Chapter 5 IN ELSTOW ABBEY.

Elstow is probably connected in the minds of most people with the name of John Bunyan only. But long before the time of the Puritan tinker Elstow had a history and a renown of its own. Here Judith, niece of the Conqueror and wife of Waltheof, Earl of Northampton and Huntingdon, the Saxon hero and martyr, had founded an abbey of Benedictine nuns, endowing it with many broad acres. The stately abbey church still remains in part, and is used as the parish church, though much shorn of its beauty; for the central tower, chancel, and Ladychapel have all disappeared, and the nave only is left.

The Lady de Breauté and her attendant dismounted from their palfreys in the outer yard, beyond which men were not allowed to penetrate, and whence the grooms returned to Bedford with the horses. The servants of the convent approached, headed by the ancient steward. He recognized the wife of the Robber Baron, but received her with a low obeisance; for he knew her to be a dutiful servant of the Church, and one who protested, as far as in her lay, against her husband's outrages on church and monastery. Informing her that the office had already commenced in the church, and that the archdeacon would address the congregation when vespers were over, he led them into the crowded nave.

It was now late in the afternoon, and already dusk within the depths of the severe Norman church. The narrow windows admitted but little light, and there were no lamps burning in the bare, unfurnished nave, which on an occasion like the present was thrown open to the public, who could listen to the offices chanted by the nuns within the massive screen, beyond which the externs were not allowed to penetrate. On the west side of the screen a small temporary platform or pulpit had been erected.

From within the choir, behind the screen, came the solemn sound of the sisters' voices, chanting vespers to Gregorian tones, unaccompanied by any instrumental music, and rolling thrillingly through the echoing church. As she knelt in the dim light Margaret felt almost happy. A calm, a peace, such as she had not known for months, stole over her somewhat weak and susceptible nature as she listened to the singing in the gloomy twilight of the grand church, and it fanned the ray of hope which her husband's professed penitence had kindled in her weary heart. Nor was Beatrice Mertoun, whose opportunities of worship since she had been at Bedford had been confined to attendance at the tiny chapel at St. Thomas-at-bridge, unimpressed.

The office over, the Archdeacon of Northampton, Martin de Pateshulle, took his stand on the little platform by the screen and began his sermon. It was addressed, not to the nuns in the choir behind, but to the lay-folk gathered in the nave before him. His subject--a favourite one with ecclesiastics of all ages--was the persecution of the Church; his text, so to speak, was the evil-doings of Fulke de Breauté. Of course he was unaware of the presence of the latter's unhappy wife, or he would not have touched so directly on the personal character of the Robber Baron, nor enlarged so particularly on the destruction of St. Paul's Church and the raid upon the Abbey of St. Alban. Finally, he rose to a passion of indignation and stern vengeance in denouncing the perpetrator of these outrages, and concluded in a different key--supplicating divine aid for Zion in her bondage, and describing the Church under forms of scriptural imagery much employed by the preachers of the time.

When the discourse was ended the congregation of externs passed out of the nave and into the outer court to the abbey gateway. But the Lady Margaret made her way to the lodgings of the abbess at the south-west corner of the church.

The foundation of Judith had risen in importance, and was now one of the principal religious houses in the neighbourhood. The abbess was of noble birth, and the convent was largely composed of ladies belonging to the county families, if we may believe the chronicle of names which has come down to us. In later days, just prior to the dissolution, these religious ladies waxed somewhat secular in their mode of life, and drew down upon them the stern reproof of their bishop; but in the thirteenth century Elstow Abbey retained most of its proper character and strict discipline. In so important a house, owning such wide estates, the abbess had many secular rights, duties, and privileges to occupy her without, so a prioress was responsible for the internal arrangement and order. To the abbess it fell, as the dignified head of the house, to receive visitors and to exercise hospitality. To the abbess Lady Margaret accordingly presented herself, that she might gain entrance to the convent, and share, during the archdeacon's special services, in the life of the nuns, as far as might be permitted to an outsider. A lay-sister, the portress of the abbess's lodgings, conducted Lady Margaret to the parlour or room open to guests. The dignified lady who had for some years so discreetly ruled at Elstow Abbey had just returned from the evening office, and received her visitor while still clad in her choir habit.

"Black was her garb, her rigid rule

Reformed on Benedictine school;

Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;

Vigils and penitence austere

Had early quenched the light of youth."

Above the long black robe and the scapulary, which formed the ordinary monastic dress of Benedictine nuns, she wore a cowl or hood similar to that used by the monks of the order and worn by the nuns in church. In her right hand she carried her pastoral staff, and the third finger of her left hand was adorned by a massive gold ring--the symbol of her profession as the spouse of Christ.

The abbess advanced to meet Lady Margaret with much cordiality, for the latter's sad history was well known to her; and all persons of whatever ecclesiastical degree who were acquainted with it felt sympathy and pity for her who was the wife, against her will, of the Church's deadly enemy.

"Lady of Bedford Castle," she said, "you are welcome to our abbey of Helenstowe, and to the protection of Our Lady and the Most Holy Trinity,"--for it was by this latter dedication that the house was then known.

As she spoke the nun made a gesture of benediction, and the Lady Margaret a low reverence of respect.

"Reverend mother," she replied, "to enter your sanctified dwelling and to pray in your holy church is indeed a privilege which lessens for me the remembrance of the many burdens which I have already borne and the dread expectation of the many sorrows which are still before me."

