Gwen Wynn Part 68

Then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell not commanded by the keyhole, and there dashes the book down, as though it had been burning her fingers!

"My first scene of deception," she mutters to herself--"first act of hypocrisy. Have I not played it to perfection?"

She draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. For she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it.

"Now that I've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "I must think what's to be done in continuance, and how the false pretence is to be kept up.

What will _they_ do?--and think? They'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! But that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole! When I've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, I may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. Ah! little care I for the comfort, if convenient,--with a window out of which one could look. Then I might have a hope of seeing--speaking to some one with heart less hard than Sister Ursule's, and that other creature--a very hag!"

"I wonder where the place is? Whether in the country, or in a town among houses? It may be the last--in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! They build these religious prisons with walls so thick! And the voices I from time to time hear are all women's. Not one of a man amongst them! They must be the convent people themselves!

Nuns and novices! Myself one of the latter! Ha! ha! I shouldn't have known it if Sister Ursule hadn't informed me. Novice, indeed--soon to be a nun! No! but a free woman--or dead! Death would be better than life like this!"

The derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features pa.s.ses off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. For she again recalls what she has read in books--very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside--of girls young and beautiful as herself--high-born ladies--surrept.i.tiously taken from their homes--shut up as she--never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds.

The prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh--almost a groan.

"Ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "There are voices now! Still of women! Laughter! How strange it sounds! So sweet! I've not heard such since I've been here. It's the voice of a girl! It must be--so clear, so joyous. Yes! Surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? They are never joyful--never laugh."

She remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. The sound comes in with the light--it could not well enter otherwise--and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. For the window is far above her head.

"Would that I could see out! If I only had something on which to stand!"

She sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand--all too low.

Standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill.

She is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. With wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement--she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. She can do that by upending the bedstead!

Rash, she would raise it on the instant. But she is not so; instead, considerate, more than ever cautious. And so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. Then, dragging bed-clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. And as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps.

A moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge.

The window itself is a cas.e.m.e.nt on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. Small, though big enough for a human body to pa.s.s through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it.

She, balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. Her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. At the first _coup d'oeil_, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weatherc.o.c.ks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches.

Dropping her eyes lower, they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey ma.s.sive wall, high almost as the houses.

At a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. For, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. They are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose-flowing robes of sombre hue. A few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are--the _pensionaires_ of the establishment.

Her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school-girls, who, linked arm in arm, are walking backward and forward directly in front. Why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she pa.s.ses under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside, in which she feels an interest! Her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently s.n.a.t.c.hed by stealth--as in fear of being observed by the others. Even her promenading companion seems unaware of them.

She inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others.

"What can it mean?" she asks herself. "So unlike the rest! Surely not French! Can she be English? She is very--very beautiful!"

The last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around--all of them being of the French facial type, while hers are p.r.o.nouncedly Irish.

By this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the gla.s.s--dim with dust and spiders' webs--a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her.

She starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. Then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it,--

"Keep quiet! I know all about you, and why you are there."

The gesture is not lost upon the captive. But before she can reflect upon its significance, the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter-skelter; for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the _angelus_.

In a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one--the school-girl with the Irish features and eyes. She, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it, significantly exposing something white she holds half hidden between her fingers!

It needs no further gesture to make known her intent. The English girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron cas.e.m.e.nt grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. On the instant of its opening, the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and, like a flash of light, pa.s.ses through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor.

Not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away--so speedily, she is still in time to join the _queue_ moving on towards the convent chapel.

Cautiously reclosing the window, Soeur Marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside!

Despite her burning impatience, she does not open it till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before.

For now, as ever, she has need to be circ.u.mspect, and with better reasons.

At length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads,--

"_Mary,--Monday night next, after midnight, if you look out of your window, you will see friends--among them_

"JACK WINGATE."

"Jack Wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "A voice from dear old Wyeside! Hope of delivery at last!"

And overcome by her emotion, she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most _devote_ nun in the convent.

CHAPTER LXX.

A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION.

It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the _Pas de Calais_ envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot pa.s.senger be abroad, he is some belated individual groping his way home from the _Cafe de billars_ he frequents, or the _Cercle_ to which he belongs. Even the _sergens de ville_ are scarcer than usual, those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded.

It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for.

They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the Soeur Marie is to see friends in front of her window.

They are the friends about to attempt taking her out of it.

They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circ.u.mstance of difficulty and danger. They are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design.

Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient _cite_.

The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. It is, nevertheless, a thing altogether different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant.

They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and stand listening--speech pa.s.sing among themselves only in whispers. But as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and in less than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow lane which runs along the _enciente_ of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself.