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PAUL THE MINSTREL
AND OTHER STORIES
Reprinted from _The Hill of Trouble_
and _The Isles of Sunset_
BY
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
LONDON
SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1911
[All rights reserved]
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
_"I mean by a picture a beautiful, romantic dream of something that
never was, never will be--in a light better than any light that ever
shone--in a land no one can define or remember, only desire--and the
forms divinely beautiful--and then I wake up with the waking of
Brynhild."_
SIR E. BURNE-JONES
PREFACE
These stories were all written at a very happy time of my life, and
they were first published when I was a master at Eton with a
boarding-house. A house-master is not always a happy man. It is an
anxious business at best. Boys are very unaccountable creatures, and
the years between boyhood and adolescence are apt to represent an
irresponsible mood. From the quiet childhood at home the boys have
passed to what is now, most happily, in the majority of cases, a
carefully guarded and sheltered atmosphere--the private school. My own
private school was of the old-fashioned type, with a very independent
tone of tradition; but nowadays private schools are smaller and much
more domesticated. The boys live like little brothers in the company
of active and kindly young masters; and then they are plunged into the
rougher currents of public schools, with their strange and in many
ways barbarous code of ethics, their strong and penetrating
traditions. Here the boys, who have hitherto had little temptation to
be anything but obedient, have to learn to govern themselves, and to
do so among conventions which hardly represent the conventions of the
world, and where the public opinion is curiously unaffected either by
parental desires, or by the wishes, expressed or unexpressed, of the
masters. A house-master is often in the position of seeing a new set
of boys come into power in his house whom he may distrust; but the
sense of honour among the boys is so strong that he is often the last
person to hear of practices and principles prevailing in his house of
which he may wholly disapprove. He may even find that many of the
individual boys in his house disapprove of them too, and yet be unable
to alter a tone impressed on the place by a few boys of forcible, if
even sometimes unsatisfactory, character. But at the time at which
these stories were written the tone of my own house was sound,
sensible, and friendly; and I had the happiness of living in an
atmosphere which I knew to be wholesome, manly, and pure. I used to
tell or read stories on Sunday evenings to any boys who cared to come
to listen; and I remember with delight those hours when perhaps twenty
boys would come and sit all about my study, filling every chair and
sofa and overflowing on to the floor, to listen to long, vague stories
of adventure, with at all events an appearance of interest and
excitement.
One wanted to do the best for the boys, to put fine ideas, if one
could, into their heads and hearts. But direct moral exhortation to
growing boys, feeling the life of the world quickening in their veins,
and with vague old instincts of love and war rising uninterpreted in
their thoughts, is apt to be a fruitless thing enough. It is not that
they do not listen; but they simply do not understand the need of
caution and control, nor do they see the unguarded posterns by which
evil things slip smiling into the fortress of the soul.
Every now and then I used to try to shape a tale which in a figure
might leave an arresting or a restraining thought in their minds; or
even touch with a light of romance some of the knightly virtues which
are apt to be dulled into the aspect of commonplace and uninteresting
duties.
It is very hard to make the simple choices of life assume a noble or
an inspiring form. One sees long afterwards in later life how fine the
right choice, the vigorous resistance, the honest perseverance might
have been; but the worst faults of boyhood have something exciting and
even romantic about them--they would not be so alluring if they had
not--while the homely virtues of honesty, frankness, modesty, and
self-restraint appear too often as a dull and priggish abstention from
the more daring and adventurous joys of eager living. If evil were
always ugly and goodness were always beautiful at first sight, there
would be little of the trouble and havoc in the world that is wrought
by sin and indolence.
I chose, not deliberately but instinctively, the old romantic form
for the setting of these tales, a semi-mediaeval atmosphere such as
belongs to the literary epic; some of the stories are pure fantasy;
but they all aim more or less directly at illustrating the stern
necessity of moral choice; the difficulty is to get children to
believe, at the brilliant outset of life, that it will not do to
follow the delights of impulse. And one of the most pathetic parts of
a schoolmaster's life is that he cannot, however earnestly and
sincerely he may wish to do so, transfer his own experience to the
boys, or persuade them that, in the simple words of Browning, "It's
wiser being good than bad." It may be wiser but it is certainly
duller! and the schoolmaster has the horror, which ought never to be a
faithless despair, of seeing boys drift into habits of non-resistance,
and sow with eager hand the seed which must almost inevitably grow up
into the thorns and weeds of life. If the child could but grasp the
bare truth, if one could but pull away the veil of the years and show
him the careless natural joy ending in the dingy, broken slovenliness
of failure! But one cannot; and perhaps life would lose all its virtue
if one could.
One does not know, one cannot dimly guess, why all these attractive
opportunities of evil are so thickly strewn about the path of the
young in a world which we believe to be ultimately ruled by Justice
and Love. Much of it comes from our own blindness and hardness of
heart. Either we do not care enough ourselves, or we cannot risk the
unpopularity of interfering with bad traditions, or we are lacking in
imaginative sympathy, or we sophistically persuade ourselves into the
belief that the character is strengthened by exposure to premature
evil. The atmosphere of the boarding-school is a very artificial one;
its successes are patent, its debris we sweep away into a corner; but
whatever view we take of it all, it is a life which, if one cares for
virtue at all, however half-heartedly, tries the mental and emotional
faculties of the schoolmaster to the uttermost, and every now and then
shakes one's heart to the depths with a terrible wonder as to how one
can ever answer to the account which will be demanded.
I do not claim to have realised my responsibilities fully, or to have
done all I could to lead my flock along the right path. But I did
desire to minimise temptations and to try to get the better side of
the boys' hearts and minds to emphasise itself. One saw masters who
seemed to meddle too much--that sometimes produced an atmosphere of
guarded hostility--and one saw masters who seemed to be foolishly
optimistic about it all; but as a rule one found in one's colleagues a
deep and serious preoccupation with manly ideals of boy-life; and in
these stories I tried my best to touch into life the poetical and
beautiful side of virtue, to show life as a pilgrimage to a far-off
but glorious goal, with seductive bypaths turning off the narrow way,
and evil shapes, both terrifying and alluring, which loitered in shady
corners, or even sometimes straddled horribly across the very road.
The romance, then, of these stories is coloured by what may be thought
to be a conventional and commonplace morality enough; but it is real
for all that; and life as it proceeds has a blessed way of revealing
the urgency and the unseen features of the combat. It is just because
virtue seems dry and humdrum that the struggle is so difficult. It is
so hard to turn aside from what seems so dangerously beautiful, to
what seems so plain and homely. But it is what we mostly have to do.
I saw many years ago a strange parable of what I mean. I was walking
through a quiet countryside with a curious, fanciful, interesting boy,
and we came to a little church off the track in a tiny churchyard full
of high-seeded grasses. On the wall of the chancel hung an old trophy
of armour, a helmet and a cuirass, black with age. The boy climbed
quickly up upon the choir-stalls, took the helmet down, enclosed his
own curly head in it, and then knelt down suddenly on the altar-step;
after which he replaced the helmet again on its nail. "What put it
into your head to do that?" I said. "Oh," he said lightly, "I thought
of the old man who wore it; and they used to kneel before the altar in
their armour when they were made knights, didn't they? I wanted just
to feel what it was like!"
Life was too strong for that boy, and he was worsted! He won little
credit in the fight. But it had been a pretty fancy of his, and
perhaps something more than a fancy. I have often thought of the
little slender figure, so strangely helmeted, kneeling in the summer
sunlight, with Heaven knows what thoughts of what life was to be; it
seems to me a sorrowful enough symbol of boyhood--so eager to share in
the fray, so unfit to bear the dinted helm.
And yet I do not wish to be sorrowful, and it would be untrue to life
to yield oneself to foolish pity. My own little company is broken up
long ago; I wonder if they remember the old days and the old stories.
They are good citizens most of them, standing firmly and sturdily,
finding out the meaning of life in their own way and contributing
their part to the business of the world. But some of them have fallen
by the way, and those not the faultiest or coarsest, but some of fine
instinct and graceful charm, who evoked one's best hopes and most
affectionate concern.
If one believed that life were all, that there was no experience
beyond the dark grave and the mouldering clay, it would be a miserable
task enough to creep cautiously through life, just holding on to its
tangible advantages and cautiously enjoying its delights. But I do
most utterly believe that there is a truth beyond that satisfies our
sharpest cravings and our wildest dreams, and that if we have loved
what is high and good, even for a halting minute, it will come to
bless us consciously and abundantly before we have done with
experience. Many of our dreams are heavy-hearted enough; we are
hampered by the old faults, and by the body that not only cannot
answer the demands of the spirit, but bars the way with its own urgent
claims and desires. But whatever hope we can frame or conceive of
peace and truth and nobleness and light shall be wholly and purely
fulfilled; and even if we are separated by a season, as we must be
separated, from those whom we love and journey with, there is a union
ahead of us when we shall remember gratefully the old dim days, and
the path which we trod in hope and fear together; when all the trouble
we have wrought to ourselves and others will vanish into the shadow of
a faded dream, in the sweetness and glory of some great city of God,
full of fire and music and all the radiant visions of uplifted hearts,
which visited us so faintly and yet so beckoningly in the old frail
days.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PAUL THE MINSTREL 1
THE ISLES OF SUNSET 70
THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 113
RENATUS 127
THE SLYPE HOUSE 138
OUT OF THE SEA 159
THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 178
THE HILL OF TROUBLE 197
THE GRAY CAT 224
THE RED CAMP 247
THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 279
THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, AND THE GREY FROST 301
BROTHER ROBERT 322
THE CLOSED WINDOW 348
THE BROTHERS 363
THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 378
THE TOMB OF HEIRI 402
CERDA 419
LINUS 428
PAUL THE MINSTREL
I
The old House of Heritage stood just below the downs, in the few
meadows that were all that was left of a great estate. The house
itself was of stone, very firmly and gravely built; and roofed with
thin slabs of stone, small at the roof-ridge, and increasing in size
towards the eaves. Inside, there were a few low panelled rooms opening
on a large central hall; there was little furniture, and that of a
sturdy and solid kind--but the house needed nothing else, and had all
the beauty that came of a simple austerity.
Old Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged and poor. She had but
one house-servant, a serious and honest maid, whose only pride was to
keep the place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. But
Mistress Alison was not to be dismayed by poverty; she was a tranquil
and loving woman, who had never married; but who, as if to compensate
her for the absence of nearer ties, had a simple and wholesome love of
all created things. She was infirm now, but was quite content, when it
was fine, to sit for long hours idle for very love, and look about her
with a peaceful and smiling air; she prayed much, or rather held a
sweet converse in her heart with God; she thought little of her latter
end, which she knew could not be long delayed, but was content to
leave it in the hands of the Father, sure that He, who had made the
world so beautiful and so full of love, would comfort her when she
came to enter in at the dark gate.
There was also an old and silent man who looked after the cattle and
the few hens that the household kept; at the back of the house was a
thatched timbered grange, where he laid his tools; but he spent his
time mostly in the garden, which sloped down to the fishpond, and was
all bordered with box; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot days,
of the good herbs that shed their rich smell in the sun; and here the
flies, that sate in the leaves, would buzz at the sound of a footfall,
and then be still again, cleaning their hands together in their busy
manner.
The only other member of the quiet household was the boy Paul, who
was distantly akin to Mistress Alison. He had neither father nor
mother, and had lived at Heritage all of his life that he could
remember; he was a slender, serious boy, with delicate features, and
large grey eyes that looked as if they held a secret; but if they had,
it was a secret of his forefathers; for the boy had led a most quiet
and innocent life; he had been taught to read in a fashion, but he had
no schooling; sometimes a neighbouring goodwife would say to Mistress
Alison that the boy should be sent to school, and Mistress Alison
would open her peaceful eyes and say, "Nay, Paul is not like other
boys--he would get all the hurt and none of the good of school; when
there is work for him he will do it--but I am not for making all toil
alike. Paul shall grow up like the lilies of the field. God made not
all things to be busy." And the goodwife would shake her head and
wonder; for it was not easy to answer Mistress Alison, who indeed was
often right in the end.
So Paul grew up as he would; sometimes he would help the old
gardener, when there was work to be done; for he loved to serve
others, and was content with toil if it was sweetened with love; but
often he rambled by himself for hours together; he cared little for
company, because the earth was to him full of wonder and of sweet
sights and sounds. He loved to climb the down, and lie feasting his
eyes on the rich plain, spread out like a map; the farms in their
closes, the villages from which went up the smoke at evening, the
distant blue hills, like the hills of heaven, the winding river, and
the lake that lay in the winter twilight like a shield of silver. He
loved to see the sun flash on the windows of the houses so distant
that they could not themselves be seen, but only sparkled like stars.
He loved to loiter on the edge of the steep hanging woods in summer,
to listen to the humming of the flies deep in the brake, and to catch
a sight of lonely flowers; he loved the scent of the wind blowing
softly out of the copse, and he wondered what the trees said to each
other, when they stood still and happy in the heat of midday. He
loved, too, the silent night, full of stars, when the wood that topped
the hill lay black against the sky. The whole world seemed to him to
be full of a mysterious and beautiful life of which he could never
quite catch the secret; these innocent flowers, these dreaming trees
seemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at arm's length, while they
guarded their joy from him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him to
have less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful and careful,
working hard to find a living, and dreading the sight of man; but
sometimes in the fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a little
of what was in her heart. "Yes," Paul would say to himself, "it is
like that."
One other chief delight the boy had; he knew the magic of sound,
which spoke to his heart in a way that it speaks to but few; the
sounds of the earth gave up their sweets to him; the musical fluting
of owls, the liquid notes of the cuckoo, the thin pipe of dancing
flies, the mournful creaking of the cider-press, the horn of the
oxherd wound far off on the hill, the tinkling of sheep-bells--of all
these he knew the notes; and not only these, but the rhythmical swing
of the scythes sweeping through the grass, the flails heard through
the hot air from the barn, the clinking of the anvil in the village
forge, the bubble of the stream through the weir--all these had a tale
to tell him. Sometimes, for days together, he would hum to himself a
few notes that pleased him by their sweet cadence, and he would string
together some simple words to them, and sing them to himself with
gentle content. The song of the reapers on the upland, or the rude
chanting in the little church had a magical charm for him; and
Mistress Alison would hear the boy, in his room overhead, singing
softly to himself for very gladness of heart, like a little bird of
the dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time; when she would
wonder and speak to God of what was in her heart.
As Paul grew older--he was now about sixteen--a change came slowly
over his mind; he began to have moods of a silent discontent, a
longing for something far away, a desire of he knew not what. His old
dreams began to fade, though they visited him from time to time; but
he began to care less for the silent beautiful life of the earth, and
to take more thought of men. He had never felt much about himself
before; but one day, lying beside a woodland pool at the feet of the
down, he caught a sight of his own face; and when he smiled at it, it
seemed to smile back at him; he began to wonder what the world was
like, and what all the busy people that lived therein said and
thought; he began to wish to have a friend, that he might tell him
what was in his heart--and yet he knew not what it was that he would
say. He began, too, to wonder how people regarded him--the people who
had before been but to him a distant part of the shows of the world.
Once he came in upon Mistress Alison, who sate talking with a gossip
of hers; when he entered, there was a sudden silence, and a glance
passed between the two; and Paul divined that they had been speaking
of himself, and desired to know what they had said.
One day the old gardener, in a more talkative mood than was his wont,
told him a tale of one who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a few
miles away, and, praying for riches, had found the next day, in
digging, an old urn of pottery, full of ancient coins. Paul was very
urgent to know about the well, and the old man told him that it must
be visited at noonday and alone. That he that would have his wish must
throw a gift into the water, and drink of the well, and then, turning
to the sun, must wish his wish aloud. Paul asked him many more
questions, but the old man would say no more. So Paul determined that
he would visit the place for himself.
The next day he set off. He took with him one of his few possessions,
a little silver coin that a parson hard by had given him. He went his
way quickly among the pleasant fields, making towards the great bulk
of Blackdown beacon, where the hills swelled up into a steep bluff,
with a white road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their green
smooth sides. It was a fresh morning with a few white clouds racing
merrily overhead, the shadows of which fell every now and then upon
the down and ran swiftly over it, like a flood of shade leaping down
the sides. There were few people to be seen anywhere; the fields were
full of grass, with large daisies and high red sorrel. By midday he
was beneath the front of Blackdown, and here he asked at a cottage of
a good-natured woman, that was bustling in and out, the way to the
well. She answered him very kindly and described the path--it was not
many yards away--and then asked where he came from, saying briskly,
"And what would you wish for? I should have thought you had all you
could desire." "Why, I hardly know," said Paul, smiling. "It seems
that I desire a thousand things, and can scarcely give a name to one."
"That is ever the way," said the woman, "but the day will come when
you will be content with one." Paul did not understand what she meant,
but thanked her and went on his way; and wondered that she stood so
long looking after him.
At last he came to the spring. It was a pool in a field, ringed round
by alders. Paul thought he had never seen a fairer place. There grew a
number of great kingcups round the brim, with their flowers like
glistening gold, and with cool thick stalks and fresh leaves. Inside
the ring of flowers the pool looked strangely deep and black; but
looking into it you could see the sand leaping at the bottom in three
or four cones; and to the left the water bubbled away in a channel
covered with water-plants. Paul could see that there was an abundance
of little things at the bottom, half covered with sand--coins,
flowers, even little jars--which he knew to be the gifts of wishers.
So he flung his own coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither and
thither, glancing in the light, till it settled at the dark bottom.
Then he dipped and drank, turned to the sun, and closing his eyes,
said out loud, "Give me what I desire." And this he repeated three
times, to be sure that he was heard. Then he opened his eyes again,
and for a moment the place looked different, with a strange grey
light. But there was no answer to his prayer in heaven or earth, and
the very sky seemed to wear a quiet smile.
Paul waited a little, half expecting some answer; but presently he
turned his back upon the pool and walked slowly away; the down lay on
one side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees which grew
very plentifully; Paul thought that he would like to walk upon the
down; so he went up a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it.
Suddenly, as he passed a small thicket, a voice hailed him; it was a
rich and cheerful voice, and it came from under the trees. He turned
in the direction of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards off,
and saw, sitting on a green bank under the shade, two figures. One was
a man of middle age, dressed lightly as though for travelling, and
Paul thought somewhat fantastically. His hat had a flower stuck in the
band. But Paul thought little of the dress, because the face of the
man attracted him; he was sunburnt and strong-looking, and Paul at
first thought he must be a soldier; he had a short beard, and his hair
was grown rather long; his face was deeply lined, but there was
something wonderfully good-natured, friendly, and kind about his whole
expression. He was smiling, and his smile showed small white teeth;
and Paul felt in a moment that he could trust him, and that the man
was friendly disposed to himself and all the world; friendly, not in a
servile way, as one who wished to please, but in a sort of prodigal,
royal way, as one who had great gifts to bestow, and was liberal of
them, and looked to be made welcome. The other figure was that of a
boy rather older than himself, with a merry ugly face, who in looking
at Paul, seemed yet to keep a sidelong and deferential glance at the
older man, as though admiring him, and desiring to do as he did in all
things.
"Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noon-tide?" said the man.
Paul stopped and listened, and for a moment could not answer. Then he
said, "I am going to the down, sir, and I have been"--he hesitated for
a moment--"I have been to the Wishing Well."
"The Wishing Well?" said the man gravely. "I did not know there was
one hereabouts. I thought that every one in this happy valley had been
too well content--and what did you wish for, if I may ask?"
Paul was silent and grew red; and then he said, "Oh, just for my
heart's desire."
"That is either a very cautious or a very beautiful answer," said the
man, "and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit a
little with us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of music
such as I dare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Do
you practise music, child, the divine gift?"
"I love it a little," said Paul, "but I have no skill."
"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill," said the man; "you
have the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, turning to his boy,
"what shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose'
first?"
The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and
put it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a
small lute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning
finger to the boy. "Remember," he said, "that you come in at the fifth
chord, together with the voice--not before." He struck four simple
chords on the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty
preciseness; and then at the same moment the little pipe and his own
voice began; the pipe played a simple descant in quicker time, with
two notes to each note of the song, and the man in a brisk and simple
way, as it were at the edge of his lips, sang a very sweet little
country song, in a quiet homely measure.
There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was
a beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of
power and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden
picture of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little
trees, taking what came, sunshine and rain, and just living and
smiling, breathing fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping
a light sleep till they should waken to another tranquil day. He
listened as if spellbound. There were but three verses, and though he
could not remember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and
told her dreams.
He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop,
not prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time;
the pipe played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck
a brisk chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!"
said the singer; "no musician could have played it better. You
remembered what I told you, to keep each note separate, and have no
gliding. This song must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird
that hops on the grass." Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile,
said, "Reverend sir, how does my song please you?"
"I never heard anything more beautiful," said Paul simply. "I cannot
say it, but it was like a door opened;" and he looked at the minstrel
with intent eyes;--"may I hear it again?" "Boy," said the singer
gravely, "I had rather have such a look as you gave me during the song
than a golden crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid
me the homage of the pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel
desires."
Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very
sad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he
sang what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done
with mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a
sorrow. When he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and
sadly in, like the voice of grief that could not be controlled, the
weeping of those on whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim
way--for he was but a child--the song seemed the voice of the world,
lamenting its noblest, yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous
to follow in their steps. It brought before him all the natural
sorrows of death, the call to quit the sweet and pleasant things of
the world--a call that could not be denied, and that was in itself
indeed stronger and even sweeter than the delights which it bade its
listeners leave. And Paul seemed to walk in some stately procession of
men far off and ancient, who followed a great king to the grave, and
whose hearts were too full of wonder to think yet what they had lost.
It was an uplifting sadness; and when the sterner strain came to an
end, Paul said very quietly, putting into words the thoughts of his
full heart, "I did not think that death could be so beautiful." And
the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were full of tears.
Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and
sang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited,
but strong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him,
and he longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end,
there was a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half
speaking to himself, "There, my son, I have given you a specimen of my
art; and I think from your look that you might be of the number of
those that make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should you
try to do so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfect
first. You will make many that are not perfect. In some the soul will
be wanting; in others the body, in a manner of speaking, will be
amiss; for they are living things, these songs, and he that makes them
is a kind of god. Well, if you cannot mend one, throw it aside and
think no more of it. Do not save it because it has some gracious
touch, for in this are the masters of the craft different from the
mere makers of songs. The master will have nothing but what is perfect
within and without, while the lesser craftsman will save a poor song
for the sake of a fine line or phrase.
"And next, you must do it for the love of your art, and not for the
praise it wins you. That is a poisoned wine, of which if you drink,
you will never know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit that
befits a master. The master may be discouraged and troubled oft, but
he must have in his soul a blessed peace, and know the worth and
beauty of what he does; for there is nothing nobler than to make
beautiful things, and to enlighten the generous heart. Fighting is a
fair trade, and though it is noble in much, yet its end is to destroy;
but the master of song mars nought, but makes joy;--and that is the
end of my sermon for the time. And now," he added briskly, "I must be
going, for I have far to fare; but I shall pass by this way again, and
shall inquire of your welfare; tell me your name and where you live."
So Paul told him, and then added timidly enough that he would fain
know how to begin to practise his art. "Silence!" said the minstrel,
rather fiercely; "that is an evil and timorous thought. If you are
worthy, you will find the way." And so in the hot afternoon he said
farewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul stood in wonder and hope,
and saw the two figures leave the flat, take to the down, and wind up
the steep road, ever growing smaller, till they topped the ridge,
where they seemed to stand a moment larger than human; and presently
they were lost from view.
So Paul made his way home; and when he pushed the gate of Heritage
open, he wondered to think that he could recollect nothing of the road
he had traversed. He went up to the house and entered the hall. There
sate Mistress Alison, reading in a little book. She closed it as he
came in, and looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to her and said,
"Mother" (so he was used to call her), "I have heard songs to-day such
as I never dreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of making
music; I must be a minstrel." "'Must' is a grave word, dear heart,"
said Mistress Alison, looking somewhat serious; "but let me hear your
story first." So Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. Mistress
Alison sate musing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, till
he said at last, "Will you not speak, mother?" "I know," she said at
last, "whom you have met, dear child--that is Mark, the great
minstrel. He travels about the land, for he is a restless man, though
the king himself would have him dwell in his court, and make music for
him. Yet I have looked for this day, though it has come when I did not
expect it. And now I must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Many
years ago there was a boy like you, and he loved music too and the
making of songs, and he grew to great skill therein. But it was at
last his ruin, for he got to love riotous company and feasting too
well; and so his skill forsook him, as it does those that live not
cleanly and nobly. And he married a young wife, having won her by his
songs, and a child was born to them. But the minstrel fell sick and
presently died, and his last prayer was that his son might not know
the temptation of song. And his wife lingered a little, but she soon
pined away, for her heart was broken within her; and she too died. And
now, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you are that child, the
son of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived with me all your
life; but because the tale was a sad one, I have forborne to tell it
you. I have waited and wondered to see whether the gift of the father
is given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it might be yours,
and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will talk of this no
more to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think well over what I
have said, and see if it makes a difference in your wishes. I have
told you all the tale."
Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much in
Paul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, and
he did not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight of
the minstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind,
and that he saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods
and streams, with a light of evening over it, bounded by far-off
hills, all blue and faint, among which some beautiful thing was hidden
for him to find; it seemed to call him softly to come; the trees
smiled upon him, the voice of the streams bade him make haste--it all
waited for him, like a country waiting for its lord to come and take
possession.
Then it seemed to him that his soul slipped like a bird from the
window, and rising in the air over that magical land, beat its wings
softly in the pale heaven; and then like a dove that knows, by some
inborn mysterious art, which way its path lies, his spirit paused upon
the breeze, and then sailed out across the tree-tops. Whither? Paul
knew not. And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep.
He woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a kind of tranquil joy
and purpose; and when he was dressed, and gone into the hall, he found
Mistress Alison sitting in her chair beside the table laid for their
meal. She was silent and looked troubled, and Paul went up softly to
her, and kissed her and said, "I have chosen." She did not need to ask
him what he had chosen, but put her arm about him and said, "Then,
dear Paul, be content--and we will have one more day together, the
last of the old days; and to-morrow shall the new life begin."
So the two passed a long and quiet day together. For to the wise and
loving-hearted woman this was the last of sweet days, and her soul
went out to the past with a great hunger of love; but she stilled it
as was her wont, saying to herself that this dear passage of life had
hitherto only been like the clear trickling of a woodland spring,
while the love of the Father's heart was as it were a great river of
love marching softly to a wide sea, on which river the very world
itself floated like a flower-bloom between widening banks.
And indeed if any had watched them that day, it would have seemed
that she was the serener; for the thought of the life that lay before
him worked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could only by an
effort bring himself back to loving looks and offices of tenderness.
They spent the whole day together, for the most part in a peaceful
silence; and at last the sun went down, and a cool breeze came up out
of the west, laden with scent from miles and miles of grass and
flowers, which seemed to bear with it the fragrant breath of myriads
of sweet living things.
Then they ate together what was the last meal they were to take thus
alone. And at last Mistress Alison would have Paul go to rest. And so
she took his hand in hers, and said, "Dear child, the good years are
over now; but you will not forget them; only lean upon the Father, for
He is very strong; and remember that though the voice of melody is
sweet, yet the loving heart is deeper yet." And then Paul suddenly
broke out into a passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on hand
and cheek and lips; and then he burst away, ashamed, if the truth be
told, that his love was not deeper than he found it to be.
He slept a light sleep that night, his head pillowed on his hand,
with many strange dreams ranging through his head. Among other
fancies, some sweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of melody
played, it seemed to him, by three silver-sounding flutes, so delicate
that he could hardly contain himself for gladness; but among his
sadder dreams was one of a little man habited like a minstrel who
played an ugly enchanted kind of melody on a stringed lute, and smiled
a treacherous smile at him; Paul woke in a sort of fever of the
spirit; and rising from his bed, felt the floor cool to his feet, and
drew his curtain aside; in a tender radiance of dawn he saw the barn,
deep in shadow, in the little garden; and over them a little wood-end
that he knew well by day--a simple place enough--but now it had a sort
of magical dreaming air; the mist lay softly about it like the breath
of sleep; and the trees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, seemed
to him to be full of silent prayer, or to be hiding within them some
divine secret that might not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked long
at this; and presently went back to his bed, and shivered in a
delicious warmth, while outside, very gradually, came the peaceful
stir of morning. A bird or two fluted drowsily in the bushes; then
another further away would join his slender song; a cock crew cheerily
in a distant grange, and soon it was broad day. Presently the house
began to be softly astir; and the faint fragrance of an early kindled
fire of wood stole into the room. Then, worn out by his long vigil, he
fell asleep again; and soon waking, knew it to be later than was his
wont, and dressed with haste. He came down, and heard voices in the
hall; he went in, and there saw Mistress Alison in her chair; and on
the hearth, talking gaily and cheerily, stood Mark the minstrel. They
made a pause when he came in. Mark extended his hand, which Paul took
with a kind of reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her sweet old
smile, said to Paul, "So you made a pilgrimage to the Well of the
Heart's Desire, dear Paul? Well, you have your wish, and very soon;
for here is a master for you, if you will serve him." "Not a light
service, Paul," said Mark gravely, "but a true one. I can take you
with me when you may go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a stroke
of the sun, and must bide at home awhile." They looked at Paul, to see
what he would say. "Oh, I will go gladly," he said, "if I may." And
then he felt he had not spoken lovingly; so he kissed Mistress Alison,
who smiled, but somewhat sadly, and said, "Yes, Paul--I understand."
So when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage was made ready, and he
kissed Mistress Alison--and then she said to Mark with a sudden look,
"You will take care of him?" "Oh, he shall be safe with me," said
Mark, "and if he be apt and faithful, he shall learn his trade, as few
can learn it." And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked away with
Mark; and his heart was so full of gladness that he stepped out
lightly and blithely, and hardly looked back. But at the turn of the
road he stopped, while Mark seemed to consider him gravely. The three
that were to abide, Mistress Alison, and the maid, and the old
gardener, stood at the door and waved their hands; the old house
seemed to look fondly out of its windows at him, as though it had a
heart; and the very trees seemed to wave him a soft farewell. Paul
waved his hand too, and a tear came into his eyes; but he was eager to
be gone; and indeed, in his heart, he felt almost jealous of even the
gentle grasp of his home upon his heart. And so Mark and Paul set out
for the south.
II
Of the life that Paul lived with Mark I must not here tell; but
before he grew to full manhood he had learned his art well. Mark was a
strict master, but not impatient. The only thing that angered him was
carelessness or listlessness; and Paul was an apt and untiring pupil,
and learnt so easily and deftly that Mark was often astonished. "How
did you learn that?" he said one day suddenly to Paul when the boy was
practising on the lute, and played a strange soft cadence, of a kind
that Mark had never heard. The boy was startled by the question, for
he had not thought that Mark was listening to him. He looked up with a
blush and turned his eyes on Mark. "Is it not right?" he said. "I did
not learn it; it comes from somewhere in my mind."
Paul learnt to play several instruments, both wind and string.
Sometimes he loved one sort the best, sometimes the other. The wind
instruments of wood had to him a kind of soft magic, like the voice of
a gentle spirit, a spirit that dwelt in lonely unvisited places, and
communed more with things of earth than the hearts of men. In the
flutes and bassoons seemed to him to dwell the voices of airs that
murmured in the thickets, the soft gliding of streams, the crooning of
serene birds, the peace of noonday, the welling of clear springs, the
beauty of little waves, the bright thoughts of stars. Sometimes in
certain modes, they could be sad, but it was the sadness of lonely
homeless things, old dreaming spirits of wind and wave, not the
sadness of such things as had known love and lost what they had loved,
but the melancholy of such forlorn beings as by their nature were shut
out from the love that dwells about the firelit hearth and the old
roofs of homesteads. It was the sadness of the wind that wails in
desolate places, knowing that it is lonely, but not knowing what it
desires; or the soft sighing of trees that murmur all together in a
forest, dreaming each its own dream, but with no thought of
comradeship or desire.
The metal instruments, out of which the cunning breath could draw
bright music, seemed to him soulless too in a sort, but shrill and
enlivening. These clarions and trumpets spoke to him of brisk morning
winds, or the cold sharp plunge of green waves that leap in triumph
upon rocks. To such sounds he fancied warriors marching out at
morning, with the joy of fight in their hearts, meaning to deal great
blows, to slay and be slain, and hardly thinking of what would come
after, so sharp and swift an eagerness of spirit held them; but these
instruments he loved less.
Best of all he loved the resounding strings that could be twanged by
the quill, or swept into a heavenly melody by the finger-tips, or
throb beneath the strongly drawn bow. In all of these lay the secrets
of the heart; in these Paul heard speak the bright dreams of the
child, the vague hopes of growing boy or girl, the passionate desires
of love, the silent loyalty of equal friendship, the dreariness of the
dejected spirit, whose hopes have set like the sun smouldering to his
fall, the rebellious grief of the heart that loses what it loves, the
darkening fears that begin to roll about the ageing mind, like clouds
that weep on mountain tops, and the despair of sinners, finding the
evil too strong.
Best of all it was when all these instruments could conspire together
to weave a sudden dream of beauty that seemed to guard a secret. What
was the secret? It seemed so near to Paul sometimes, as if he were
like a man very near the edge of some mountain from which he may peep
into an unknown valley. Sometimes it was far away. But it was there,
he doubted not, though it hid itself. It was like a dance of fairies
in a forest glade, which a man could half discern through the
screening leaves; but, when he gains the place, he sees nothing but
tall flowers with drooping bells, bushes set with buds, large-leaved
herbs, all with a silent, secret, smiling air, as though they said,
"We have seen, we could tell."
Paul seemed very near this baffling secret at times; in the dewy
silence of mornings, just before the sun comes up, when familiar woods
and trees stand in a sort of musing happiness; at night when the sky
is thickly sown with stars, or when the moon rises in a soft hush and
silvers the sleeping pool; or when the sun goes down in a rich pomp,
trailing a great glow of splendour with him among cloudy islands, all
flushed with fiery red. When the sun withdrew himself thus, flying and
flaring to the west, behind the boughs of leafless trees, what was the
hidden secret presence that stood there as it were finger on lip,
inviting yet denying? Paul knew within himself that if he could but
say or sing this, the world would never forget. But he could not yet.
Then, too, Paul learned the magic of words, the melodious accent of
letters, sometimes so sweet, sometimes so harsh; then the growing
phrase, the word that beckons as it were other words to join it
trippingly; the thought that draws the blood to the brain, and sets
the heart beating swiftly--he learned the words that sound like
far-off bells, or that wake a gentle echo in the spirit, the words
that burn into the heart, and make the hearer ashamed of all that is
hard and low. But he learned, too, that the craftsman in words must
not build up his song word by word, as a man fetches bricks to make a
wall; but that he must see the whole thought clear first, in a kind of
divine flash, so that when he turns for words to write it, he finds
them piled to his hand.
All these things Paul learnt, and day by day he suffered all the sweet
surprises and joys of art. There were days that were not so, when the
strings jangled aimlessly, and seemed to have no soul in them; days
when it appeared that the cloud could not lift, as though light and
music together were dead in the world--but these days were few; and
Paul growing active and strong, caring little what he ate and drank,
tasting no wine, because it fevered him at first, and then left him
ill at ease, knowing no evil or luxurious thoughts, sleeping lightly
and hardly, found his spirits very pure and plentiful; or if he was
sad, it was a clear sadness that had something beautiful within it,
and dwelt not on any past grossness of his own, but upon the thought
that all beautiful things can but live for a time, and must then be
laid away in the darkness and in the cold.
So Paul grew up knowing neither friendship nor love, only stirred at
the sight of a beautiful face, a shapely hand, or a slender form; by a
grateful wonder for what was so fair; untainted by any desire to
master it, or make it his own; living only for his art, and with a
sort of blind devotion to Mark, whom he soon excelled, though he knew
it not. Mark once said to him, when Paul had made a song of some old
forgotten sorrow, "How do you know all this, boy? You have not
suffered, you have not lived!" "Oh," said Paul gaily, knowing it to be
praise, "my heart tells me it is so."
Paul, too, as he grew to manhood, found himself with a voice that was
not loud, but true--a voice that thrilled those who heard it through
and through; but it seemed strange that he felt not what he made other
men feel; rather his music was like a still pool that can reflect all
that is above it, the sombre tree, the birds that fly over, the starry
silence of the night, the angry redness of the dawn.
It was on one of his journeys with Mark that the news of Mistress
Alison's death reached him. Mark told him very carefully and tenderly,
and while he repeated the three or four broken words in which Mistress
Alison had tried to send a last message to Paul--for the end had come
very suddenly--Mark himself found his voice falter, and his eyes fill
with tears. Paul had, at that sight, cried a little; but his life at
the House of Heritage seemed to have faded swiftly out of his
thoughts; he was living very intently in the present, scaling, as it
were, day by day, with earnest effort, the steep ladder of song. He
thought a little upon Mistress Alison, and on all her love and
goodness: but it was with a tranquil sorrow, and not with the grief
and pain of loss. Mark was very gentle with him for awhile; and this
indeed did shame Paul a little, to find himself being used so lovingly
for a sorrow which he was hardly feeling. But he said to himself that
sorrow must come unbidden, and that it was no sorrow that was made
with labour and intention. He was a little angered with himself for
his dullness--but then song was so beautiful, that he could think of
nothing else; he was dazzled.
A little while after, Mark asked him whether, as they were near at
hand, he would turn aside to see Mistress Alison's grave. And Paul
said, "No; I would rather feel it were all as it used to be!"--and
then seeing that Mark looked surprised and almost grieved, Paul, with
the gentle hypocrisy of childhood, said, "I cannot bear it yet," which
made Mark silent, and he said no more, but used Paul more gently than
ever.
One day Mark said to him, very gravely, as if he had long been
pondering the matter, "It is time for me to take another pupil, Paul.
I have taught you all I know; indeed you have learned far more than I
can teach." Then he told him that he had arranged all things meetly.
That there was a certain Duke who lacked a minstrel, and that Paul
should go and abide with him. That he should have his room at the
castle, and should be held in great honour, making music only when he
would. And then Mark would have added some words of love, for he loved
Paul as a son. But Paul seemed to have no hunger in his heart, no
thought of the days they had spent together; so Mark said them not.
But he added very gently, "And one thing, Paul, I must tell you. You
will be a great master--indeed you are so already--and I can tell you
nothing about the art that you do not know. But one thing I will tell
you--that you have a human heart within you that is not yet awake: and
when it awakes, it will be very strong; so that a great combat, I
think, lies before you. See that it overcome you not!" And Paul said
wondering, "Oh, I have a heart, but it is altogether given to song."
And so Mark was silent.
Then Paul went to the Duke's Castle of Wresting and abode with him
year after year. Here, too, he made no friend; he was gracious with
all, and of a lofty courtesy, so that he was had in reverence; and he
made such music that the tears would come into the eyes of those who
heard him, and they would look at each other, and wonder how Paul
could thus tell the secret hopes of the heart. There were many women
in the castle, great ladies, young maidens, and those that attended on
them. Some of these would have proffered love to Paul, but their
glances fell before a certain cold, virginal, almost affronted look,
that he turned to meet any smile or gesture that seemed to hold in it
any personal claim, or to offer any gift but that of an equal and
serene friendship. As a maiden of the castle once said, provoked by
his coldness, "Sir Paul seems to have everything to say to all of us,
but nothing to any one of us." He was kind to all with a sort of great
and distant courtesy that was too secure even to condescend. And so
the years passed away.
III
It was nearly noon at the Castle of Wresting, and the whole house
was deserted, for the Duke had ridden out at daybreak to the hunt; and
all that could find a horse to ride had gone with him; and, for it was
not far afield, all else that could walk had gone afoot. So bright and
cheerful a day was it that the Duchess had sent out her pavilion to be
pitched in a lawn in the wood, and the Duke with his friends were to
dine there; none were left in the castle save a few of the elder
serving-maids, and the old porter, who was lame. About midday,
however, it seemed that one had been left; for Paul, now a tall man,
strongly built and comely, yet with a somewhat dreamful air, as though
he pondered difficult things within himself, and a troubled brow,
under which looked out large and gentle eyes, came with a quick step
down a stairway. He turned neither to right nor left, but passed
through the porter's lodge. Here the road from the town came up into
the castle on the left, cut steeply in the hill, and you could see the
red roofs laid out like a map beneath, with the church and the bridge;
to the right ran a little terrace under the wall. Paul came through
the lodge, nodding gravely to the porter, who returned his salute with
a kind of reverence; then he walked on to the terrace, and stood for a
moment leaning against the low wall that bounded it; below him lay for
miles the great wood of Wresting, now all ablaze with the brave gold
of autumn leaves; here was a great tract of beeches all rusty red;
there was the pale gold of elms. The forest lay in the plain, here and
there broken by clearings or open glades; in one or two places could
be seen the roofs of villages, with the tower of a church rising
gravely among trees. On the horizon ran a blue line of downs, pure and
fine above the fretted gold of the forest. The air was very still,
with a fresh sparkle in it, and the sun shone bright in a cloudless
heaven; it was a day when the heaviest heart grows light, and when it
seems the bravest thing that can be designed to be alive.
Once or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came from the wood, very
far away, the faint notes of a horn; he smiled to hear it, and it
seemed as though some merry thought came into his head, for he beat
cheerfully with his fingers on the parapet. Presently he seemed to
bethink himself, and then walked briskly to the end of the terrace,
where was a little door in the wall; he pushed this open, and found
himself at the head of a flight of stone steps, with low walls on
either hand, that ran turning and twisting according to the slope of
the hill, down into the wood.
Paul went lightly down the steps; once or twice he turned and looked
up at the grey walls and towers of the castle, rising from the steep
green turf at their foot, above the great leafless trees--for the
trees on the slope lost their leaves first in the wind. The sight
pleased him, for he smiled again. Then he stood for a moment, lower
down, to watch the great limbs and roots of a huge beech that seemed
to cling to the slope for fear of slipping downwards. He came
presently to a little tower at the bottom that guarded the steps. The
door was locked; he knocked, and there came out an old woman with a
merry wrinkled face, who opened it for him with a key, saying, "Do you
go to the hunt, Sir Paul?" "Nay," he said, smiling, "only to walk a
little alone in the wood." "To make music, perhaps?" said the old
woman shyly. "Perhaps," said Paul, smiling, "if the music come--but it
will not always come for the wishing."
As Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, little by little his
fresh holiday mood died away, and there crept upon him a shadow of
thought that had of late been no stranger to him. He asked himself,
with some bitterness, what his life was tending to. There was no loss
of skill in his art; indeed it was easier to him than ever; he had a
rich and prodigal store of music in him, music both of word and sound,
that came at his call. But the zest was leaving him. He had attained
to his utmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more to
conquer. But as he looked round about him and saw all the beautiful
chains of love multiplying themselves about those among whom he lived,
he began to wonder whether he was not after all missing life itself.
He saw children born, he saw them growing up; then they, too, found
their own path of love, they married, or were given in marriage;
presently they had children of their own; and even death itself, that
carried well-loved souls into the dark world, seemed to forge new
chains of faith and loyalty. All this he could say and did say in his
music. He knew it, he divined it by some magical instinct; he could
put into words and sounds the secrets that others could not utter--and
there his art stopped. It could not bring him within the charmed
circle--nay, it seemed to him that it was even like a fence that kept
him outside. He looked forward to a time when his art of itself must
fade, when other minstrels should arise with new secrets of power; and
what would become of him then?
He had by this time walked very far into the wood, and as he came down
through a little rise, covered with leafy thickets, he saw before him
a green track, that wound away among the trees. He followed it
listlessly. The track led him through a beech wood; the smooth and
shapely stems, that stood free of undergrowth, thickly roofed over by
firm and glossy autumn foliage, with the rusty fallen floor of last
year's leaves underfoot, brought back to him his delight in the sweet
and fresh world--so beautiful, whatever the restless human heart
desired in its presence.
He became presently aware that he was approaching some dwelling, he
knew not what; and then the trees grew thinner; and in a minute he was
out in a little forest clearing, where stood, in a small and seemly
garden, enclosed with hedges and low walls and a moat, a forest lodge,
a long low ancient building, ending in a stone tower.
The place had a singular charm. The ancient battlemented house,
overgrown with ivy, the walls green and grey with lichens, seemed to
have sprung as naturally out of the soil as the trees among which it
stood, and to have become one with the place. He lingered for a moment
on the edge of the moat, looking at a little tower that rose out of
the pool, mirrored softly in the open spaces of the water, among the
lily-leaves. The whole place seemed to have a wonderful peace about
it; there was no sound but the whisper of leaves, and the doves
crooning, in their high branching fastnesses, a song of peace.
As Paul stood thus and looked upon the garden, a door opened, and
there came out a lady, not old, but well advanced in years, with a
shrewd and kindly face; and then Paul felt a sort of shame within him,
for standing and spying at what was not his own; and he would have
hurried away, but the lady waved her hand to him with a courtly air,
as though inviting him to approach. So he came forward, and crossing
the moat by a little bridge that was hard by, he met her at the gate.
He doffed his hat, and said a few words asking pardon for thus
intruding on a private place, but she gave him a swift smile and said,
"Sir Paul, no more of this--you are known to me, though you know me
not. I have been at the Duke's as a guest; I have heard you
sing--indeed," she added smiling, "I have been honoured by having been
made known to the prince of musical men--but he hath forgotten my poor
self; I am the Lady Beckwith, who welcomes you to her poor house--the
Isle of Thorns, as they call it--and will deem it an honour that you
should set foot therein; though I think that you came not for my
sake."
"Alas, madam, no," said Paul, smiling too. "I did but walk solitary in
the forest; I am lacking in courtesy, I fear; I knew not that there
was a house here, but it pleased me to see it lie like a jewel in the
wood."
"You knew not it was here, or you would have shunned it!" said the
Lady Beckwith with a smile. "Well, I live here solitary enough with my
daughters--my husband is long since dead--but to-day we must have a
guest--you will enter and tarry with us a little?"
"Yes, very willingly," said Paul, who, like many men that care not
much for company, was tenderly courteous when there was no escape. So
after some further passages of courtesy, they went within.
The Lady Beckwith led him into a fair tapestried room, and bade him be
seated, while she went to call upon her servants to make ready
refreshments for him. Paul seated himself in an oak chair and looked
around him. The place was but scantily furnished, but Paul had
pleasure in looking upon the old solid furniture, which reminded him
of the House of Heritage and of his far-off boyhood. He was pleased,
too, with the tapestry, which represented a wood of walnut-trees, and
a man that sate looking upon a stream as though he listened; and then
Paul discerned the figure of a brave bird wrought among the leaves,
that seemed to sing; while he looked, he heard the faint sound in a
room above of some one moving; then a lute was touched, and then there
rose a soft voice, very pure and clear, that sang a short song of long
sweet notes, with a descant on the lute, ending in a high drawn-out
note, that went to Paul's heart like wine poured forth, and seemed to
fill the room with a kind of delicate fragrance.
Presently the Lady Beckwith returned; and they sate and talked
awhile, till there came suddenly into the room a maiden that seemed to
Paul like a rose; she came almost eagerly forward; and Paul knew in
his mind that it was she that had sung; and there passed through his
heart a feeling he had never known before; it was as though it were a
string that thrilled with a kind of delicious pain at being bidden by
the touch of a finger to utter its voice.
"This is my daughter Margaret," said the Lady Beckwith; "she knows
your fame in song, but she has never had the fortune to hear you sing,
and she loves song herself."
"And does more than love it," said Paul almost tremblingly, feeling
the eyes of the maiden set upon his face; "for I heard but now a lute
touched, and a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that I know
could have sung it."
The maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul saw that she carried a
lute in her hand; and she said eagerly, "Will you not sing to us, Sir
Paul?"
"Nay," said the Lady Beckwith, smiling, "but this is beyond courtesy!
It is to ask a prince to our house, and beg for the jewels that he
wears."
The maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute by; but Paul stretched
out his hand for it. "I will sing most willingly," he said. "What is
my life for, but to make music for those who would hear?"
He touched a few chords to see that the lute was well tuned; and the
lute obeyed his touch like a living thing; and then Paul sang a song
of springtime that made the hearts of the pair dance with joy. When he
had finished, he smiled, meeting the smiles of both; and said, "And
now we will have a sad song--for those are ever the sweetest--joy
needs not to be made sweet."
So he sang a sorrowful song that he had made one winter day, when he
had found the body of a little bird that had died of the frost and the
hard silence of the unfriendly earth--a song of sweet things broken
and good times gone by; and before he had finished he had brought the
tears to the eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed them
aside--but the girl sate watching him, her hands together, and a kind
of worship in her face, with the bright tears, trembling on her
cheeks. And Paul thought he had never seen a fairer thing; but wishing
to dry the tears, he made a little merry song, like the song of gnats
that dance up and down in the sun, and love their silly play--so that
the two smiled again.
Then they thanked him very urgently, and Margaret said, "If only dear
Helen could hear this"; and the Lady Beckwith said, "Helen is my other
daughter, and she lies abed, and may not come forth."
Then they put food before him; and they ate together, Margaret
serving him with meat and wine; and Paul would have forbidden it, but
the Lady Beckwith said, "That is the way of our house--and you are our
guest and must be content--for Margaret loves to serve you." The girl
said little, but as she moved about softly and deftly, with the
fragrance of youth about her, Paul had a desire to draw her to him,
that made him ashamed and ill at ease. So the hours sped swiftly. The
maiden talked little, but the Lady Beckwith had much matter for little
speech; she asked Paul many questions, and told him something of her
own life, and how, while the good Sir Harry, her husband, lived, she
had been much with the world, but now lived a quiet life, "Like a
wrinkled apple-tree behind a house," she added with a smile, "guarding
my fruit, till it be plucked from the bough." And she went on to say
that though she had feared, when she entered the quiet life, the days
would hang heavy, yet there never seemed time enough for all the small
businesses that she was fain to do.
When the day began to fall, and the shadows of the trees out of the
forest began to draw nearer across the lawn, Paul rose and said,
"Come, I will sing you a song of farewell and thanks for this day of
pleasure," and he made them a cheerful ditty; and so took his leave,
the Lady Beckwith saying that they would speak of his visit for many
days--and that she hoped that if his fancy led him again through the
wood, he would come to them; "For you will find an open door, and a
warm hearth, and friends who look for you." So Paul went, and walked
through the low red sunset with a secret joy in his heart; and never
had he sung so merrily as he sang that night in the hall of the Duke;
so that the Duke said smiling that they must often go a-hunting, and
leave Sir Paul behind, for that seemed to fill him to the brim with
divine melody.
Now Paul that night, before he laid him down to sleep, stood awhile,
and made a prayer in his heart. It must be said that as a child he had
prayed night and morning, in simple words that Mistress Alison had
taught him, but in the years when he was with Mark the custom had died
away; for Mark prayed not, and indeed had almost an enmity to churches
and to priests, saying that they made men bound who would otherwise be
free; and he had said to Paul once that he prayed the best who lived
nobly and generously, and made most perfect whatever gift he had; who
was kind and courteous, and used all men the same, whether old or
young, great or little; adding, "That is my creed, and not the creed
of the priests--but I would not have you take it from me thus--a man
may not borrow the secret of another's heart, and wear it for his own.
All faiths are good that make a man live cleanly and lovingly and
laboriously; and just as all men like not the same music, so all men
are not suited with the same faith; we all tend to the same place, but
by different ways; and each man should find the nearest way for him."
Paul, after that, had followed his own heart in the matter; and it led
him not wholly in the way of the priests, but not against them, as it
led Mark. Paul took some delight in the ordered solemnities of the
Church, the dark coolness of the arched aisles, the holy smell--he
felt there the nearer to God. And to be near to God was what Paul
desired; but he gave up praying at formal seasons, and spoke with God
in his heart, as a man might speak to his friend, whenever he was
moved to speak; he asked His aid before the making of a song; he told
Him when he was disheartened, or when he desired what he ought not; he
spoke to Him when he had done anything of which he was ashamed; and he
told Him of his dreams and of his joys. Sometimes he would speak thus
for half a day together, and feel a quiet comfort, like a strong arm
round him; but sometimes he would be silent for a long while.
Now this night he spoke in his heart to God, and told Him of the sweet
and beautiful hope that had come to him, and asked Him to make known
to him whether it was His will that he should put forth his hand, and
gather the flower of the wood--for he could not even in his secret
heart bring himself that night to speak, even to God, directly about
the maiden; but, in a kind of soft reverence, he used gentle
similitudes. And then he leaned from his window, and strove to send
his spirit out like a bird over the sleeping wood, to light upon the
tower; and then his thought leapt further, and he seemed to see the
glimmering maiden chamber where she slept, breathing evenly. But even
in thought this seemed to him too near, as though the vision were
lacking in that awful reverence, which is the herald of love. So he
thought that his spirit should sit, like a white bird, on the
battlement, and send out a quiet song.
And then he fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly till the day came in
through the casements; when he sprang up, and joy darted into his
heart, as when a servitor fills a cup to the brim with rosy and
bubbling wine.
Now that day, and the next, and for several days, Paul thought of
little else but the house in the wood and the maiden that dwelt there.
Even while he read or wrote, pictures would flash before his eye. He
saw Margaret stand before him, with the lute in her hand; or he would
see her as she had moved about serving him, or he would see her as she
had sate to hear him sing, or as she had stood at the door as he went
forth--and all with a sweet hunger of the heart; till it seemed to him
that this was the only true thing that the world held, and he would be
amazed that he had missed it for so long. That he was in the same
world with her; that the air that passed over the house in the wood
was presently borne to the castle; that they two looked upon the same
sky, and the same stars--this was all to him like a delicate madness
that wrought within his brain. And yet he could not bring himself to
go thither. The greater his longing, the more he felt unable to go
without a cause; and yet the thought that there might be other men
that visited the Lady Beckwith, and had more of the courtly and
desirable arts of life than he, was like a bitter draught--and so the
days went on; and never had he made richer music; it seemed to rush
from his brain like the water of a full spring.
A few days after, there was a feast at the castle and many were
bidden; and Paul thought in his heart that the Lady Beckwith would
perhaps be there. So he made a very tender song of love to sing, the
song of a heart that loves and dares not fully speak.
When the hour drew on for the banquet, he attired himself with a care
which he half despised, and when the great bell of the castle rang, he
went down his turret stairs with a light step. The custom was for the
guests to assemble in the great hall of the castle; but they of the
Duke's household, of whom Paul was one, gathered in a little chamber
off the hall. Then, when the Duke and Duchess with their children came
from their rooms, they passed through this chamber into the hall, the
household following. When the Duke entered the hall, the minstrels in
the gallery played a merry tune, and the guests stood up; then the
Duke would go to his place and bow to the guests, the household moving
to their places; then the music would cease, and the choir sang a
grace, all standing. Paul's place was an honourable one, but he sate
with his back to the hall; and this night, as soon as he entered the
hall, and while the grace was sung, he searched with his eyes up and
down the great tables, but he could not see her whom he desired to
see, and the joy died out of his heart. Now though the Lords and
Knights of the castle honoured Paul because he was honoured by the
Duke, they had little ease with him; so to-night, when Paul took his
place, a Knight that sate next him, a shrewd and somewhat malicious
man, who loved the talk of the Court, and turned all things into a
jest, said, "How now, Sir Paul? You entered to-night full of joy; but
now you are like one that had expected to see a welcome guest and saw
him not." Then Paul was vexed that his thoughts should be so easily
read, and said with a forced smile, "Nay, Sir Edwin, we musical men
are the slaves of our moods; there would be no music else; we have not
the bold and stubborn hearts of warriors born." And at this there was
a smile, for Sir Edwin was not held to be foremost in warlike
exercise. But having thus said, Paul never dared turn his head. And
the banquet seemed a tedious and hateful thing to him.
But at last it wore to an end, and healths had been drunk, and grace
was sung; and then they withdrew to the Presence Chamber, where the
Duke and Duchess sate upon chairs of state under a canopy, and the
guests sate down on seats and benches. And presently the Duke sent
courteous word to Paul that if he would sing they would gladly hear
him. So Paul rose in his place and made obeisance, and then moved to a
dais which was set at the end of the chamber; and a page brought him
his lute. But Paul first made a signal to the musicians who were set
aloft in a gallery, and they played a low descant; and Paul sang them
a war-song with all his might, his voice ringing through the room.
Then, as the voice made an end, there was a short silence, such as
those who have sung or spoken from a full heart best love to hear--for
each such moment of silence is like a rich jewel of praise--and then a
loud cry of applause, which was hushed in a moment because of the
presence of the Duke.
Then Paul made a bow, and stood carelessly regarding the crowd; for
from long use he felt no uneasiness to stand before many eyes; and
just as he fell to touching his lute, his eye fell on a group in a
corner; the Lady Beckwith sate there, and beside her Margaret; behind
whom sate a young Knight, Sir Richard de Benoit by name, the fairest
and goodliest of all in the castle, whom Paul loved well; and he
leaned over and said some words in the maiden's ear, who looked round
shyly at him with a little smile.
Then Paul put out all his art, as though to recover a thing that he
had nearly lost. He struck a sweet chord on the lute, and the talk all
died away and left an utter silence; and Paul, looking at but one
face, and as though he spoke but to one ear, sang his song of love. It
was like a spell of magic; men and women turned to each other and felt
the love of their youth rise in their hearts as sweet as ever. The
Duke where he sate laid a hand upon the Duchess' hand and smiled. They
that were old, and had lost what they loved, were moved to
weeping--and the young men and maidens looked upon the ground, or at
the singer, and felt the hot blood rise in their cheeks. And Paul,
exulting in his heart, felt that he swayed the souls of those that
heard him, as the wind sways a field of wheat, that bends all one way
before it. Then again came the silence, when the voice ceased; a
silence into which the last chords of the lute sank, like stones
dropped into a still water. And Paul bowed again, and stepped down
from the dais--and then with slow steps he moved to where the Lady
Beckwith sate, and bowing to her, took the chair beside her.
Then came a tumbler and played many agile tricks before them; and
then a company of mummers, with the heads of birds and beasts, danced
and sported. But the Lady Beckwith said, "Sir Paul, I will tell you a
tale. A bird of the forest alighted at our window-sill some days ago,
and sang very sweetly to us--and we spread crumbs and made it a little
feast; and it seemed to trust us, but presently it spread its wings
and flew away, and it comes not again. Tell us, what shall we do to
tempt the wild bird back?" And Paul, smiling in her face, said, "Oh,
madam, the bird will return; but he leads, maybe, a toilsome life,
gathering berries, and doing small businesses. The birds, which seem
so free, live a life of labour; and they may not always follow their
hearts. But be sure that your bird knows his friends; and some day,
when he has opportunity, he will alight again. To him his songs seem
but a small gift, a shallow twittering that can hardly please." "Nay,"
said the Lady Beckwith, "but this was a nightingale that knew the
power of song, and could touch all hearts except his own; and thus,
finding love so simple a thing to win, doubtless holds it light."
"Nay," said Paul, "he holds it not light; it is too heavy for him; he
knows it too well to trifle with it."
Then finding that the rest were silent, they too were silent. And so
they held broken discourse; and ever the young Knight spoke in
Margaret's ear, so that Paul was much distraught, but dared not seem
to intervene, or to speak with the maiden, when he had held aloof so
long.
Presently the Lady Beckwith said she had a boon to ask, and that she
would drop her parables. And she said that her daughter Helen, that
was sick, had been very envious of them, because she had not heard his
songs, but only a soft echo of them through the chamber floor. "And
perhaps, Sir Paul," she said, "if you will not come for friendship,
you will come for mercy; and sing to my poor child, who has but few
joys, a song or twain." Then Paul's heart danced within him, and he
said, "I will come to-morrow." And soon after that the Duke went out
and the guests dispersed; and then Paul greeted the Lady Margaret, and
said a few words to her; but he could not please himself in what he
said; and that night he slept little, partly for thinking of what he
might have said: but still more for thinking that he would see her on
the morrow.
So when the morning came, Paul went very swiftly through the forest
to the Isle of Thorns. It was now turning fast to winter, and the
trees had shed their leaves. The forest was all soft and brown, and
the sky was a pearly grey sheet of high cloud; but a joy as of spring
was in Paul's heart, and he smiled and sang as he went, though he fell
at times into sudden silences of wonder and delight. When he arrived,
the Lady Beckwith greeted him very lovingly, and presently led him
into a small chamber that seemed to be an oratory. Here was a little
altar very seemly draped, with stools for kneeling, and a chair or
two. Near the altar, at the side, was a little door in the wall behind
a hanging; the Lady Beckwith pulled the hanging aside, and bade Paul
to follow; he found himself in a small arched recess, lit by a single
window of coloured glass, that was screened from a larger room, of
which it was a part, by a curtain. The Lady Beckwith bade Paul be
seated, and passed beyond the curtain for an instant. The room within
seemed dark, but there came from it a waft of the fragrance of
flowers; and Paul heard low voices talking together, and knew that
Margaret spake; in a moment she appeared at the entrance, and greeted
him with a very sweet and simple smile, but laid her finger on her
lips; and so slipped back into the room again, but left Paul's heart
beating strangely and fiercely. Then the Lady Beckwith returned, and
said in a whisper to Paul that it was a day of suffering for Helen,
and that she could not bear the light. So she seated herself near him,
and Paul touched his lute, and sang songs, five or six, gentle songs
of happy untroubled things, like the voices of streams that murmur to
themselves when the woods are all asleep; and between the songs he
spoke not, but played airily and wistfully upon his lute; and for all
that it seemed so simple, he had never put more art into what he
played and sang. And at last he made the music die away to a very soft
close, like an evening wind that rustles away across a woodland, and
moves to the shining west. And looking at the Lady Beckwith, he saw
that she had passed, on the wings of song, into old forgotten dreams,
and sate smiling to herself, her eyes brimming with tears. And then he
rose, and saying that he would not be tedious, put the lute aside, and
they went out quietly together. And the Lady Beckwith took his hand in
both her own and said, "Sir Paul, you are a great magician--I could
not believe that you could have so charmed an old and sad-hearted
woman. You have the key of the door of the land of dreams; and think
not that I am ungrateful; that you, for whose songs princes contend in
vain, should deign to come and sing to a maiden that is sick--how
shall I repay it?" "Oh, I am richly repaid," said Paul, "the guerdon
of the singer is the incense of a glad heart--and you may give me a
little love if you can, for I am a lonely man." Then they smiled at
each other, the smile that makes a compact without words.
