposed to feel, as he bends over the grave of his last surviving parent. A few bitter drops of wounded pride, and deep regret, forced their way down his cheeks, and it was not until he became conscious that a group of persons of different ages and sexes were silently and sympathizingly gazing upon him, that it occurred to him he ought to remove to a less conspicuous237 situation.
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1
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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2
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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3
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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4
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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5
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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6
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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7
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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8
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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9
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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10
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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11
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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12
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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13
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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14
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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17
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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18
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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19
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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20
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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21
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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22
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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23
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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24
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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25
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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26
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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27
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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29
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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30
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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31
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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32
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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34
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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35
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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36
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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37
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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39
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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40
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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41
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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42
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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43
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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44
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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45
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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46
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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47
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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48
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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49
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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50
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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51
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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52
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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53
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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54
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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55
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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56
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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57
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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58
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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59
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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61
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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62
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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63
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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64
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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65
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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66
countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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67
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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68
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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69
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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70
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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71
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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72
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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73
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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74
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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75
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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77
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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78
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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79
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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80
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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81
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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82
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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83
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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84
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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85
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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86
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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87
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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88
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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89
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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90
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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91
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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92
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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93
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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94
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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95
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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96
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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97
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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98
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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99
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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100
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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101
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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102
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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103
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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104
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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105
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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106
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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107
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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108
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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111
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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112
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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113
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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114
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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115
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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116
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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117
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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118
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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119
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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120
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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121
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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122
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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123
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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124
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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125
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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126
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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127
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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128
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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129
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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130
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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131
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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132
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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133
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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134
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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135
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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136
expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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137
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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138
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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139
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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140
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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141
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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142
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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143
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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144
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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145
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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146
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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147
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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148
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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149
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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150
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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151
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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152
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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153
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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154
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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155
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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156
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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157
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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158
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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159
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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160
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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161
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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162
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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163
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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164
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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165
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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166
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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167
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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168
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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169
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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170
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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171
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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172
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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173
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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174
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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175
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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176
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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177
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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179
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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180
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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181
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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182
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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183
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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185
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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186
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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187
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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188
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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189
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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190
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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191
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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192
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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193
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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194
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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195
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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196
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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197
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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199
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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200
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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201
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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202
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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204
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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205
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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206
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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207
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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208
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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209
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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210
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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211
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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212
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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213
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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214
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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215
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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216
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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217
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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218
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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219
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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220
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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221
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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222
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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223
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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224
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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225
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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226
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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227
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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228
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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229
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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230
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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231
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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232
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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233
mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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234
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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235
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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236
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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237
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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