"Ah, my daughter," exclaimed the abbess, "you have already been in the church and joined in the holy office? Alas that it has been so, and that on your ears have fallen the words of our venerable Father Martin! He knew not of your presence, or he would have chosen another theme."

The words of the preacher had reached the nuns in the choir on the farther side of the screen, and they had heard that denunciation of Fulke de Breauté by Martin de Pateshulle which had thrilled all who had listened to it.

"It is indeed true, venerable abbess," replied the lady; "but no one knows better than your unworthy servant that the deeds of my lord have indeed deserved the just vengeance of Heaven. But I have come to entreat the prayers of yourself and of your holy sisters that the first signs of a repentance tardily begun may bear fruit."

The unhappy lady proceeded to recount to the abbess Fulke's dream of the preceding night, and the nun gave her comfort and encouragement.

"Reverend mother," said Margaret, "your peaceful words fall like balm on a weary heart. Suffer me, I pray, to remain awhile under this holy roof, that I may share in the ministration of Father Martin, and also for a time become, as it were, a dweller in this holy house."

"My daughter," replied the abbess, "right gladly do I accede to your request. Holy Church has ever been a consoler to those who labour and are heavy laden, and I doubt not but much peace shall come to you from the venerable father's exhortations. And indeed, that you may enjoy more frequent opportunities of converse with him in the intervals between the offices, I will arrange for you to be my guest in my lodgings, instead of sharing that portion of the abbey buildings which has been set aside for the extern women; for you know full well that Father Martin lodges in the priest's chamber in these lodgings, as no priest may enter further into the abbey except when engaged in the sacred office."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears at the abbess's kind words.

"Mother," she said, "I am all too unworthy of your goodness and hospitality. Who am I, alas! that you should treat me thus?"

"My daughter, you are sorrowful; that is enough. To all who are in misery does Holy Church hold out her arms. Enter in and find peace," she added, with a sign of benediction.

The Lady Margaret shared the abbess's supper later in the evening. The archdeacon himself and the abbess's chaplain--that is to say, one of the sisters specially selected as her companion or secretary, and who bore that title of office--were the only other guests.

After the meal the Lady Margaret had an opportunity of unburdening her mind to Martin de Pateshulle, and of relating her story. The good priest was able to add further cheering suggestions to those already made by the abbess. Comforted and thankful, at the conclusion of the conversation the lady rose, and said,--

"Venerable father and reverend mother, thanks to your kind words I feel less heart-sick than I have been for many a long day. I pray you now to permit me to retire into the church, and there pray and meditate in thankfulness ere begins the hour of compline."

The abbess acceded, volunteering herself to accompany her. The two women passed out into the dark and silent cloisters, which ran along the south side of the nave of the church. Up and down the pavement, in silent meditation, paced here and there in the gloom a

Pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestic train,

And sable stole of cypress lawn."

The abbess led her companion along the northern side, or walk as it was called, and entered the church by the door into the south transept; for no opening was allowed to exist in the close screen shutting off the nave, which was occasionally open to the public. Into the chancel and the transepts were permitted to enter none but the officiating clergy and the sisters themselves, or women introduced by authority.

Leaving the transept, they paused for a moment beneath the central tower, and the abbess drew her monastic cowl over her head. Save for the faint glow of a few lamps before the images of the saints, the church was almost dark. At the extreme end of the chancel, before the high altar, above which the blessed sacrament was deposited for veneration in a closed tabernacle or shrine, burned one solitary lamp.

The abbess had happened to stop close to the massive Norman pier which supported the south-eastern angle of the great tower above them. In front of this pier stood a more than life-size figure of St. Paul. But the uplifted right hand was empty, and the sword it should have grasped was carefully laid at its feet.

"See, mother," cried Lady Margaret, "the sword has fallen from the hand of the blessed apostle!"

"Nay," replied the abbess, "I removed it with my own hand. On that evil day when we heard that Sir Fulke de Breauté had destroyed the fair church of St. Paul at Bedford, I vowed to the saints that his statue in our church should not bear the sword again till vengeance had been taken upon the destroyer."

The unhappy wife covered her face with her hands with a low moan.

"May it be the vengeance of a true repentance!" she ejaculated.

The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.

"Pardon me, my daughter," she said, "I should not have told you of the vow."

They passed on through the choir of the nuns, whose stalls occupied the central crossing under the tower and a portion of the chancel, and approached the high altar. At the foot of the steps a black-robed figure knelt motionless in prayer.

"See," whispered Lady Margaret, "one of the sisters is here already!"

"Nay," replied the abbess; "she is not one of our sisters. She is a young damsel of the neighbourhood who has come to our retreat and has craved permission to wear for the time the habit of our novices. Poor child, she is in sore distress! It is sad to see one so young and fair thus cast down. Her talk is all of embracing the religious life. But a vocation is not given to all damsels of lovely face and form. God has for each woman her work and her duty. Some must perchance be wives and mothers."

The abbess paused. A faint smile flickered over her still handsome face as her thoughts wandered for a brief moment, even in the precincts of her abbey church, back to bygone days when she, too, had been a young and high-born beauty.

"The damsel," she continued, returning to the present, "is evidently in sore perplexity. She has had much talk with her uncle, the revered archdeacon. Perchance you know her. Her name is--"

At this moment the kneeling girl, aroused by the sound of whispering behind her, looked round, and perceiving the abbess, rose and approached to make an obeisance. The sad face, marble-like in its pallor, which appeared above the black robes of a novice, was that of Aliva de Pateshulle.