Then they went down together, and there was a simple meal set out;
and they ate together like old and secure friends, speaking little;
but the Lady Beckwith told him somewhat of her daughter Helen, how she
had been fair and strong till her fifteenth year; and that since that
time, for five weary years, she had suffered under a strange and
wasting disease that nothing could amend. "But she is patient and
cheerful beneath it, or I think my heart would break;--but I know,"
she added, and her mouth quivered as she spoke, "that she can hardly
see another spring, and I would have her last days to be sweet. I
doubt not," she went on, "the good and wise purposes of God, and I
think that He often sends His bright angels to comfort her--for she is
never sad--and when you sing as you sang just now, I seem to
understand, and my heart says that it is well."
While they spoke the Lady Margaret came into the room, with a sudden
radiance; and coming to Paul she kneeled down beside him, and kissed
his hand suddenly, and said, "Helen thanks you, and I thank you, Sir
Paul, for giving her such joy as you could hardly believe."
There came a kind of mist over Paul's eyes, to feel the touch of the
lips that he loved so well upon his hand; but at the same time it
appeared to him like a kind of sin that he who seemed to himself, in
that moment, so stained and hard, should have reverence done him by
one so pure. So he raised her up, and said, "Nay, this is not meet";
and he would have said many other words that rushed together in his
mind, but he could not frame them right. But presently the Lady
Beckwith excused herself and went; and then Paul for a sweet hour
sate, and talked low and softly to the maiden, and threw such worship
into his voice that she was amazed. But he said no word of love. And
she told him of their simple life, and how her sister suffered. And
then Paul feared to stay longer, and went with a mighty and tumultuous
joy in his heart.
Then for many days Paul went thus to the Isle of Thorns--and the Lady
Margaret threw aside her fear of him, and would greet him like a
brother. Sometimes he would find her waiting for him at the gate, and
then the air was suddenly full of a holy radiance. And the Lady
Beckwith, too, began to use him like a son; but the Lady Helen he
never saw--only once or twice he heard her soft voice speak in the
dark room. And Paul made new songs for her, but all the time it was
for Margaret that he sang.
And they at the castle wondered why Sir Paul, who used formerly to sit
so much in his chamber, now went so much abroad. But he guarded his
secret, and they knew not whither he went; only he saw once, from
looks that passed between two of the maidens, that they spoke of him;
and this in times past might have made him ashamed, but now his heart
was too high, and he cared not.
There came a day when Paul, finding himself alone with the Lady
Beckwith, opened his heart suddenly to her; but he was checked, as it
were, by a sudden hand, for there came into her face a sad and
troubled look, as though she blamed herself for something. Then she
said to him, faltering, that she knew not what to say, for she could
not read her daughter's heart--"and I think, Sir Paul," she added,
"that she hath no thought of love--love of the sort of which you
speak. Nay, the maiden loves you well, like a dear brother; she smiles
at your approach, and runs to meet you when she hears your step at the
door"; and then seeing a look of pain and terror in the face of Paul,
she said, "Nay, dear Paul, I know not. God knows how gladly I would
have it so, but hearts are very strangely made; yet you shall speak if
you will, and I will give you my prayers." And then she stooped to
Paul, and kissed his brow, and said, "There is a mother's kiss, for
you are the son of my heart, whatever befall."
So presently the maiden came in, and Paul asked her to walk a little
with him in the garden, and she went smiling; and then he could find
no words at all to tell her what was in his heart, till she said,
laughing, that he looked strangely, and that it seemed he had nought
to say. So Paul took her hand, and told her all his love; and she
looked upon him, smiling very quietly, neither trembling nor amazed,
and said that she would be his wife if so he willed it, and that it
was a great honour; "and then," she added, "you need not go from us,
but you can sing to Helen every day." Then he kissed her; and there
came into his heart a great wave of tenderness, and he thanked God
very humbly for so great a gift. Yet he somehow felt in his heart that
he was not yet content, and that this was not how he had thought it
would fall out; but he also told himself that he would yet win the
maiden's closer love, for he saw that she loved not as he loved. Then
after a little talk they went together and told the Lady Beckwith, and
she blessed them; but Paul could see that neither was she content, but
that she looked at Margaret with a questioning and wondering look.
Then there followed very sweet days. It was soon in the springtime of
the year; the earth was awaking softly from her long sleep, and was by
gentle degrees arraying herself for her summer pomp. The primroses put
out yellow stars about the tree roots; the hyacinths carpeted the
woods with blue, and sent their sweet breath down the glade; and Paul
felt strange desires stir in his heart, and rise like birds upon the
air; and when he walked with the Lady Margaret among the copses, or
rested awhile upon green banks, where the birds sang hidden in the
thickets, his heart made continual melody, and rose in a stream of
praise to God. But they spoke little of love; at times Paul would try
to say something of what was in his mind; but the Lady Margaret heard
him, sedately smiling, as though she were pleased that she could give
him this joy, but as though she understood not what he said. She loved
to hear of Paul's life, and the places he had visited. And Paul, for
all his joy, felt that in his love he was, as it were, voyaging on a
strange and fair sea alone, and as though the maiden stood upon the
shore and waved her hand to him. When he kissed her or took her hand
in his own, she yielded to him gently and lovingly, like a child; and
it was then that Paul felt most alone. But none the less was he happy,
and day after day was lit for him with a golden light.
IV
One day there came a messenger for Paul, and brought him news that
made him wonder: the House of Heritage had fallen, on Mistress
Alison's death, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. This man,
who was without wife or child, had lived there solitary, and it seemed
that he was now dead; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paul
should wish to redeem the house and land for a price, he should have
the first choice to do so, seeing his boyhood had been spent there.
Now Paul was rich, for he had received many great gifts and had spent
little; and there came into his heart a great and loving desire to
possess the old house. He told the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this,
and they both advised him to go and see it. So Paul asked leave of the
Duke, and told him his business. Then the Duke said very graciously
that Paul had served him well, and that he would buy the house at his
own charges, and give it to Paul as a gift; but he added that this was
a gift for past service, and that he would in no way bind Paul; but he
hoped that Paul would still abide in the castle, at least for a part
of the year, and make music for them. "For indeed," said the Duke very
royally, "it were not meet that so divine a power should be buried in
a rustic grange, but it should abide where it can give delight.
Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not only delight! but through your music there
flows a certain holy and ennobling grace into the hearts of all who
attentively hear you, and tames our wild and brutish natures into
something worthier and more seemly." Then Paul thanked the Duke very
tenderly, and said that he would not leave him.
So Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at-arms, whom the Duke sent
with him for his honour and security; and when he arrived at the
place, he lodged at the inn. He found the House of Heritage very
desolate, inhabited only by the ancient maid of Mistress Alison, now
grown old and infirm. So Paul purchased the house and land at the
Duke's charges, and caused it to be repaired, within and without, and
hired a gardener to dress and keep the ground. He was very impatient
to be gone, but the matter could not be speedily settled; and though
he desired to return to Wresting, and to see Margaret, of whom he
thought night and day, yet he found a great spring of tenderness rise
up in his heart at the sight of the old rooms, in which little had
been changed. The thought of his lonely and innocent boyhood came back
to him, and he visited all his ancient haunts, the fields, the wood,
and the down. He thought much, too, of Mistress Alison and her wise
and gracious ways; indeed, sitting alone, as he often did in the old
room at evening, it seemed to him almost as though she sate and
watched him, and was pleased to know that he was famous, and happy in
his love; so that it appeared to him as though she gave him a
benediction from some far-off and holy place, where she abode and was
well satisfied.
Then at last he was able to return; but he had been nearly six weeks
away. He had moved into the house and lived there; and it had filled
him with a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he would some day,
when he was free, live there with Margaret for his wife; and perhaps
there would be children too, making the house sweet with their
laughter and innocent games--children who should look at him with eyes
like their mother's. Long hours would pass thus while he sate holding
a book or his lute between his hands, the time streaming past in a
happy tide of thoughts.
But the last night was sad, for he had gone early to his bed, as he
was to start betimes in the morning; and he dreamed that he had gone
through the wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the house stand
empty and shuttered close, with no signs of life about it. In his
dream he went and beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in the
hall; and just as he was about to beat again, it was opened to him by
an old small woman, that looked thin and sad, with grey hair and many
wrinkles, whom he did not know. He had thrust past her, though she
seemed to have wished to stay him; and pushing on, had found Margaret
sitting in the hall, who had looked up at him, and then covered her
face with her hands, and he had seen a look of anguish upon her face.
Then the dream had slipped from him, and he dreamed again that he was
in a lonely place, a bleak mountain-top, with a wide plain spread out
beneath; and he had watched the flight of two white birds, which
seemed to rise from the rocks near him, and fly swiftly away, beating
their wings in the waste of air.
He woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping through the chinks of
the shutter; and soon he heard the tramping of horses without, and
knew that he must rise and go. And the thought of the dream dwelt
heavily with him; but presently, riding in the cool air, it seemed to
him that his fears were foolish; and his love came back to him, so
that he said the name Margaret over many times to himself, like a
charm, and sent his thoughts forward, imagining how Margaret, newly
risen, would be moving about the quiet house, perhaps expecting him.
And then he sang a little to himself, and was pleased to see the old
man-at-arms smile wearily as he rode beside him.
Three days after he rode into the Castle of Wresting at sundown, and
was greeted very lovingly; the Duke would not let him sing that night,
though Paul said he was willing; but after dinner he asked him many
questions of how he had fared. And Paul hoped that he might have heard
some talk of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and he dared
not ask. One thing that he noticed was that at dinner the young Sir
Richard de Benoit sate opposite him, looking very pale; and Paul, more
than once, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight was regarding him
very fixedly, as though he were questioning of somewhat; and that each
time Sir Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. After
dinner was over, and Paul had been discharged by the Duke, he had gone
back into the hall to see if he could have speech of Sir Richard, and
ask if anything ailed him; but he found him not.
Then on the morrow, as soon as he might, he made haste to go down to
the Isle of Thorns. As he was crossing a glade, not far from the
house, he saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure riding on
a horse, who seemed for a moment to be Sir Richard himself. He stood
awhile to consider, and then, going down the glade, he cried out to
him. Sir Richard, who was on a white horse, drew rein, and turned with
his hand upon the loins of the horse; and then he turned again, and,
urging the horse forward, disappeared within the wood. There came, as
it were, a chill into Paul's heart that he should be thus unkindly
used; and he vexed his brain to think in what he could have offended
the Knight; but he quickly returned to his thoughts of love; so he
made haste, and soon came down to the place.
Now, when he came near, he thought for a moment of his dream; and
shrank back from stepping out of the trees at the corner whence he
could see the house; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, he went
swiftly out, and saw the house stand as before, with the trees all
delicate green behind it, and the smoke ascending quietly from the
chimneys.
Then he made haste; and--for he was now used to enter unbidden--went
straight into the house; the hall and the parlours were all empty; so
that he called upon the servants; an old serving-maid came forth, and
then Paul knew in a moment that all was not well. He looked at her for
a moment, and a question seemed to be choked in his throat; and then
he said swiftly, "Is the Lady Beckwith within?" The old serving-maid
said gravely, "She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick." Then Sir
Paul bade her tell the Lady Beckwith that he was in the house; and as
he stood waiting, there came a kind of shame into his heart, that what
he had heard was so much less than what he had for an instant feared;
and while he strove to be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stood
before him, very pale. She began to speak at once, and in a low and
hurried voice told him of Helen's illness, and how that there was
little to hope; and then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, "My
son, why did you leave us?" adding hastily, "Nay, it could not have
been otherwise." And Paul, looking upon her face, divined in some
sudden way that she had not told him all that was in her mind. So he
said, "Dear mother, you know the cause of that--but tell me all, for I
see there is more behind." Then the Lady Beckwith put her face in her
hands, and saying, "Yes, dear Paul, there is more," fell to weeping
secretly. While they thus stood together--and Paul was aware of a
deadly fear that clutched at his heart and made all his limbs
weak--the Lady Margaret came suddenly into the room, looking so pale
and worn that Paul for a moment did not recognise her. But he put out
his arms, and took a step towards her; then he saw that she had not
known he was in the house; for she turned first red and then very
pale, and stepped backwards; and it went to Paul's heart like the
stabbing of a sharp knife, that she looked at him with a look in which
there was shame mingled with a certain fear.
Now while Paul stood amazed and almost stupefied with what he saw,
the Lady Beckwith said quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, "Go
back to Helen--she may not be left alone." Margaret slipped from the
room; and the Lady Beckwith pointed swiftly to a chair, and herself
sate down. Then she said, "Dear Paul, I have dreaded this moment and
the sight of you for some days--and though I should wish to take
thought of what I am to say to you, and to say it carefully, it makes
an ill matter worse to dally with it--so I will even tell you at once.
You must know that some three days after you left us, the young Knight
Sir Richard de Benoit fell from his horse, when riding in the wood
hard by this house, and was grievously hurt by the fall. They carried
him in here and we tended him. I had much upon my hands, for dear
Helen was in great suffering; and so it fell out that Margaret was
often with the Knight--who, indeed, is a noble and generous youth,
very pure and innocent of heart--and oh, Paul, though it pierces my
heart to say it, he loves her--and I think that she loves him too. It
is a strange and terrible thing, this love! it is like the sword that
the Lord Christ said that He came to bring on earth, for it divides
loving households that were else at one together; and now I must say
more--the maiden knew not before what love was; she had read of it in
the old books; and when you came into this quiet house, bringing with
you all the magic of song, and the might of a gentle and noble spirit,
and offered her love, she took it gladly and sweetly, not knowing what
it was that you gave; but I have watched my child from her youth up,
and the love that she gave you was the love that she would have given
to a brother--she admired you and reverenced you. She knew that
maidens were asked and given in marriage, and she took your love, as a
child might take a rich jewel, and love the giver of it. And, indeed,
she would have wedded you, and might have learned to love you in the
other way. But God willed it otherwise; and seeing the young Knight,
it was as though a door was opened in her spirit, and she came out
into another place. I am sure that no word of love has passed between
them; but it has leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire; and all
this I saw too late; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard how matters
stood; and he is an honourable youth; for from that moment he sought
how he might be taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of the
maid. But his misery I could see; and she is no less miserable; for
she has a very pure and simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflict
with herself; yet will she hold to her word.
"And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the matter lies in your
hands. She is yours, if you claim her; but her heart cannot be yours
awhile, though you may win it yet. It is true that both knights and
maidens have wedded, loving another; yet they have learned to love
each other, and have lived comfortably and happily; but whether,
knowing what I have been forced to tell you, you can be content that
things should be as before, I know not."
Then the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat her hands together,
watching Paul's face; Paul sate very still and pale, all the light
gone out of his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And at the
sight of him the tears came into Lady Beckwith's eyes, and she could
not stay them. And Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her,
but could not; and clasping the arms of his chair, said hoarsely, "I
cannot let her go." So they sate awhile in silence; and then Paul rose
and said, "Dear lady, you have done well to tell me this--I know deep
down in my heart what a brave and noble thing you have done: but I
cannot yet believe it--I will see the Lady Margaret and question her
of the matter." Then the lady said, "Nay, dear Paul, you will not--you
think that you would do so; but you could not speak with her face to
face of such a matter, and she could not answer you. You must think of
it alone, and to-morrow you must tell me what you decide; and
whichever way you decide it, I will help you as far as I can." And
then she said, "You will pity me a little, dear Paul, for I had rather
have had a hand cut off than have spoken with you thus." And these
simple words brought Paul a little to himself, and he rose from his
place and kissed the Lady Beckwith's hand, and said, "Dear mother, you
have done well; but my sorrow is greater than I can bear." And at that
the Lady Beckwith wept afresh; but Paul went out in a stony silence,
hardly knowing what he did.
Then it seemed to Paul as though he went down into deep waters indeed,
which passed cold and silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul.
He did not contend or cry out; but he knew that the light had fallen
out of his life, and had left him dark and dead.
So he went slowly back to the castle through the wood, hating his
life and all that he was; once or twice he felt a kind of passion rise
within him, and he said to himself, "She is pledged to me, and she
shall be mine." And then there smote upon him the thought that in
thinking thus he was rather brute than man. And he fell at last into
an agony of prayer that God would lead him to the light, and show him
what he should do. When he reached the castle he put a strong
constraint upon himself; he went down to the hall; he even sang; but
it was like a dream; he seemed to be out of the body, and as it were
to see himself standing, and to hear the words falling from his own
lips. The Duke courteously praised him, and said that he was well
content to hear his minstrel again.
As he left the hall, he passed through a little ante-room, that was
hung with arras, on the way to his chamber; and there he saw sitting
on a bench, close to the door that led to the turret stair, the young
Knight, Sir Richard; and there rose in his heart a passion of anger,
so strong that he felt as though a hand were laid upon his heart,
crushing it. And he stood still, and looked upon the Knight, who
raised so pale and haggard a face upon him, that Paul, in spite of his
own misery, saw before him a soul as much or more vexed than his own;
and then the anger died out of his heart, and left in him only the
sense of the bitter fellowship of suffering; the Knight rose to his
feet, and they stood for a moment looking at each other; and then the
Knight said, pale to the lips, "Sir Paul, we are glad to welcome you
back--I have heard of the Duke's gift, and rejoice that your
inheritance should thus return to you." And Paul bowed and said, "Ay,
it is a great gift; but it seems that in finding it I have lost a
greater." And then, seeing the Knight grow paler still, if that were
possible, he said, "Sir Richard, let me tell you a parable; there was
a little bird of the wood that came to my window, and made me glad--so
that I thought of no other thing but my wild bird, that trusted me:
and while I was absent, one hath whispered it away, and it will not
return." And Sir Richard said, "Nay, Sir Paul, you are in this unjust.
What if the wild bird hath seen its mate? And, for you know not the
other side of the parable, its mate hath hid itself in the wood, and
the wild bird will return to you, if you bid it come."
Then Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had done worthily and like a
true knight, said, "Sir Richard, I am unjust; but you will pardon me,
for my heart is very sore." And so Paul passed on to his chamber; and
that night was a very bitter one, for he went down into the sad valley
into which men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. And once
in the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered from his bed, and twitching
the curtain aside, saw the forest lie sleeping in the cold light of
the moon; and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, and he saw
the four hearts that were made desolate; and he questioned in his
heart why God had made the hard and grievous thing that men call love.
Then he went back and fell into a sort of weary sleep; and waking
therefrom, he felt a strange and terrible blackness seize upon his
spirit, so that he could hear his own heart beat furious and thick in
the darkness; and he prayed that God would release him from the prison
of the world. But while he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatter
on the pavement, it being now near the dawn; and presently there came
a page fumbling to the door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith,
and it ran:--
_"I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless my need
were urgent; but the dear Helen is near her end, and has
prayed me many times that, if it were possible, you should
come and sing to her--for she fears to go into the dark, and
says that your voice can give her strength and hope. Now if
it be possible, come; but if you say nay to my messenger, I
shall well understand it. But the dear one hath done you no
hurt, and for the love of the God who made us, come and
comfort us--from her who loves you as a son, these."_
Then Paul when he had read, pondered for awhile; and then he said to
the page, "Say that I will come." So he arrayed himself with haste,
and went swiftly through the silent wood, looking neither to left or
to right, but only to the path at his feet. And presently he came to
the Isle of Thorns; it lay in a sort of low silver mist, the house
pushing through it, as a rock out of the sea. And then a sudden chill
came over Paul, and the very marrow of his bones shuddered; for he
knew in his heart that this was nothing but the presaging of death;
and he thought that the dreadful angel stood waiting at the door, and
that presently the spirit of one that lay within must arise, leaving
the poor body behind, and go with the angel.
In the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a light behind a curtain;
and Paul saw a form pass slowly to and fro. And he would fain have
pitied the two who must lose her whom they loved; but there passed
over his spirit a sort of bitter wind; and he could feel no pity for
any soul but his own, and his heart was dry as dust; he felt in his
mind nothing but a kind of dumb wonder as to why he had troubled
himself to come.
There must have been, he saw, a servant bidden to await his coming,
because, as his feet sounded on the flags, the door was opened to him;
and in a moment he was within the hall. At the well-known sights and
scents of the place, the scene of his greatest happiness, the old
aching came back into his stony heart, and grief, that was like a
sharp sword, thrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, a door opened,
and Margaret came into the hall; she saw him in a moment; and he
divined that she had not known he was within, but had meant only to
pass through; for she stopped short as though irresolute, and looked
at him with a wild and imploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in a
trap.
