Chapter XIX: Nov. 4

MAGDALEN JEWELL hath escaped, at the least she hath disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her. It seems impossible that she could have got out, as there are no means whatever of opening the door from the inside, and the key hath never left Mother Gertrude's care. Some of the Sisters think that the ghost or demon, or whatever it is that hath heretofore avenged sacrilege in that chapel, hath torn her in pieces and carried her off bodily, but they say there are no signs of any such struggle. The very cruse of water which Mother Gertrude carried to the prisoner last night is standing half emptied on the floor, but the bread is all gone, so she must have eaten her supper.

Mother Gertrude, on rising, found poor Amice very much worse, faint and exhausted, which delayed her a little. When she went to the prison, she called as usual, but there was no answer. She looked through the grating in the door, usually masked by a panel on the outside, but could see nothing. Becoming scared, she sent for Mother Superior and Father Fabian, who had the tower and vault thoroughly searched, but nothing was to be found, save what had always been there. It is a most wonderful chance. I don't think Father Fabian believes very much in the demon, or he would not have searched the grounds so carefully, or asked so many questions. Mother Gertrude takes charge of all the keys at night, and places them under her pillow; and beside that, who was to steal them, supposing that such a theft were possible? Mother Gertrude is a heavy sleeper, but Amice is a very light one, specially since her illness, and she declares most positively, that she is certain nobody was in the room last night, save herself and Mother Gertrude.

It is all a dark mystery. Magdalen was to have been removed to Exeter to-day, but now Father Fabian must go instead, and give the best account he may of the matter. I cannot say that I believe very much in the demon, any more than Father Fabian. My notion is that some friend from outside hath found a way of helping the poor woman, or that there is some way of escape from the tower which we know not of.

Anyhow, I am glad she is gone, and so I can't but think there are some others, if they would say so. The tower being open, some of us young ones ventured to explore it, and even into the vaults below. The tower is simply what it looks to be—a structure of great unhewn stone, with projections here and there like shelves, and the remains of a stone staircase, though where it should lead to I cannot guess. Another stone stairs leads down to the vault, which is perfectly dark, save for one narrow slit at the very top, going into the garden. Here was once a shrine, whereof the altar and crucifix still remain. A row of niches runs all round, of which two have been built up, doubtless for burial purposes, and there are the dusty remains of several coffins, such as are used for nuns, beside two or three of lead and stone. 'Tis a dismal and dreadful place, and it seems horrible to think any living being should be confined there. Yet, the story goes that it has sometimes been used as a prison for nuns guilty of grave offences.

I drew a long breath, when I got into the free air of heaven once more, and I must say, I was glad to think poor Magdalen had escaped.

I could be as light-hearted as a bird, only that my dear Amice is so much worse. She is very low indeed, too exhausted to speak; but she lies quietly in her bed, with a look of most heavenly peace on her face. She seems most of the time engaged in inward prayer and thanksgiving, for her eyes are closed and her lips move, and now and then she opens her eyes with such a wondrous smile, as if she saw the glories of heaven open before her. What shall I do when she is gone? I dare not think. I have been sitting by her a great part of the day, and now Mother Gertrude tells me, she has asked that I may watch beside her this night, and dear Mother hath given permission. I am most thankful for the privilege, for I would not lose one moment of her dear society.