It was a pair of very frightened women who presented themselves to Mother Beatrice as she sat erect and stately in the convent parlor. The good dame, however, was thinking less of her own safety than how she could manage to keep from criminating Lady Katharine in case her part of the plot had been discovered.
"You may go to your work, girl," said the abbess in an unusually gracious manner, when they had made their courtesies to her. "Dame Redwood, your daughter will make a good porteress if she is as prompt in her duty as you are."
This took a load off both their hearts, and the dame could listen quietly to the long speech which the Mother Superior addressed to her as soon as Phoebe had closed the door. She told her how she had there with her for safe keeping, and, if possible, for restoring to the church, two young heretics, committed to her care by his grace Chichely, archbishop of Canterbury. She told how the younger was ill, and that she was about to show the extreme clemency of the church toward its wayward, by letting them go free on condition that they should leave the country, and never set foot on English soil again. Moreover, as the one was ill, and the other not strong, it might be necessary for them to rest and recover before their departure, for which she would allow them the space of one week, which time she wished them to pass under the roof of so faithful a tenant of the convent as dame Joan Redwood. Furthermore, she would hold her and her husband responsible if, during that time, they held communication with any other Lollards, and if at the end of that period they were allowed any further shelter.
The dame had great difficulty in concealing her delight at this turn of affairs; but she managed to account for her smiles and agitation on the ground of the unexpected favor just bestowed.
"And now, think you," continued Mother Beatrice, "your good husband could bring some one with him and come this evening while we are at chapel? Phoebe shall have them ready to go."
In her delight, happy Joan managed to get down on her knees and kiss the hem of the abbess' robe, which gratified her, and made her so condescending that it was with difficulty they could conclude their respective blessings and courtesies, and have the door fairly shut between them.
Never had the road appeared so long between the convent and her home, though the good woman trudged along it almost on a run. When she imparted the news to her husband, his delight almost exceeded hers, for the demon of remorse had been tormenting him again since he had heard of Hubert's sufferings. Now, however, it seemed as if his sin had been expiated, and he was to be certified of this by having the boys placed in his hands to minister to their wants, and serve them in every possible way.
It seemed also a most favorable coincidence that Bertrand had just arrived that morning, having appointed that the boys should meet their father, if it were possible for them to escape, at the house of Philip Naseby the trader, which had been their asylum soon after they left home. Bertrand and Redwood employed themselves in making a rude litter of boughs, cushioned with all the dame's skill, and furnished with many a soft wrap to shield the sick boy from contact with the cold air.
They had hardly finished their preparations before the hour designated by the abbess; but as the bells were tolling for vespers they stood in the convent court-yard eagerly waiting for their expected guests. Bertrand and Dick waited without, while the dame and her daughter went with Sister Ursula to bring them out; but when they at last appeared, the men could hardly recognize in the gaunt, haggard-looking boy who came feebly along, with a bewildered look in the hollow eyes which he was trying to shield from the light with his hand, the young master whom they had seen so fresh, and ruddy, and vigorous six months before.
But the thoughts of all were concentrated on the little form borne, as though lifeless, in dame Redwood's arms. He had fainted from sudden exposure to the air; but the good woman had been so horror-struck at the scene of misery which met her eyes when Sister Ursula opened the dungeon-door, that she would not now suffer them to wait to restore him, but for once speechless with indignation, hurried the whole party out of the gates. It was not until she had heard them clash behind her, and saw the grim old towers disappearing behind the hill, that she felt at all secure, but kept all the while looking back, as if in fear of pursuit.