In a moment there flowed into Paul's heart a great pity and
tenderness, and a strength so wonderful that he knew it was not his
own, but the immortal strength of God. And he stepped forward,
forgetting all his own pain and misery, and said, "Margaret, dear one,
dear sister, what is the shadow that hath fallen between us at this
time? I would not," he went on, "speak of ourselves at such an hour as
this; but I see that there is somewhat--we minstrels have a power to
look in the heart of those we love--and I think it is this--that you
can love me, dear one, as a brother, and not as a lover. Well, I am
content, and so it shall be. I love you too well, little one, to
desire any love but what you can give me--so brother and sister we
will be." Then he saw a light come into her face, and she murmured
words of sorrow that he could not hear; but he put his arm about her
as a brother might, and kissed her cheek. And then she put her hands
upon his shoulder, and her face upon them, and broke out into a
passion of weeping. And Paul, saying "Even so," kissed and comforted
her, as one might comfort a child, till she looked up, as if to
inquire somewhat of him. And he said smiling, "So this is my dear
sister indeed--yes, I will be content with that--and now take me to
the dear Helen, that I may see if my art can comfort her." Then it was
very sweet to Paul's sore heart that she drew her arm within his own
and led him up from the room. Then there came in haste the Lady
Beckwith down to meet them, with a look of pain upon her face; and
Paul said, still smiling, "We are brother and sister henceforth." Then
the Lady Beckwith smiled too out of her grief and said, "Oh, it is
well."
Then they passed together through the oratory and entered the chamber
of death. And then Paul saw a heavenly sight. The room was a large
one, dim and dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, sate a
maiden like a lily--so frail and delicate that she seemed like a pure
spirit, not a thing of earth. She sate with a hand upraised between
her and the fire; and when Paul came in, she looked at him with a
smile in which appeared nothing but a noble patience, as though she
had waited long; but she did not speak. Then they drew a chair for
Paul, and he took his lute, and sang soft and low, a song of one who
sinks into sweet dreams, when the sounds of day are hushed--and
presently he made an end. Then she made a sign that Paul should
approach, and he went to her, and kneeled beside her, and kissed her
hand. And Margaret came out of the dark, and put her hand on Paul's
shoulder saying, "This is our brother." And Helen smiled in Paul's
face--and something, a kind of heavenly peace and love, seemed to pass
from her eyes and settle in Paul's heart; and it was told him in that
hour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom he had loved, and
that he had loved Margaret for her sake; and that moment seemed to
Paul to be worth all his life that had gone before, and all that
should go after. So he knelt in the silence; and then in a moment, he
knew not where or whence, the whole air seemed full of a heavenly
music about them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the very soul
and essence of the music of earth. But Helen laid her head back, and,
smiling still, she died. And Paul laid her hand down.
Then without a word he rose, and went from the chamber; and he
stepped out into the garden, and paced there wondering; he saw the
trees stand silent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in their
dewy beds. And he knew that God was very near him; he put all his
burdens and sorrows, his art, and all himself within the mighty hands;
and he knew that he could never doubt again of the eternal goodness
and the faithful tender love of the Father. And all the while the dawn
slowly brightened over the wood, and came up very slowly and
graciously out of the east. Then Paul gave word that he must return to
the castle, but would come back soon. And as he mounted the steps, he
saw that there was a man pacing on the terrace above, and knew that it
was the Knight Richard, whom he sought. So he went up on the terrace,
and there he saw the young Knight looking out over the forest; Paul
went softly up to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and the
Knight turned upon him a haggard and restless eye. Then Paul said,
"Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns--but I have more to say
to you. You are a noble Knight and have done very worthily--and I
yield to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we are brother
and sister, and nought else, now and henceforth." Then Sir Richard, as
though he hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his face; and
Paul took his hand very gently in both his own, and said, "Yes, it is
even so--and we will be brothers too." Then he went within the
castle--and lying down in his chamber he slept peacefully like a
little child.
V
Many years have passed since that day. First Sir Richard wedded the
Lady Margaret, and dwelt at the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born to
them, whom they named Paul, and a daughter whom they called Helen. And
Paul was much with them, and had great content. He made, men said,
sweeter music than ever he had done, in those days. Then the Duke
died; and Paul, though his skill failed not, and though the King
himself would have had him to his Court, went back to the House of
Heritage, and there dwelt alone, a grave and kindly man, very simple
of speech, and loving to walk and sit alone. And Sir Richard and the
Lady Margaret bought an estate hard by and dwelt there.
Now Paul would make no more music, save that he sometimes played a
little on the lute for the pleasure of the Lady Margaret; but he took
into his house a boy whom he taught the art; and when he was trained
and gone into the world, to make music of his own, Paul took
another--so that as the years went on, he had sent out a number of his
disciples to be minstrels; so his art was not lost; and one of these,
who was a very gracious child named Percival, he loved better than the
rest, because he saw in him that he had a love for the art more than
for all the rewards of art. And once when they sate together, the boy
Percival said, "Dear sir, may I ask you a question?" "A dozen, if it
be your will," said Paul, smiling; "but, dear child, I know not if I
can answer it." Then the boy said, "Why do you not make more music,
dear sir? for it seems to me like a well that holds its waters close
and deep, and will not give them forth." Then Paul said, smiling,
"Nay, I have given men music of the best. But there are two reasons
why I make no more; and I will tell you them, if you can understand
them. The first is that many years ago I heard a music that shamed me;
and that sealed the well." Then the boy said, musing, "Tell me the
name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I have heard that you were
ever the first." Then Paul said, "Nay, I know not the name of the
maker of it." Then the boy said, smiling, "Then, dear sir, it must
have been the music of the angels." And Paul said, "Ay, it was that."
Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused, touching
his lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, "And the second
reason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that
_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can make
no new thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers of
age the dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane and
unholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily;
it is as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, and
put into it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I think
that those who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker for
the praise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that is
unworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, and
have nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. So
hearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I could
attain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in the
hand of God, and that He would give it as men needed it; but that my
own work was done. For each man must decide for himself when to make
an end. And further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and for
all that follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, so
vain of it, that we think there is nought else in the world. Into that
error I fell, and therein abode. But we are in this world like little
children at school. God has many fair things to teach us, but we grow
to love our play, and to think of nought else, so that the holy
lessons fall on unheeding ears; but now I have put aside my play, and
sit awhile listening to the voice of God, and to all that He may teach
me; and the lesson is hard to spell; but I wait upon Him humbly and
quietly, till He call me hence. And now we have talked enough, and we
will go back to our music; and you shall play me that passage over,
for you played it not deftly enough before."
Now it happened that a few days later Paul in his sleep dreamed a
dream; and when he woke, he could scarce contain his joy; and the boy
Percival, seeing him in the morning, marvelled at the radiance that
appeared in his face; and a little later Paul bade him go across the
fields to the Lady Margaret's house, and to bid her come to him, if
she would, for he had something that he must tell her, and he might
not go abroad. So Percival told the Lady Margaret; and she wondered at
the message, and asked if Sir Paul was sick. And the boy said, "No, I
never saw him so full of joy--so that I am afraid."
Then the Lady Margaret went to the House of Heritage; and Paul came
to greet her at the door, and brought her in, and sate for awhile in
silence, looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now a very comely
and sedate lady, and had held her son's child in her arms; and Paul
was a grey-haired man; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he had
known. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, "Dear Margaret, I have
bidden you come hither, for I think I am called hence; and when I
depart, and I know not when it may be, I would close my eyes in the
dear house where I was nurtured." Then she looked at him with a sudden
fear, but he went on, "Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of late of
Helen--she stands smiling in a glory, and looks upon me. But this last
night I saw more. I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a high
and heavenly music; and then I saw Helen stand, but she stood not
alone; she held by the hand a child, who smiled upon me; and the child
was like herself; but I presently discerned that the child had a look
of myself as well; and she loosed the child's hand from her own, and
the child ran to me and kissed me; and Helen seemed to beckon me; and
then I passed into sleep again. But now I see the truth. The love that
I bear her hath begotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hath
never known a mortal birth; and the twain wait for me." And Margaret,
knowing not what to say, but feeling that he had seen somewhat high
and heavenly, sate in silence; and presently Paul, breaking out of a
muse, began to talk of the sweet days of their youth, and of the
tender mercies of God. But while he spoke, he suddenly broke off, and
held up his hand; and there came a waft of music upon the air. And
Paul smiled like a tired child, and lay back in his chair; and as he
did so a string of the lute that lay beside him broke with a sweet
sharp sound. And the Lady Margaret fell upon her knees beside him, and
took his hand; and then she seemed to see a cloudy gate, and two that
stood together--a fair woman and a child; and up to the gate, out of a
cloud, came swiftly a man, like one that reaches his home at last; and
the three went in at the gate together, hand in hand;--and then the
music came once again, and died upon the air.
THE ISLES OF SUNSET
About midway between the two horns of the bay, the Isles of Sunset
pierced the sea. There was deep blue water all around them, and the
sharp and fretted pinnacles of rock rose steeply up to heaven. The top
of the largest was blunt, and covered with a little carpet of grass
and sea-herbs. The rest were nought but cruel spires, on which no foot
but that of sea-birds could go. At one place there was a small creek,
into which a boat might be thrust, but only when the sea was calm; and
near the top of the rock, just over this, was the dark mouth of a
little cave.
The bay in which the Isles lay was quite deserted; the moorland came
to the edge of the cliffs, and through a steep and rocky ravine, the
sides of which were overgrown with ferns and low trees, all brushed
landward by the fierce winds, a stream fell hoarsely to the sea,
through deep rock-pools. The only living things there were the wild
birds, the moorfowl in the heather, hawks that built in the rock face,
and pigeons that made their nest in hollow places. Sometimes a stag
pacing slowly on the cliff-top would look over, but that was seldom.
Yet on these desolate and fearful rocks there dwelt a man, a hermit
named David. He had grown up as a fisher-boy in the neighbouring
village--an awkward silent boy with large eyes which looked as though
they were full of inward dreams. The people of the place were
Christians after a sort, though it was but seldom that a priest came
near them; and then only by sea, for there was no road to the place.
But David as a boy had heard a little of the Lord Christ, and of the
bitter sacrifice He made for men; and there grew up in his heart a
great desire to serve Him, and he prayed much in his heart to the
Lord, that He would show him what he might do. He had no parents
living. His mother was long dead, and his father had been drowned at
sea. He lived in the house of his uncle, a poor fisherman with an
angry temper, where he fared very hardly; for there were many mouths
to feed, and the worst fell to the least akin. But he grew up handy
and active, with strong limbs and a sure head; and he was well worth
his victual, for he was a good fisherman, patient of wind and rain;
and he could scale the cliff in places where none other dared go, and
bring down the eggs and feathers of the sea-birds. So they had much
use of him, and gave him but little love in return. When he was free
of work, the boy loved to wander alone, and he would lie on the
heather in the warm sun, with his face to the ground, drinking in the
fragrant breath of the earth, and praying earnestly in his heart to
the Lord, who had made the earth so fair and the sea so terrible. When
he came to man's estate, he had thoughts of making a home of his own,
but his uncle seemed to need him--so he lingered on, doing as he was
bid, very silent, but full of his own thoughts, and sure that the Lord
would call him when He had need of him; one by one the children of the
family grew up and went their ways; then his uncle's wife died, and
then at last one day, when he was out fishing with his uncle, there
came a squall and they beat for home. But the boat was overset and his
uncle was drowned; and David himself was cast ashore in a wonderful
manner, and found himself all alone.
Now while he doubted what he should do, he dreamed a dream that
wrought powerfully in his mind. He thought that he was walking in the
dusk beside the sea, which was running very high, when he saw a light
drawing near to him over the waves. It was not like the light of a
lantern, but a diffused and pale light, like the moon labouring in a
cloud. The sea began to abate its violence, and then David saw a
figure coming to him, walking, it seemed, upon the water as upon dry
land, sometimes lower, sometimes higher, as the waves ran high or low.
He stopped in a great wonder to watch the approach of the figure, and
he saw that it was that of a young man, going very slowly and
tranquilly, and looking about him with a gentle and smiling air of
command. All about him was a light, the source of which David could
not see, but he seemed like a man walking in the light of an open
window, when all around is dark. As he came near, David saw that he
was clad in a rough tunic of some dark stuff, which was girt up with a
girdle at the waist. His head and his feet were bare. Yet though he
seemed but poorly clad, he had the carriage of a great prince, whose
power none would willingly question. But the strangest thing was that
the sea grew calm before his feet, and though the wind was blowing
fiercely, yet it did not stir the hair, which fell somewhat long on
his shoulders, or so much as ruffle his robe. And then there came into
David's head a verse of Scripture where it says, "_What manner of man
is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?_" And then the
answer came suddenly into David's mind, and he knelt down where he was
upon the beach, and waited in a great and silent awe; and presently
that One drew near, and in some way that David did not understand, for
he used no form of speech, his eyes made question of David's soul, and
seemed to read its depths. And then at last He spoke in words that He
had before used to a fisherman beside another sea, and said very
softly, "Follow Me." But He said not how He should be followed; and
presently He seemed to depart in a shining track across the sea, till
the light that went with Him sank like a star upon the verge. Then in
his dream David was troubled, and knew not how to follow; till he
thought that it might be given him, as it was given once to Peter, to
walk dry-shod over the depth; but when he set foot upon the water
there broke so furious a wave at him, that he knew not how to follow.
So he went back and kneeled upon the sand, and said aloud in his
doubt, "What shall I do, Lord?" and as the words sounded on his tongue
he awoke.
Then all that day he pondered how he should find the Lord; for he
knew that though he had a hope in his heart, and though he leaned much
upon God, yet he had not wholly found Him yet. God was sometimes with
him and near to him, but sometimes far withdrawn; and then, for he was
a very simple man, he said to himself, "I will give myself wholly to
the search for my Lord. I will live solitary, and I will fix my mind
upon Him"; for he thought within himself that his hard life, and the
cares of the household in which he had dwelt, had been what had
perhaps kept him outside; and therefore he thought that God had taken
these cares away from him. And so he made up his mind.
Then he cast about where he had best dwell; and he thought of the
Isles of Sunset as a lonely place, where he might live and not be
disturbed. There was the little cave high up in the rock-face, looking
towards the land, to which he had once scrambled up. This would give
him shelter; and there were moreover some small patches of earth, near
the base of the rock, where he could grow a few herbs and a little
corn. He had some money of his own, which would keep him until his
garden was grown up; and he could fish, he thought, from the rocks,
and find shell-fish and other creatures of the sea, which would give
him meat.
So the next day he bought a few tools that he thought he would need,
and rowed all over when it was dusk. He put his small stores in a cave
by the water's edge. The day after, he went and made a few farewells;
he told no one where he was going; but it pleased him to find a little
love for him in the hearts of some. One parting was a strangely sore
one: there was an old and poor woman that lived very meanly in the
place, who had an only granddaughter, a little maid. These two he
loved very much, and had often done them small kindnesses. He kept
this good-bye to the last, and went to the house after sundown. The
old woman bade him sit down, and asked him what he meant to do, now
that he was alone. "I am going away, mother," he said gently. The
child, hearing this, came over the room from where she sate, and said
to him, "No, David, do not go away." "Yes, dear child," he said, "I
must even go." Then she said, "But where will you go? May I not come
to see you sometimes?" and she put her small arms round his neck, and
laid her cheek to his. Then David's heart was very full of love, and
he said, smiling, and with his arm round the child, "Dear one, I must
not say where I am going--and it is a rough place, too, not fit for
such tender little folk as you; but, if I can, I will come again and
see you." Then the old grandmother, looking upon him very gravely,
said, "Tell me what is in your mind." But he said, "Nay, mother, do
not ask me; I am going to a place that is near and yet far; and I am
going to seek for one whom I know not and yet know; and the way is
long and dark." Then she forbore to ask him more, and fell to
pondering sadly; so after they had sate awhile, he rose up and loosed
the child's arms from him, kissing her; and the tears stood in his
eyes; and he thought in himself that God was very wise; for if he had
had a home of his own, and children whom he loved, he could never have
found it in his heart to leave them. So he went out.
Then he climbed up the steep path that led to the downs, and so to
the bay where the Isles lay. And just as he reached the top, the moon
ran out from a long bank of cloud; and he saw the village lie beneath
him, very peaceful in the moonlight; there were lights in some of the
windows; the roofs were silvered in the clear radiance of the moon,
and the shadows lay dark between. He could see the little streets,
every inch of which he knew, and the port below. He could see the
coast stretch away to the east, headland after headland, growing
fainter; and the great spaces of the sea, with the moon glittering on
the waves. There was a holy and solemn peace about it all; and though
his life had not been a happy one there, he knew in a flash that the
place was very dear to his heart, and he said a prayer to God, that He
would guard and cherish the village and those that dwelt there. Then
he turned, and went on to the downs; and presently descended by a
steep path to the sea, through the thickets. He took off his clothes,
and tied them in a pack on his back; and then he stepped quietly into
the bright water, which lapped very softly against the shore, a little
wave every now and then falling gently, followed by a long rustling of
the water on the sand, and a silence till the next wave fell. He waded
on till he could swim, and then struck out to where the Isles stood,
all sharp and bright in the moon. He swam with long quiet strokes,
hearing the water ripple past; and soon the great crags loomed out
above him, and he heard the waves fall among their rocky coves. At
last he felt the ground beneath his feet; and coming out of the water
he dressed himself, and then--for he would not venture on the cliffs
in the uncertain light--gathering up some dried weeds of the sea, he
made a pillow for his head and slept, in a wonderful peace of mind,
until the moon set; and not long after there came a pale light over
the sea in the east, brightening slowly, until at last the sun, like a
fiery ball, broke upwards from the sea; and it was day.
Now when David awoke in the broad daylight, he found himself full of
a great joy and peace. He seemed, as it were, to have leaped over a
wide ditch, and to see the world across it. Now he was alone with God,
and he had put all the old, mean, hateful life away from him. It did
not even so much as peep into his mind that he would have to endure
many hardships of body, rain, and chilly winds, a bed of rock, and
fare both hard and scanty. This was not what had troubled him in the
old days. What had vexed his heart had been unclean words and deeds,
greediness, hardness, cruel taunts, the lack of love, and the meanness
and baseness of the petty life. All that was behind him now; he felt
free and strong, and while he moved about to spy out his new kingdom,
he sang loudly to himself a song of praise. The place pleased him
mightily; over his head ran up the cliff with its stony precipices and
dizzy ledges. The lower rocks all fringed with weeds, like sea-beasts
with rough hair, stood out black from the deep blue water that lay
round the rocks. He loved to hear the heavy plunge of the great waves
around his bastions, the thin cries of the sea-birds that sailed about
the precipice, or that lit on their airy perches. Everywhere was a
brisk sharp scent of the sea, and the fresh breeze, most unlike the
close sour smell of the little houses. He felt himself free and strong
and clean, and he thought of all the things he would say to God in the
pleasant solitude, and how he would hear the low and far-off voice of
the Father speaking gently with his soul.
His first care was to find the cave that was to shelter him. He spent
the day in climbing very carefully and lightly all over the face of
the rock. Never had he known his hand so strong, or his head so sure.
He sate for a time on a little ledge, to which he had climbed on the
crag face, and he feasted his eyes upon the sight of the great cliffs
of the mainland that ran opposite him, to left and right, in a wide
half-circle. His eyes dwelt with pleasure upon the high sloping
shoulders of rock, on which the sun now shone very peacefully, the
strip of moorland at the top, the brushwood growing in the sloping
coves, the clean shingle at the base of the rocks, and the blue sky
over all. That was the world as God had made it, and as He intended it
to be; it was only men who made it evil, huddling together in their
small and filthy dens, so intent on their little ugly lives, their
food and drink and wicked ways.
Presently he found the cave-mouth, and noted in his mind the best way
thither. The cave seemed to him a very sweet place; the mouth was all
fringed with little ferns; inside it was dry and clean; and in a few
hours he had disposed all his small goods within it. There was a low
slope, on one side of the rocks, where the fern grew plentifully. He
gathered great armfuls of the dry red stalks, and made himself a
rustling bed. So the day wore pleasantly away. One of his cares was to
find water; but here it seemed that God blessed him very instantly,
for he found a place near the sea, where a little spring soaked cool
out of the rock, with a pleasant carpet of moss and yellow flowers. He
found, too, some beds of shell-fish, which he saw would give him food
and bait for his fishing. So about sundown he cast a line from the end
of the rocks and presently caught a fish, a ling, which lives round
rocky shores. This he broiled at a small fire of driftwood, for he had
brought tinder with him; and it pleased him to think of the meal that
the Apostles took with the risen Christ, a meal which He had made for
them, and to which He Himself called them; for that, too, was a
broiled fish, and eaten by the edge of the sea. Also he ate a little
of the bread he had brought with him; and with it some of a brisk
juicy herb, called samphire, that sprouted richly in the cliff, which
gave his meat an aromatic savour; and with a drink of fresh spring
water he dined well, and was content; then he climbed within the cave,
and fell asleep to the sound of the wind buffeting in the cliff, and
the fall of great waves on the sea beaches.
Now I might make a book of all the things that David saw and did on
the islands, but they were mostly simple and humble things. He fared
very hard, but though he often wondered how he would find food for the
next day, it always came to him; and he kept his health in a way which
seemed to him to be marvellous; indeed he seemed to himself to be both
stronger in body and lighter in spirit than he had ever been before.
He both saw and heard things that he could not explain. There were
sounds the nature of which he could not divine; on certain days there
was a far-off booming, even when the waves seemed still; at times,
too, there was a low musical note in the air, like the throbbing of a
tense string of metal; once or twice he heard a sound like soft
singing, and wondered in his heart what creature of the sea it might
be that uttered it. On stormy nights there were sad moans and cries,
and he often thought that there were strange and unseen creatures
about him, who hid themselves from sight, but whose voices he
certainly heard; but he was never afraid. One night he saw a very
beautiful thing; it had been a still day, but there was an anxious
sound in the wind which he knew portended a storm; he was strangely
restless on such days, and woke many times in the night: at last he
could bear the silence of the cave no more, and went out, descending
swiftly by the rocks, the path over which he could have now followed
blindfold, down to the edge of the sea. Then he saw that the waves
that beat against the rock were all luminous, as though lit with an
inner light; suddenly, far below, how deep he knew not, he saw a great
shoal of fish, some of them very large, coming softly round the rocks;
the water, as it touched their blunt snouts, burst as it were into
soft flame, and showed every twinkle of their fins and every beat of
their tails. The shoal came swiftly round the rocks, swimming
intently, and it seemed as though there was no end of them. But at
last the crowd grew thinner and then ceased; but he could still see
the water rippling all radiant in the great sea-pools, showing the
motion of broad ribbons of seaweed that swayed to and fro, and
lighting up odd horned beasts that stirred upon the ledges. From that
day forth he was often filled with a silent wonder at all the
sleepless life that moved beneath the vast waters, and that knew
nothing of the little human lives that fretted themselves out in the
thin air above. That day was to him like the opening of a door into
the vast heart of God.
But for all his happiness, the thought weighed upon him, day after
day, of all the grief and unhappiness that there was about him. A
dying bird that he found in a pool, and that rolled its filmy eye upon
him in fear, as if to ask why he must disturb it in its last sad
languid hour, the terror in which so many of the small fish abode--he
saw once, when the sea was clear, a big fish dart like a dark shadow,
with open mouth and gleaming eye, on a little shoal of fishes that
sported joyfully in the sun; they scattered in haste, but they had
lost their fellows--all this made him ponder; but most of all there
weighed on his heart the thought of the world he had left, of how men
spoke evil of each other, and did each other hurt; of children whose
lot was to be beaten and cursed for no fault, but to please the cruel
temper of a master; of patient women, who had so much to bear--so that
sometimes he had dark thoughts of why God made the world so fair, and
then left so much that was amiss, like a foul stream that makes a
clear pool turbid. And there came into his head a horror of taking the
lives of creatures for his own use--the shell-worm that writhed as he
pulled it from the shell; the bright fish that came up struggling and
gasping from the water, and that fought under his hand--and at last he
made up his mind that he would take no more life, though how he would
live he knew not; and as for the world of men, he became very desirous
to help a little as best he could; and there being at this time a
wreck in the bay, when a boat and all on board were lost, he thought
that he would wish, if he could, to keep a fire lit on dark nights, so
that ships that passed should see that there was a dwelling there, and
so keep farther away from the dangerous rocks.
By this time it had become known in the country where he was--his
figure had been seen several times from the cliffs; and one day there
had come a boat, with some of those that knew him, to the island. He
had no wish to mix again with men; but neither did he desire to avoid
them, if it was God's will that they should come. So he came down
courteously, and spoke with the master of the boat, who asked him very
curiously of his life and all that he did. David told him all; and
when the master asked him why he had thus fled away from the world,
David said simply that he had done so that he might pray to God in
peace. Then the master said that there were many waking hours in the
day, and he knew not what there might be to say prayers about, "for,"
he said, "you have no book to make prayers out of, like the priests,
and you have no store of good-sounding words with which to catch the
ear of God." Then David said that he prayed to God to guard all things
great and small, and to help himself along the steep road to heaven.
Then the master wondered very much, and said that a man must please
himself, and no doubt it was a holy work. Then he asked a little
shamefacedly for David to pray for him, that he might be kept safe
from shipwreck, and have good fortune for fishing, to which David
replied, "Oh, I do that already."
Before the master went away, and he stayed not long, he asked David
how he lived, and offered him food. And David being then in a
strait--for he had lately vowed to take no life, said gladly that he
would have anything they could give him. So the master gave him some
victual. And it happened, just at this time, that some of the boats
from the village had a wonderful escape from a storm, and through that
season they caught fish in abundance; so it was soon noised abroad
that this was all because of David's prayers; and after that he never
had need of food, for they brought him many little presents, such as
eggs, fruit, and bread--for he would take no meat--giving them into
his hands when he was on the lower rocks, or leaving them on a ledge
in the cove when he was aloft. And as, when the fish were plenteous,
they gave him food in gratitude, and when fish were scarce, they gave
it him even more abundantly that they might have his prayers, David
was never in lack; in all of which he saw the wonderful hand of God
working for him.
Now David pondered very much how he might keep a light aloft on
dangerous nights.
His first thought was to find a sheltered place among the rocks to
seaward, where his fire could burn and not be extinguished by the
wind; but, though he climbed all about the rocks, he could find no
place to his mind. One day, however, he was in the furthest recess of
his cave, when he felt that among the rocks a little thin wind blew
constantly from one corner; and feeling about with his hands, he found
that it came out of a small crack in the rocks. The stone above it
seemed to be loose; and he perceived after a while that the end of the
cave must be very near to the seaward face of the crag, and that the
cave ran right through the rock, and was only kept from opening on the
outer side by a thin barrier of stone; so after several attempts,
using all his strength, he worked the stone loose; and then with a
great effort, he thrust the stone out; it fell with a great noise,
leaping among the crags, and at last plunging into the sea. The wind
rushed in through the gap; then he saw that he had, as it were, a
small window looking out to sea, so small that he could not pass
through it, but large enough to let a light shine forth, if there were
a light set there; but though it seemed again to him like the guiding
hand of God, he could not devise how he should shelter the light
within from the wind. Indeed the hole made the cave a far less
habitable place for himself, for the wind whistled very shrewdly
through; he found it easy enough to stop the gap with an old
fisherman's coat--but then the light was hidden from view. So he tried
a further plan; he dug a hole in the earth at the top of the cliff,
and then made a bed of dry sand at the bottom of it; and he piled up
dry seaweed and wood within, thinking that if he lit his beacon there,
it might be sheltered from the wind, and would burn fiercely enough to
throw up the flame above the top of the pit. He saw that heavy rain
would extinguish his fire; but the nights were most dangerous when it
blew too strongly for rain to fall. So one night, when the wind blew
strongly from the sea, he laid wood in order, which he had gathered on
the land, and conveyed with many toilsome journeys over to the island.
Then he lighted the pile, but it was as he feared; the wind blew
fiercely over the top, and drove the flames downward, so that the pit
glowed with a fierce heat; and sometimes a lighted brand was caught up
and whirled over the cliffs; but he saw plainly enough that the light
would not show out at sea. He was very sad at this, and at last went
heavily down to his cave, not knowing what he should do; and pondering
long before he slept, he could see no way out.
In the morning he went up to the cliff-top again, and turned his
steps to the pit. The fire had burned itself out, but the sides were
still warm to the touch; all the ashes had been blown by the force of
the wind out of the hole; but he saw some bright things lie in the
sand, which he could not wholly understand, till he pulled them out
and examined them carefully. They were like smooth tubes and lumps of
a clear stuff, like molten crystal or frozen honey, full of bubbles
and stains, but still strangely transparent; and then, though he saw
that these must in some way have proceeded from the burning of the
fire, he felt as though they must have been sent to him for some wise
reason. He turned them over and over, and held them up to the light.
It came suddenly into his mind how he would use these heavenly
crystals; he would make, he thought, a frame of wood, and set these
jewels in the frame. Then he would set this in the hole of his cave,
and burn a light behind; and the light would thus show over the sea,
and not be extinguished.
So this after much labour he did; he fitted all the clear pieces into
the frame, and he fixed the frame very firm in the hole with wooden
wedges. Then he pushed clay into the cracks between the edges of the
frame and the stone. Then he told some of those who came to him that
he had need of oil for a purpose, and they brought it him in
abundance, and wicks for a lamp; and these he set in an earthen bowl
filled with oil, and on a dark night, when all was finished, he lit
his lamp; and then clambered out on the furthest rocks of the island,
and saw his light burn in the rocks, not clearly, indeed, but like an
eye of glimmering fire. Then he was very glad at heart, and he told
the fishermen how he had found means to set a light among the cliffs,
and that he would burn it on dark and stormy nights, so that they
might see the light and avoid the danger. The tidings soon spread, and
they thought it a very magical and holy device; but did not doubt that
the knowledge of it was given to David by God.
So David was in great happiness. For he knew that the Father had
answered his prayer, and allowed him, however little, to help the
seafaring folk.
He made other things after that; he put up a doorway with a door of
wood in the entering of the cave; he made, too, a little boat that he
might go to and fro to the land without swimming. And now, having no
care to provide food, for they brought it him in abundance, he turned
his mind to many small things. He made a holy carving in the cave, of
Christ upon the Cross--and he carved around it a number of creatures,
not men only, but birds and beasts, looking to the Cross, for he
thought that the beasts also should have their joy in the great
offering. His fame spread abroad; and there came a priest to see him,
who abode with him for some days, prayed with him, and taught him much
of the faith. The priest gave him a book, and showed him the letters;
but David, though he longed to read what was within, could not hold
the letters in his head.
He tamed, too, the wild birds of the rock, so that they came to his
call; one was a gull, which became so fearless that it would come to
his cave, and sit silent on a rock, watching him while he worked. He
kept a fish, too, in a pool of the rocks, that would rise to the edge
when he approached.
But all this time he went not near to the village; for his solitude
had become very dear to him, and he prayed continually; and at evening
and morning and midday he would sing praises to God, simple words that
he had made.
One morning he awoke in the cave, and as he bestirred himself he
thought in his heart of all his happiness. It was a still morning, but
the sky was overcast. Suddenly he heard voices below him; and thinking
that he was needed, he descended the rocks quickly, and came down a
little way from a group of sailors who were standing on the shore;
there was a boat drawn up on the sand, and near at hand there lay at
anchor a small ship, that seemed to be of a foreign gear, and larger
than he was wont to see. He came somewhat suddenly upon the group, and
they seemed, as it were, to be amazed to see a man there. He went
smilingly towards them, but as he did so there came into his heart a
feeling of danger, he knew not what; and he thought that it would be
better to retire up the rocks to his cave, and wait till the men had
withdrawn--for it was not likely that they would visit him there, or
that even if they saw the way thither, they would adventure it, as it
was steep and dangerous. But he put the thought away and came up to
them. They seemed to be conferring together in low voices, and the
nearer that he drew, the less he liked their look. He spoke to them,
but they seemed not to understand, and answered him back very roughly
in a tongue he did not understand. But presently they put one forward,
an old man, who had some words of English, who asked him what he did
there. He tried to explain that he lived on the island, but the old
man shook his head, evidently not believing that there could be one
living in so bare a place. Then the men conferred again together, and
presently the old man asked him, in his broken speech, whether he
would take service on the ship with them. David said, smiling, that he
would not, for he had other work to do; and the old man seemed to try
and persuade him, saying that it was a good service; that they lived a
free life, wandering where they would; but that they had lost men
lately, and were hardly enough to sail the ship.
Then it came into David's mind that he had fallen in with pirates.
They were not often seen in these parts, for there was little enough
that they could get, the folk being all poor, and small traffic
passing that way. And then, for he saw the group beginning to gather
round him, he made a prayer in his heart that he should be delivered
from the evil, and made proffer to the men of the little stores that
he had. The old man shook his head, and spoke with the others, who now
seemed to be growing angry and impatient; and then he said to David
that they had need of him to help to sail the ship, and that he must
come whether he would or no. David cast a glance round to see if he
could escape up the rocks; but the men were all about him, and seeing
in his eye that he thought of flight, they laid hands upon him. David
resisted with all his might, but they overpowered him in a moment,
bound his hands and feet, and cast him with much force into their
boat. Then David was sorely disheartened; but he waited, committing
his soul to God. While he waited, he saw a strange thing; on the beach
there lay a box, tightly corded; the men raised this up very gently,
and with difficulty, as it seemed to be heavy. Then they carried it up
above the tide-mark; and, making a hole among the loose stones, they
buried it very carefully, casting stones over it. Then one of them
with a chisel made a mark on the cliff behind, to show where the box
lay--and then, first looking carefully out to sea, they came into the
boat, and rowed off to the ship, which seemed almost deserted; paying
no more heed to David than if he had been a log of wood.
The old man who understood English steered the boat; and David tried
to say some words to him, to ask that he should be released; but the
old man only shook his head; and at last bade David be silent with
great anger. They rowed slowly out, and David could see the great
rocks, that had now been his home so long, rising, still and peaceful,
in the morning light. Every rock and cranny was known to him. There
was the place where, when he first came, he was used to fish. There
was the cliff-top where he had made his fire; he could even see his
little window in the front of the rocks, and he thought with grief
that it would be dark and silent henceforth. But he thought that he
was somehow in the hand of God; and that though to be dragged away
from his home seemed grievous, there must be some task to which the
Father would presently set him, even if it were to go down to death;
and though the cords that bound him were now very painful, and his
heart was full of sorrow, yet David felt a kind of peace in his spirit
which showed him that God was still with him.
When they got to the ship, there arose a dispute among the men as to
whether they should run out to sea before it was dark, or whether they
should lie where they were; there was but little wind, so they made up
their minds to stay. David himself thought from the look of the sky
that there was strong weather brewing. The old man who spoke English
asked him what he thought, and he told him that there would be wind.
He seemed to be disposed to believe David; but the men were tired, and
it was decided to stay.
They had unbound David that he might go on board; and the pain in his
hands and feet was very great when the bonds were unloosed; and when
he was on board they bound him again, but not so tightly, and led him
down into a cabin, close and dirty, where a foul and smoky lamp burnt.
They bade him sit in a corner. The low ill-smelling place was very
grievous to David, and he thought with a sore heart of his clean cold
cave, and his bed of fern. The men seemed to take no further heed of
him, and went about preparing a meal. There seemed to be little
friendliness among them; they spoke shortly and scowled upon each
other; and David divined that there had been some dispute aboard, and
that they were ill-content. There was little discipline, the men going
and coming when they would.
Before long a meal was prepared; some sort of a stew with a rich
strong smell, that seemed very gross and foul to David, who had been
used so long to his simple fare. The men came in and took from the
dish what they desired; and a large jar was opened, which from its
fierce smell seemed to contain a hot and fiery spirit; and that it was
so David could easily discern, from the flushed faces and louder talk
of the men, which soon became mingled with a gross merriment. The old
man brought a mess of the food to David, who shook his head smiling.
Then the other, with more kindness than David had expected, asked if
he would have bread; and fetched him a large piece, unbinding his
hands for a little, that he might eat. Then he offered him some of the
spirit; but David asked for water, which the old man gave him, binding
his hands after he had drunk, with a certain gentleness.
Presently the old man, after he too had eaten, came and sate down
beside David; and in his broken talk seemed to wish to win him, if he
could, to join them more willingly. He spoke of the pleasant life they
lived, and of the wealth that they made, though he said not how they
came by it. He told him that he had seen some of it hidden that day,
which they had done for greater security, so that, if the ship should
be cast away, the men might have some of their spoil waiting for them;
and David understood from him, though he had but few words to explain
it, that it had been that which had caused a strife among them. For
they had come by the treasure very hardly, and they had lost some of
the crew in so doing it--and some of the men had desired to share it,
and have done with the sea for ever; but that it had been decided to
make another voyage first.
Then David said very gently that he did not desire to join them, for
he was a man of peace; and he told him of his lonely life, and how he
made a light to keep ships off the dangerous coast; and at that the
old man looked at him with a fixed air, and nodded his head as though
he had himself heard of the matter, or at least seen the light--all
this David told him, speaking slowly as to a child; but it seemed as
though every minute the remembrance of the language came more and more
back to the old man.
But at last the man shook his head, and said that he was sorry so
peaceful a life must come to an end. But, indeed, David must go with
them whether he would or no; and that they would be good comrades yet;
and he should have his share of whatever they got. And then he left
David and went on to the deck.
Then there fell a great despair upon David; and at the same time the
crew, excited by the drink they had taken, for they drained the jar,
began to dispute among themselves, and to struggle and fight; and one
of them espied David, and they gathered round and mocked him. They
mocked at his dress, his face, his hair, which had grown somewhat
long. And one of them in particular seemed most urgent, speaking long
to the others, and pointing at David from time to time, while the
others fell into a great laughter. Then they fell to plucking his
hair, and even to beating him--and they tried to force the spirit into
his mouth, but he kept his teeth clenched; and the very smell of the
fiery stuff made his brain sick. But he could not stir hand or foot;
and presently there came into his mind a great blackness of anger, so
that he seemed to be in the very grip of the evil one; and he knew in
his heart that if he had been unbound, he would have slain one or more
of them; for his heart beat thick, and there came a strange redness
into his sight, and he gnashed his teeth for rage; at which they
mocked him the more. But at last the old man came down into the cabin,
and when he saw what they were at, he spoke very angrily to them,
stamping his foot; and it seemed as though he alone had any authority,
for they left off ill-using David, and went from him one by one.
Then, after a while they began to nod in their places; one or two of
them cast themselves into beds made in the wall; others fell on the
floor, and slept like beasts; and at last they all slept; and last of
all the old man came in again, bearing a lamp, and looked round the
room in a sort of angry disgust. Then he said a word to David, and
opening a door went on into a cabin beyond, closing the door behind
him.
Then, in the low light of the smoking lamp, and in the hot and reeking
room, with the foul breathing of the sleepers round him, David spent a
very dreadful hour. He had never in the old days seen so ill a scene;
and it was to him, exhausted by pain and by rage, as if a dark thing
came behind him, and whispered in his secret ear that God regarded not
men at all, and that the evil was stronger than the good, and
prevailed. He tried to put the thought away; but it came all the more
instantly, that what he had seen could not be, if God had indeed power
to rule. It was not only the scene itself, but the thought of what
these men were, and the black things they had doubtless done, the
deeds of murder, cruelty, and lust that were written plainly on all
their faces; all these came like dark shadows and gathered about him.
David stirred a little to ease himself of his pain and stiffness; and
his foot struck against a thing. He looked down, and saw in the shadow
of the table a knife lying, which had fallen from some man's belt. A
thought of desperate joy came into his mind. He bent himself down with
his bound hands, and he contrived to gather up the knife. Then, very
swiftly and deftly, he thrust the haft between his knees; then he
worked the rope that bound his hands to and fro over the blade; the
rope parted, and the blood came back into his numbed fingers with a
terrible pain. But David heeded it not, and stooping down, he cut the
cord that bound his feet; then he rose softly, and sate down again;
for the blood, returning to his limbs, made him feel he could not
stand yet awhile. All was still in the cabin, except for the slow
breathing of those that slept; save that every now and then one of the
sleepers broke into a stifled cry, and muttered words, or stirred in
his sleep.
Presently David felt that he could walk. He pondered for a moment
whether he should take the knife, if he were suddenly attacked; but he
resisted the thought, and left the knife lying on the ground.
Then stepping lightly among the sleepers, he moved like a shadow to
the door; very carefully he stepped; and at each movement or muttered
word he stopped and caught his breath. Suddenly one of the men rose
up, leaning on his arm, and looked at him with a stupid stare; but
David stood still, waiting, with his heart fit to break within his
breast, till the man lay down again. Then David was at the door. The
cabin occupied half the ship to the bows; the rest was undecked, with
high bulwarks; a rough ladder of steps led to the gangway. David stood
for a moment in the shadow of the door; but there seemed no one on the
watch without. The pure air and the fresh smell of the sea came to his
senses like a breath of heaven. He stepped swiftly over a coil of
rope; then up the ladder, and plunged noiselessly into the sea.
He swam a few strokes very strongly; and then he looked about him. The
night was as dark as pitch. He could see a dim light from the ship
behind him; the water rose and fell in a slow heavy swell; but which
way the land lay he could not tell. But he said to himself that it was
better to drown and be certainly with God, than in the den of robbers
he had left. So he turned himself round in the water, trying to
remember where the shore lay, but it was all dark, both the sky and
sea, with a pitchy blackness; only the lights of the ship glimmered
towards him like little bright paths across the heaving tide.
Suddenly there came a thing so wonderful that David could hardly
believe he saw truly; a bright eye of light, as it were, opened upon
him in the dark, far off, and hung high in the heavens, like a quiet
star. The radiance of it was like the moon, cold and clear. And though
David could not at first divine whence it came, he did not doubt in
his heart that it was there to guide him; so he struck out towards it,
with long silent strokes. He swam for a long time, the light shining
softly over the water, and seeming to rise higher over his head, while
the glimmering of the ship's lights grew fainter and more murky behind
him. Then he became aware that he was drawing near to the land; great
dark shapes loomed up over his head, and he heard the soft beating of
waves before him. Then he could see too, as he looked upon the light,
that there was a glimmer around it; and he saw that it came from the
edges and faces of rocks that were lit up by the radiance. So he swam
more softly; and presently his foot struck a rock covered with weed;
so he put his feet down, waded in cautiously, and pulling himself up
by the hands found himself on a rocky shore, and knew that it was his
own island.
Then the light above him, as though it had but waited for his safety
to be secured, died softly away, like the moon gliding into a cloud.
David wondered very much at this, and cast about in his mind how it
might be; but his heart seemed to tell him that there was some holy
and beautiful thing on the island very near to him. He could hardly
contain himself for gladness; and he thought that God had doubtless
given him this day of misery and terror, partly that he might value
his peace truly, and partly that he might feel that he had it not of
right, but by the gracious disposition of the Father.
So he climbed very softly and swiftly to the cave; and entered it
with a great gladness; and then he became aware of a great awe in his
mind. There was somewhat there, that he could not see with his eyes,
but which was more real and present than anything he had ever known;
the cave seemed to shine with a faint and tender gleam that was dying
away by slow degrees; as though the roof and walls had been charged
with a peaceful light, which still rayed about them, though the
radiance that had fed it was withdrawn. He took off his dripping
clothes, and wrapped himself in his old sea-cloak. But he did not
think of sleep, or even of prayer; he only sate still on his bed of
fern, with his eyes open in the darkness, drinking in the strong and
solemn peace which seemed to abide there. David never had known such a
feeling, and he was never to know it again so fully; but for the time
he seemed to sit at the foot of God, satisfied. While he thus sate, a
great wind sprang up outside and thundered in the rocks; fiercer and
fiercer it blew, and soon there followed it the loud crying of the
sea, as the great waters began to heave and rage. Then David bestirred
himself to light and trim his lamp, and set it in the window as a
warning to ships. And when he had done this he felt a great and sudden
weariness, and he laid himself down; and sleep closed over him at
once, as the sea closes over a stone that is flung into it.
Once in the night he woke, with the roar of the storm in his ears,
and wondered that he had slept through it. He had been through many
stormy nights, but he had never heard the like of this. The wind blew
with a steady roar, like a flood of thunder outpoured; in the midst of
it, the great waves, hurled upon the rocks, uttered their voices; and
between he heard the hiss of the water, as it rushed downwards from
the cliff face. In the midst of all came a sharp and sudden wailing
cry; and then he began to wonder what the poor ship was doing, which
he thought of as riding furiously at her anchor, with the drunken
crew, and the old man with his sad and solemn face, who seemed so
different from his unruly followers, and yet was not ashamed to rule
over them and draw profit from their evil deeds. In spite of the ill
they had tried to do him, he felt a great pity for them in his heart;
but this was but for a moment, for sleep closed over him again, and
drew him down into forgetfulness.
When David woke in the morning, the gale had died away, but the sky
wept from low and ragged clouds, as if ashamed and sullen at the wrath
of the day before. Water trickled in the cracks of the rock; and when
David peered abroad, he looked into the thin drifting clouds. He had a
great content in his heart, but the awe and the strange peace of the
night had somehow diminished.
He began to reflect upon the light that he had seen from the sea. It
was not his lamp that had given out such light, for it was clear and
thin, while the light his own lamp gave was angry and red. Moreover,
when he had lighted the lamp before the storm, it was standing idle,
not in the window-place, but on the rock-shelf where he had set it.
Then he knew that some great and holy mystery had been wrought for him
that night, and that he had been very tenderly used.
Presently he descended the cliff, and went out upon the seaward side.
The waves still rose angrily under the grey sky, but were fast
abating. He saw in a moment that the shore was full of wreckage; there
were spars and timbers everywhere, and all the litter of a ship. Some
of the timbers were flung so high upon the rocks that he saw how great
the violence of the storm had been. He walked along, and in a minute
he came upon the body of a man lying on his face, strangely battered.
Then he saw another body, and yet another. He lifted them up, but
there was no sign of life in them; and he recognised with a great
sadness that they were the pirates who had dragged him from his home.
He had for a moment one evil thought in his mind, a kind of triumph in
his heart that God had saved him from his enemies, and delivered them
over to death; but he knew that it was a wicked thought, and thrust it
from him. At last at the end of the rocks he found the old captain
himself. There was a kind of majesty about him, even in death, as he
lay looking up at the sky, with one arm flung across his breast, and
the other arm outstretched beside him. Then he saw the ribs of the
ship itself stick up among the rocks, and he wondered to find the hull
so broken and ruinous.
His next care was that the poor bodies should have burial. So about
midday he took his boat from its shelter, and rowed across to the
land; and then, with a strange fear of the heart, he climbed the
cliff, and walked down slowly to the village, which he had thought in
his heart he would never have seen again.
The wind had now driven the clouds out of the sky, and the sun came
out with a strong white light, the light that shines from the sky when
the earth has been washed clean by rain. It sparkled brightly in the
little drops that hung like jewels in the grass and bushes. It was
with a great throb of the heart that David came out upon the end of
the down, and saw the village beneath him. It looked as though no
change had passed over it, but as though its life must have stood
still, since he left it; then there came tears into David's eyes at
the thought of the old hard life he had lived there, and how God had
since filled his cup so full of peace; so with many thoughts in his
heart he came slowly down the path to the town. He first met two
children whom he did not know; he spoke to them, but they looked for a
moment in terror at his face; his hair and beard were long, and he was
all tanned by the sun; but he spoke softly to them, and presently they
came to him and were persuaded to tell their names. They were the
children, David thought, of a young lad whom he had known as a boy;
and presently, as the manner of children is when they have laid aside
fear, they told him many small things, their ages and their doings,
and other little affairs which seem so big to a child; and then they
would take his hands and lead him to the village, while David smiled
to be so lovingly attended. He was surprised, when he entered the
street, to see how curiously he was regarded. Even men and women, that
he had known, would hardly speak with him, but did him reverence. The
children would lead him to their house first; and so he went thither,
not unwilling. When they were at the place, he found with a gentle
wonder that it was even the house where he had himself dwelt. He went
in, and found the mother of the children within, one whom he had known
as a girl. She greeted him with the same reverence as the rest; so
that he at last took courage, and asked her why it should not be as it
had been before. And then he learned from her talk, with a strange
surprise, that it was thought that he was a very holy man, much
visited by God, who not only had been shown how, by a kind of magical
secret, to save ships from falling on that deadly coast, but as one
whose prayers availed to guard and keep the whole place safe. He tried
to show her that this was not so, and that he was a simple person in
great need of holiness; but he saw that she only thought him the
holier for his humility, so he was ashamed to say more.
Then he went to the chief man in the village, and told him wherefore
he had come--that there was a wreck on the shore of the islands, and
that there were bodies that must be buried. One more visit he paid,
and that was to the little maiden whom he had seen the last when he
went away. She was now nearly grown to a woman, and her grandmother
was very old and weak, and near her end. David went there alone, and
said that he had returned as he had promised; but he found that the
child had much lost her remembrance of him, and could hardly see the
friend she had known in the strong and wild-looking figure that he had
become. He talked a little quietly; the old grandmother, who could not
move from her chair, was easier with him, and asked him, looking
curiously upon him, whether he had found that of which he went in
search. "Nay, mother," he said, "not found; but I am like a man whose
feet are set in the way, and who sees the city gate across the
fields." Then she smiled at him and said, "But I am near the gate."
Then he told her that he often thought of her, and made mention of her
in his prayers; and so rose to go; but she asked him to bless her,
which David did very tenderly, and kissed her and departed; but he
went heavily; because he feared to be regarded as he was now regarded;
and he thought in his heart that he would never return again, but
dwell alone in his cave with God. For the world troubled him; and the
voices of the children, and the looks of those that he had known
before seemed to lay soft hands about his heart, and draw him back
into the world.
The same day he returned to the cave; and the boats came out and took
the bodies away, and they were laid in the burying-ground.
Then the next day many returned to clear away the wreck; and David
came not out of his cave while they did this; for it went to his heart
to see the joy with which they gathered what had meant the death of so
many men. They asked him what they should leave for him, and he
answered, "Nothing--only a piece of plain wood, for a purpose." So
when evening came they had removed all; and the island, that had rung
all day with shouts and talk and the feet of men, was silent again;
but before they went, David said that he had a great desire to see a
priest, if a message could be sent; and this they undertook to do. But
David was very heavy-hearted for many days, for it seemed to him that
the sight of the world had put all the peace out of his heart; and his
prayers came hollow and dry.
A few days after there came a boat to the rock; the sea was running
somewhat high, and they had much ado to make a landing. David went
down to the water's edge, and saw that besides the fishermen, whom he
knew, there was a little wizened man in a priest's dress, that seemed
bewildered by the moving of the boat and the tossing of the big waves
with their heaving crests, that broke upon the rocks with a heavy
sound. At last they got the boat into the creek, and the little priest
came nimbly ashore, but not without a wetting. The fishermen said that
they would return in the evening, and fetch the priest away.
He looked a frail man, and David could not discern whether he were
young or old; and he felt a pity for a man who was so unhandy, and who
seemed to be so scared of the sea. But the priest came up to him and
took his hand. "I have heard much of you, my brother," he said, "and I
have desired to see you--but this sea of yours is a strange and wild
monster, and I trust it not,--though indeed it is God's handiwork. Yet
King David, your patron, was of the same mind, I think, and wrote in
one of his wise psalms how it made the heart to melt within him."
David looked at him with much attention as he spoke, and there was
something in the priest's eye, a kind of hidden fire, joined with a
wise mirth, that made him, all of a sudden, feel like a child before
him. So he said, "Where will your holiness sit? It is cold here in the
wind; I have a dwelling in the rocks, but it is hard to come by except
for winged fowl, and for men like myself who have been used to the
precipices."
"Well, show the way, brother," said the priest cheerfully, "and I will
adventure my best." So David showed him the way up the crags, and went
slowly in front of him, that he might help him up; but the priest
climbed like a cat, looking blithely about him, and had no need of
help, though he was encumbered with his robe.
When they were got there, the priest looked curiously about him, and
presently knelt down before the carving, and said a little prayer to
himself.
Then he questioned David about his life, asking questions briskly, as
though he were accustomed to command; and David felt more and more
every moment that he was as a child before this masterful and wary
man. He told him of his early life, and of his visions, and of his
desire to know God, and of the light that he set in the rocks; and
then he told him of his adventure with the pirates, not forgetting the
treasure. The priest heard him with great attention, and said
presently that he had done well, and that God was with him. Then he
asked him how he would have the treasure bestowed, and David said that
he had no design in his mind. "Then that shall be my care," said the
priest, "and I doubt not that the Lord hath sent it us, that there may
be a church in this lonely place."
And then, turning to David with a wonderful and piercing look, he
said, "And this peace of spirit that you speak of, that you came here
to seek, tell me truly, brother, have you found it?"
Then David looked upon the ground a little and said, "Dear sir, I
know not; I am indeed strangely happy in this lonely place; but to
speak all the truth, I feel like a man who lingers at a gate, and who
hears the sound of joy and melody within, which rejoices his heart,
but he is not yet admitted. No," he went on, "I have not found the
way. The Father is indeed very near me, and I am certain of His
love--but there is still a barrier between me and His Heart."
Then the priest bowed his head awhile in thought, but said nothing
for a long space; and then David said, "Dear sir, advise me." Then the
priest looked at him with a clear gaze, and said, "Shall I advise you,
O my brother?" And David said, "Yes, dear sir." Then the priest said,
"Indeed, my brother, I see in your life the gracious hand of God. He
did redeem you, and He planted in your heart a true seed of peace. You
have lived here a holy and an innocent life; but He withholds from you
His best gift, because you are not willing to be utterly led by Him.
There have been in ancient days many such souls, who have fled from
the wickedness of the world, and have spent themselves in prayer and
penance, and have done a holy work--for indeed there are many
victories that may be won by prayer. But indeed, dear brother, I think
that God's will for you is that this lonely life of yours should have
an end. I think that you have herein followed your own pleasure
overmuch; and I believe that God would now have you go back to the
world, and work for Him therein. You have a great power with this
simple folk; but they are as sheep without a shepherd, and must be
fed, and none but you can now feed them. You will bethink you of the
visit that the Lord Christ paid to the Sisters of Bethany; Martha
laboured much to please Him, but she laboured for her own pleasing
too; and Mary it was that had the good part, because she thought not
of herself, but of the Lord. And now, dear brother, I would have you
do what will be very grievous to you. I would have you go back to your
native place, and there abide to labour for God; you may come hither
at seasons, and be alone with God, and that will refresh you; but you
are now, methinks, like a man who has found a great treasure, and who
speaks no word of it to others, and neither uses it himself, but only
looks upon it and is glad."
Then David was very sad at the priest's words, knowing that he spoke
the truth. But the priest said, "Now we will speak no more of this
awhile; and I would not have you do it, unless your heart consents
thereto; only be strong." And then he asked if he might have somewhat
to eat; and David brought him his simple fare; so they ate together,
and while they ate, it came into David's mind that this was certainly
the way. All that afternoon they sate, while the wind rustled without,
and the sea made a noise; and then the priest said they would go and
look at the treasure, because it was near evening, and he must return.
So they went down together, and drew the rocks off from the box. It
was a box of wood, tightly corded, and they undid it, and found within
a great store of gold and silver pieces, which the priest reckoned up,
and said that it would be abundant for a church.
Then they saw the boat approach; and the priest blessed David, and
David thanked him with tears, for showing him the truth; and the
priest said, "Not so, my brother; I did but show you what is in your
own heart, for God puts such truth in the heart of all of us as we can
bear; but sometimes we keep it like a sword in its scabbard, until the
bright and sharp thing, that might have wrought great deeds, be all
rusted and blunted."
And then the priest departed, taking with him the box of gold, and
David was left alone.
David was very heavy-hearted when he was left alone on the island.
He knew that the priest had spoken the truth, but he loved his
solitary life, and the silence of the cave, the free air and the sun,
and the lonely current of his own thoughts. The sun went slowly down
over the waters in a great splendour of light and colour, so that the
clouds in the sky seemed like purple islands floating in a golden sea;
David sitting in his cave thought with a kind of terror of the small
and close houses of the village, the sound of feet, and talk of men
and women. At last he fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed that he
was in a great garden. He looked about him with pleasure, and he
presently saw a gardener moving about at his work. He went in that
direction, and he saw that the man, who was old and had a very wise
and tender face, was setting out some young trees in a piece of
ground. He planted them carefully with deft hands, and he smiled to
himself as he worked, as though he was full of joyful thoughts. David
wished in his heart to go and speak with him, but something held him
back. Presently the gardener went away, and while he was absent,
another man, of a secret aspect, came swiftly into the place, peering
about him. His glance passed David by, and David knew that he was in
some way unseen. The man looked all about him in a furtive haste, and
then plucked up one of the trees, which seemed to David to be already
growing and shooting out small leaves and buds. The man smoothed down
the ground where he drew it out, and then went very quickly away.
David would have wished to stop him, but he could not. Then the old
gardener came back, and looked long at the place whence the tree had
been drawn. Then he sighed to himself, and cast a swift look in the
direction in which the man had fled. He had brought other trees with
him, but he did not plant one in the empty space, but left it bare.
Then David felt that he must follow the other, and so he did. He found
him very speedily, but it was outside the garden, in a rough place,
where thorny bushes and wild plants grew thickly. The other had
cleared a little space among them, and here he set the tree; but he
planted it ill and hastily, as though he was afraid of being
disturbed; and then he departed secretly. David stood and watched the
tree a little. It seemed at first to begin to grow again as it had
done before, but presently something ailed it and it drooped. Then
David saw the thorny bushes near it begin to stretch out their arms
about it, and the wild herbs round about sprang up swiftly, and soon
the tree was choked by them, and hardly appeared above the brake.
David began to be sorry for the tree, which still kept some life in
it, and struggled as it were feebly to put out its boughs above the
thicket. While he stood he saw the old gardener approaching, and as he
approached he carefully considered the ground. When he saw the tree,
he smiled, and drew it out carefully, and went back to the garden, and
David followed him; he planted it again tenderly in the ground; and
the tree which had looked so drooping and feeble began at once to put
forth leaves and flowers. The gardener smiled again, and then for the
first time looked upon David. His eyes were deep and grave like a
still water; and he smiled as one might who shares a secret with
another. And then of a sudden David awoke, and found the light of dawn
creeping into the cave; and he fell to considering the dream, and in a
moment knew that it was sent for his learning. So he hesitated no
longer, but gave up his will to God.
It was a sad hour for David nevertheless; he walked softly about the
cave, and he put aside what he would take with him, and it seemed to
him that he was, as it were, uprooting a tree that had grown deep; he
tied up what he would take with him, but he left some things behind,
for he thought that he might return. And then he kneeled down and
prayed, the tears running over his face; and lastly he rose and kissed
the cold wall of the cave; at the door he saw the gull that had been
with him so oft, and he scattered some crumbs for it, and while the
bird fell to picking the crumbs, David descended the rock swiftly, not
having the heart to look about him; and then he put his things in the
boat, and rowed swiftly and silently to the shore, looking back at the
great rocks which stood up all bright and clear in the fresh light of
the dawn, with the waves breaking softly at their feet.
David had no fixed plan in his mind, as he rowed across to the land.
He only thought that it was right for him to return, and to take up
his part in the old life again. He did not dare to look before him,
but simply put, as it were, his hand in the hand of God, and hoped to
be led forward. He was soon at the shore, and he pulled his boat up on
the land, and left it lying in a little cave that opened upon the
beach; then he shouldered his pack, and went slowly, with even
strides, across the hill and down to the village. He met no one on the
way, and the street seemed deserted. He made his way to the house of
the old woman who was his friend; he put his small pack at the door
and entered. The little house was quite silent. But he heard a sound
of weeping; when he came into the outer room, he saw the maiden
sitting in a chair with her face bowed on the table. He called to her
by name; she lifted her head and looked at him for a moment and then
rose up and came to him, as a child comes to be comforted. He saw at
once that some grievous thing had happened; and presently with sobs
and tears she told him that her grandmother had died a few days
before, that she had been that day buried, and that she knew not what
she was to do. There seemed more behind; and David at last made out
that she was asked in marriage by a young fisherman whom she did not
love, and she knew not how else to live. And then he said that he was
come back and would not depart from her, and that she should be a
daughter to him.
Now of the rest of the life of David I must not here speak; he lived
in the village, and he did his part; a little chapel was built in the
place with the money of the pirates; and David went in and out among
the folk of the place, and drew many to the love of God; he went once
back to the cave, but he abode not long there; but of one thing I will
tell, and that is of a piece of carving that David did, working little
by little in the long winter nights at the piece of wood that came
from the pirate ship. The carving is of a man standing on the shore of
the sea, and holding up a lantern in his hand, and on the sea is
carved a ship. And David calls his carving "The Light of the World."
At the top of it is a scroll, with the words thereon, "He shall send
down from on high to fetch me, and shall take me out of many waters."
And beneath is another scroll on which is graven, "Thou also shalt
light my candle; the Lord my God shall make my darkness to be light."
THE WAVING OF THE SWORD
The things that are set down here happened in the ancient days when
there was sore fighting in the land; the King, who was an unjust man,
fighting to maintain his realm, and the barons fighting for the law;
and the end was not far off, for the King was driven backwards to the
sea, and at last could go no further; so he gathered all the troops
that he might in a strong fort that lay in the midst of the downs,
where the hills dipped to the plain to let the river pass through; and
the barons drew slowly in upon him, through the forest in the plain.
Beyond the downs lay the sea, and there in a little port was gathered
the King's navy, that if the last fight went ill with him, as indeed
he feared it would, he might fly for safety to another land.
Now in a house below the down, a few miles from the King's
stronghold, dwelt a knight that was neither old nor young, and his
name was Sir Henry Strange. He lived alone and peevishly, and he did
neither good nor evil. He had no skill in fighting, but neither had he
skill in peaceful arts. He had tried many things and wearied of all.
He had but a small estate, which was grown less by foolish waste. He
could have made it into a rich heritage, for his land was good. But he
had no patience with his men, and confused them by his orders, which
he would not see carried out. Sometimes he would fell timber, and then
leave it to rot in the wood; or he would plough a field, and sow it
not. At one time he had a fancy to be a minstrel, but he had not
patience to attain to skill; he would write a ballad and leave it
undone; or he would begin to carve a figure of wood, and toss it
aside; sometimes he would train a dog or a horse; but he would so rage
if the beast, being puzzled for all its goodwill, made mistakes, that
it grew frightened of him--for nothing can be well learnt except
through love and trust. He would sometimes think that he should have
been a monk, and that under hard discipline he would have fared
better--and indeed this was so, for he had abundant aptitude. He was
alone in the world, for he had come into his estate when young; but he
had had no patience to win him a wife. At first, indeed, his life had
not been an unhappy one, for he was often visited by small joyful
thoughts, which made him glad; and he took much pleasure, on sunshiny
days, in the brave sights and sounds of the world. But such delights
had grown less; and he was now a tired and restless man of forty
years, who lay long abed and went not much abroad; and was for ever
telling himself how happy he would be if this or that were otherwise.
Far down in his heart he despised himself, and wondered how God had
come to make so ill-contented a thing; but that was a chamber in his
mind that he visited not often; but rather took pleasure in the
thought of his skill and deftness, and his fitness for the many things
he might have done.
And now in the war he had come to a pass. He would not join himself to
the King, because the King was an evil man, and he liked not evil; yet
he loved not rebellion, and feared for his safety if the King had the
upper hand; but it was still more that he had grown idle and
soft-hearted, and feared the hard faring and brisk jesting of the
camp. Yet even so the thought of the war lay heavy on his heart, and
he wondered how men, whose lives were so short upon the goodly earth,
should find it in their hearts to slay and be slain for such shadowy
things as command and dominion; and he thought he would have made a
song on that thought, but he did not.
And now the fighting had come very near him; and he had let some of
his men go to join the King, but he went not himself, saying that he
was sick, and might not go abroad.
He stood on a day, at this time, by a little wall that enclosed his
garden-ground. It was in the early summer; the trees had put on their
fresh green, and glistened in the still air, and the meadows were deep
with grass, on the top of which seemed to float unnumbered yellow
flowers. In and out the swallows passed, hunting for the flies that
danced above the grass; and he stood, knowing how fair the earth was,
and yet sick at heart, wondering why he could not be as a careless
bird, that hunts its meat all day in the sun, and at evening sings a
song of praise among the thickets.
Over the trees ran the great down with its smooth green sides, as far
as the eye could see. The heat winked on its velvety bluffs, and it
seemed to him, as it had often seemed before, like a great beast lying
there in a dream, with a cloth of green cast over its huge limbs.
He was a tall lean man, somewhat stooping. His face had a certain
beauty; his hair and beard were dark and curling; he had large eyes
that looked sadly out from under heavy lids. His mouth was small, and
had a very sweet smile when he was pleased; but his brow was puckered
together as though he pondered; his hands were thin and delicate, and
there was something almost womanly about his whole air.
Presently he walked into the little lane that bordered his garden. He
heard the sound of wheels coming slowly along the white chalky road;
he waited to look, and saw a sad sight. In the cart was a truss of
hay, and sunk upon it sate a man, his face down on his breast, deadly
pale; as the cart moved, he swayed a little from side to side. The
driver of the cart walked beside, sullenly and slowly; and by him
walked a girl, just grown a woman, as pale as death, looking at the
man that sate in the cart with a look of terror and love; sometimes
she would take his helpless hand, and murmur a word; but the man
heeded not, and sate lost in his pain. As they passed him he could see
a great bandage on the man's chest that was red with blood. He asked
the waggoner what this was, and he told him that it was a young man of
the country-side that had been hurt in a fight; he was but newly
married, and it was thought he could not live. The cart had stopped,
and the woman pulled a little cup out of a jug of water that stood in
the straw, and put it to the wounded man's lips, who opened his eyes,
all dark and dazed with pain, but with no look of recognition in them,
and drank greedily, sinking back into his sick dream again. The girl
put the cup back, and clasped her hands over her eyes, and then across
her breast with a low moan, as though her heart would break. The tears
came into Sir Henry's eyes; and fumbling in his pockets he took out
some coins and gave them to the woman, with a kind word. "Let him be
well bestowed," he said. The woman took the coins, hardly heeding him;
and presently the cart started again, a shoot of pain darting across
the wounded man's face as the wheels grated on the stones.
Sir Henry stood long looking after them; and it came into his heart
that war was a foul and evil thing; though he half envied the poor
soul that had fought his best, and was now sinking into the shadow of
death.
While he thus lingered there sprang into his mind a thought that made
him suddenly grow erect.
He walked swiftly along the lane with its high hedges and tall elms.
The lane was at the foot of the down, but raised a little above the
plain, so that he could see the rich woodland with its rolling lines,
and far away the faint line of the northern hills. It was very still,
and there seemed not a care in the great world; it seemed all peace
and happy quiet life; yet the rumbling of the cartwheels which he
still heard at a distance, now low and now loud, told him of the
sorrow that lay hidden under those dreaming woods; was it all thus?
And then he thought of the great armies that were so near, and of all
the death they meant to deal each other. And yet God sat throned aloft
watching all things, he thought, with a calm and quiet eye, waiting,
waiting. But for what? Was His heart indeed pitiful and loving, as His
priests said? and did He hold in His hand, for those that passed into
the forgetful gate, some secret of joyful peace that would all in a
moment make amends?
He stopped beside a little stile--there, in front of him, over the
tops of an orchard, the trees of which were all laden with white and
rosy flowers, lay a small high-shouldered church, with a low steeple
of wood. The little windows of the tower seemed to regard him as with
dark sad eyes. He went by a path along the orchard edge, and entered
the churchyard, full of old graves, among which grew long tumbled
grass. He thought with a throb, that was almost of joy, of all those
that had laid down their weary bones there in the dust, husband by
wife, child by mother. They were waiting too, and how quietly! It was
all over for them, the trouble and the joy alike; and for a moment the
death that all dread seemed to him like a simple and natural thing,
the one thing certain. There at length they slept, a quiet sleep,
waiting for the dawn, if dawn there were.
He crossed the churchyard and entered the church; the coolness and
the dark and the ancient holy smell was sweet after the brightness and
the heat outside. Every line of the place was familiar to him from his
childhood. He walked slowly up the little aisle and passed within the
screen. The chancel was very dark, only lighted by two or three
deep-set windows. He made a reverence and then drew near to the altar.
All the furniture of the church was most simple and old; but over the
altar there was a long unusual-looking shelf; he went up to it, and
stood for awhile gazing upon it. Along the shelf lay a rude and
ancient sword of a simple design, in a painted scabbard of wood; and
over it was a board with a legend painted on it.
The legend was in an old form of French words, long since disused in
the land. But it said:
_Unsheathe me and die thyself, but the battle shall be stayed._
He had known the look of the sword, and the words on the board from a
child. The tale was that there had been in days long past a great
battle on the hill, and that the general of one of the armies had been
told, in a dream or vision, that if he should himself be slain, then
should his men have the victory; but that if he lived through the
battle, then should his men be worsted. Now before the armies met,
while they stood and looked upon each other, the general, so said the
tale, had gone out suddenly and alone, with his sword bare in his
hand, and his head uncovered; and that as he advanced, one of his foes
had drawn a bow and pierced him through the brain, so that he fell in
his blood between the armies; and that then a kind of fury had fallen
upon his men to avenge his death, and they routed the foe with a
mighty slaughter. But the sword had been set in the church with this
legend above it; and there it had lain many a year.
So Sir Henry disengaged the sword from its place very tenderly and
carefully. It had been there so long that it was all covered with
dust; and then, holding it in his hands, he knelt down and made a
prayer in his heart that he might have strength for what he had a mind
to do; and then he walked softly down the church, looking about him
with a sort of secret tenderness, as though he were bidding it all
farewell; his own father and mother were buried in the church; and he
stopped for awhile beside their grave, and then, holding the sword by
his side--for he wished it not to be seen of any--he went back to his
house, and put the sword away in a great chest, that no one might know
where it was laid.
Then he tarried not, but went softly out; and all that afternoon he
walked about his own lands, every acre of them; for he did not think
to see them again; and his mind went back to the old days; he had not
thought that all could be so full of little memories. In this place he
remembered being set on a horse by his father, who held him very
lovingly and safely while he led the great beast about; he remembered
how proud he had been, and how he had fancied himself a mighty
warrior. On this little pond, with all its reeds and water-lilies, he
had sailed a boat on a summer day, his mother sitting near under a
tree to see that he had no danger; and thus it was everywhere; till,
as he walked in the silent afternoon, he could almost have believed
that there were others that walked with him unseen, to left and right;
for at every place some little memory roused itself, as the flies that
rise buzzing from the leaves when you walk in an alley, until he felt
like a child again, with all the years before him.
Then he came to the house again, and did the same for every room. He
left one room for the last, a room where dwelt an old and simple woman
that had nursed him; she was very frail and aged now, and went not
much abroad, but sate and did little businesses; and it was ever a
delight to her if he asked her to do some small task for him. He found
her sitting, smiling for pleasure that he should come to her thus; and
he kissed her, and sate beside her for awhile, and they talked a
little of the childish days, for he was still ever a child to her.
Then he rose to leave her, and she asked him, as was her wont, if
there was anything that she could do for him, for it shamed her, she
said, to sit and idle, when she had been so busy once, and when there
was still so much to do. And he said, "No, dear nurse, there is
nothing at this time." And he hesitated for an instant, and then said,
"There is indeed one thing; I have a business to do to-night, that is
hard and difficult; and I do not know what the end will be; will you
say a prayer for your boy to-night, that he may be strong?" She looked
at him quickly and was silent; and then she said, "Yes, dear child,
but I ever do that--and I have no skill to make new prayers--but I
will say my prayer over and over if that will avail." And he said,
smiling at her, though the tears were in his eyes, "Yes, it will
avail," and so he kissed her and went away, while she fell to her
prayers.
Now the day had all this while grown stiller and hotter, till there
was not a breath stirring; and now out to the eastwards there came on
an angry blackness in the sky, with a pale redness beneath it, where
the thunder dwelt. Sir Henry sate down, for he was weary of his
walking, and in a little he fell asleep; his thoughts still ran upon
the sword, for he dreamed that he had it with him in a wood that he
knew not, that was dark with the shade of leaves; and he hung the
sword upon a tree, and went on, to win out of the wood if he could,
for it seemed very close and heavy in the forest; sometimes through
the trees he saw a space of open ground, with ferns glistening in the
sun; but he could not find the end of the wood; so he came back in his
dream to where he had left the sword; and while he stood watching it,
he saw that something dark gathered at the scabbard end, and presently
fell with a little sound among the leaves. Then with a shock of terror
he saw that it was blood; and he feared to take the sword back; but
looking downwards he perceived that where the blood had fallen, there
were red flowers growing among the leaves of a rare beauty, which
seemed to be born of the blood. So he gathered a handful, and wreathed
the sword with them; and then came a gladness into his mind, with
which he awoke, and found it evening; he came back to himself with a
kind of terror, and a fear darted into his breast; the windows were
open, and there came in a scent of flowers; and he felt a great love
for the beautiful earth, and for his quiet life; and he looked at the
chest; and there came into his mind a strong desire to take the sword
out, and lay it back in the church, and let things be as they had
been; and so he sate and mused.
Presently his old serving-man came in and told him he had set his
supper; so Henry went into the parlour, and made some pretence to be
about to eat; sending the old man away, who babbled a little to him of
the war, of the barons' army that drew nearer, and of how the King was
sore bested. When he was gone Sir Henry ate a little bread and drank a
sup of wine; and then he rose up, like one who had made up his mind.
He went to the chest and drew out the sword; and then he went softly
out of the house, and presently walking swiftly he came out on the
down.
It was now nearly dusk; the sky lay clear and still, fading into a
sort of delicate green, but all the west was shrouded in a dim
blackness, the cloud being spread out, like a great dark bird winging
its way slowly up the sky. Then far down in the west there leapt, as
it were, interlacing streams of fire out of the cloud, and then
followed a low rolling of thunder.
But all the while he mounted the down, up a little track that gleamed
white in the grass; and now he could see the huge plain, with a few
lights twinkling out of farms; far down to the west there was a little
redness of light, and he thought that this was doubtless where the
army of the barons lay; but he seemed to himself to have neither
wonder nor fear left in his mind; he only went like one that had a
task to perform; and soon he came to the top.
Here all was bare, save for some bushes of furze that grew blackly in
the gloom; he stepped through them, and he came at last to where a
great mound stood, that was held to be the highest place in all the
down, a mound that marked the place of a battle, or that was perhaps
the burying-place of some old tribe--for it was called the Barrow of
the Seven Kings.
He came quickly to the mound, and went to the top; and then he laid
the sword upon the turf by him, and kneeled down; once again came a
great outpouring of fire from heaven in the west, and a peal of
thunder followed hard upon it; and indeed the storm was near at hand;
he could see the great wings of the cloud moving now, and a few large
drops splashed in the grass about him, and one fell upon his brow.
And now a great fear fell upon Henry of he knew not what. He seemed
to himself to be in the presence of some vast and fearful thing, that
was passing swiftly by; and yet seemed, for all its haste, to have
espied him, and to have been, as it were, stayed by him; there came
into his mind a recollection of how he had once, on a summer's day,
joined the mowers in one of the fields, and had mowed a few swathes
with them for the pleasure of seeing the rich seeded grass fall before
the gleaming scythe. At one of his strokes, he remembered, he had
uncovered a little field-mouse, that sate in the naked field, its high
covert having been swept bare from above it, and watched him with
bright eyes of fear, while he debated whether he should crush it; he
had done so, he remembered, carelessly, with his foot, and now he
wished that he had spared it, for it was even so that he himself felt.
So to strengthen himself in his purpose, he made a prayer aloud,
though it was a thing that in his idle life he had much foregone; and
he said:
"Lord God, if Thou indeed hearest and seest me, make me strong to do
what I have a mind to do; I have lived foolishly and for myself, and I
have little to give. I have despised life, and it is as an empty husk
to me. I have put love away from me, and my heart is dry; I have had
friends and I have wearied of them. I have profited nothing; I have
wasted my strength in foolish dreams of pleasure, and I have not found
it. I am as a weed that cumbers the fair earth."
Then he stayed for a moment, for he was afraid; for it seemed to him
as though somewhat stood near to listen. Then he said again:--
"But, Lord, I do indeed love my fellow-men a little; and I would have
the waste of life stayed. It is a pitiful thing that I have to offer,
but it is all that I have left--an empty life, which yet I love. I
will not promise, Lord, to yield my life to the service of men, for I
love my ease too well, and I should not keep my word--so I offer my
life freely into Thy hand, and let it avail that which it may avail."
Then the blackness seemed to gather all about him, and he felt with
his hand in the turf and found the sword; then he drew the scabbard
off, and flung it down beside him, and he raised the sword in his
hands.
Then it seemed as though the heavens opened above him, but he saw not
the fire, nor heard the shouting of the thunder that followed; he fell
on his face in the turf without a sound and moved no more.
Now it happened that about the time that he unsheathed the sword, it
came into the heart of the King to send a herald to the barons; for he
saw the host spread out below him on the plain, and he feared to meet
them; and the barons, too, were weary of fighting; and the King bound
himself by a great oath to uphold the law of the realm, and so the
land had peace.
The next day came a troop of men-at-arms along the hill; and they
wondered exceedingly to see a man lie on the mound with a sword in his
hand unsheathed, and partly molten. He lay stiff and cold, but they
could not tell how he came by his death, and they knew not what he had
done for the land; his hand was so tightly clenched upon the sword,
that they took it not out, but they buried him there upon the
hill-top, very near the sky, and passed on; and no man knew what had
become of him. But God, who made him and had need of him, knoweth.
RENATUS
Renatus was a Prince of Saxony that was but newly come to his
princedom; his father had died while he was a boy, and the realm had
been administered by his father's brother, a Duke of high courage and
prudence. The Duke was deeply anxious for the fate of the princedom
and his nephew's fortunes, for they lived in troubled times; the
barons of the province were strong and haughty men, with little care
for the Prince, and no thought of obedience; each of them lived in his
castle, upon a small realm of his own; the people were much
discontented with the rule of the barons, and the Duke saw plainly
enough that if a prince could arise who could win the confidence of
the people, the barons would have but little power left. Thus his care
was so to bring up the Prince Renatus that he should understand how
hard a task was before him; but the boy, though quick of apprehension,
was fond of pleasure and amusement, and soon wearied of grave
instructions; so the Duke did not persist overmuch, but strove to make
the little Prince love him and confide in him, hoping that, when the
day of trial came, he might be apt to ask advice rather than act
hastily and perhaps foolishly; but yet in this the Duke had not
perfectly succeeded, as he was by nature grave and austere, and even
his face seemed to have in it a sort of rebuke for lively and
light-minded persons. Still the Prince, though he was not at ease with
the Duke, trusted him exceedingly, and thought him wise and good, even
more than the Duke imagined.
The days had been full of feasting and pageants, and Renatus was
greatly excited and eager at finding himself in so great a place. He
had borne himself with much courtesy and dignity in his receiving of
embassies and such compliments; he had, too, besides the sweet gifts
of youth and beauty, a natural affectionateness, which led him to wish
to please those about him; and the Duke's heart was full of love and
admiration for the graceful boy, though there lay in the back of his
mind a shadow of fear; and this grew very dark when he saw two of the
most turbulent barons speaking together in a corner, with sidelong
glances at the Prince, at one of the Court assemblies, and divined
that they thought the boy would be but a pretty puppet in their hands.
The custom was that the Prince, on the eve of his enthroning, should
watch for two hours alone in the chapel of the castle, from eleven to
one at night, and should there consecrate himself to God; the guests
of the evening were departed; and a few minutes before eleven the Duke
sate with the Prince in a little room off the chapel, waiting till it
was time for the Prince to enter the building. Renatus was in armour,
as the custom was, with a white robe over all. He sate restlessly in a
chair, and there was a mischievous and dancing light of pleasure in
his eye, that made the Duke doubly grave. The Duke, after some
discourse of other matters, made a pause; and then, saying that it was
the last time that he should take the privilege of guardianship--to
offer advice unless it were sought--said: "And now, Renatus, you know
that I love you as a dear son; and I would have you remember that all
these things are but shows, and that there sits behind them a grave
and holy presence of duty; these pomps are but the signs that you are
truly the Prince of this land; and you must use your power well, and
to God's glory; for it is He that makes us to be what we are, and
truly calls us thereto." Renatus heard him with a sort of courteous
impatience, and then, with a smile, said: "Yes, dear uncle, I know it;
but the shows are very brave; and you will forgive me if my head is
full of them just now. Presently, when the pageants are all over, I
shall settle down to be a sober prince enough. I think you do not
trust me wholly in the matter--but I would not seem ungrateful," he
added rather hastily, seeing the gravity in the Duke's face--"for
indeed you have been as a true father to me."
The Duke said no more at that time, for he cared not to give untimely
advice, and a moment after, a bell began to toll in the silence, and
the chaplain came habited to conduct the Prince to his chapel. So they
went the three of them together.
It was dark and still within the church; in front of the altar-steps
were set a faldstool and a chair, where the Duke might pray, or sit if
he were weary; two tall wax lights stood beside, and lit up the
crimson cloth and the gold fringes, so that it seemed like a rare
flower blossoming in the dark. A single light, in a silver lamp hung
by a silver chain, burnt before the altar; all else was dim; but they
could see the dark stalls of the choir, with their carven canopies,
over which hung the banners of old knights, that moved softly to and
fro; beyond were the pillars of the aisles, glimmering faintly in a
row. The roof and windows were dark, save where here and there a rib
of stone or a tracery stood out very rich and dim. All about there was
a kind of holy smell, of wood and carven stone and incense-smoke.
The chaplain knelt beneath the altar; and the Prince knelt down at the
faldstool, the Duke beside him on the floor. And just as the old bell
of the castle tolled the hour, and died away in a soft hum of sound,
as sweet as honey, the chaplain said an ancient prayer, the purport of
which was that the Christian must watch and pray; that only the pure
heart might see God; and asking that the Prince might be blest with
wisdom, as the Emperor Solomon was, to do according to the will of the
Father.
Then the chaplain and the Duke withdrew; but as the Duke rose up, he
laid his hand on the Prince's head and said, "God be with you, dear
son, and open your eyes." And Renatus looked up at him and smiled.
Then the Duke went back to the little room, and prayed abundantly. It
was arranged that he should wait there until the Prince's vigil was
over, when he would go to attend him forth; and so the Prince was left
by himself.
For a time Renatus prayed, gathering up the strength of his mind to
pray earnestly; but other thoughts kept creeping in, like children
peeping and beckoning from a door. So he rose up after a little, and
looked about him; and something of the solemnity of the night and the
place came into his mind.
Then, after a while, he sate, his armour clinking lightly as he moved;
and wrapping his robe about him--for it grew chill in the church--he
thought of what had been and what should be. The time flew fast; and
presently Renatus heard the great bell ring the hour of midnight; so
he knelt and prayed again, with all his might, that God would bless
him and open his eyes.
Then he rose again to his feet; and now the moon was risen and made a
very pure and tender radiance through one of the high windows; and
Renatus, looking about him, was conscious of a thrill of fear that
passed through him, as though there were some great presence near him
in the gloom; then his eyes fell on a little door on his right,
opposite to the door by which they had entered, which he knew led out
into the castle court; but underneath the door, between it and the
sill, there gleamed a line of very golden light, such as might come
from a fire without. The Prince had no foolish terrors, as he was by
nature courageous, and the holy place that he was in made him feel
secure. But the light, which now began to grow in clearness, and to
stream, like a rippling flow of brightness, into the church, surprised
him exceedingly. So he rose up and went to the little door, expecting
that he would find it closed; but it opened to his hand.
He had thought to see the dark court of the castle as he had often
seen it, with its tall chimneys and battlements, and with lights in
the windows. But to his amazement he saw that he was on the edge of a
vast and dizzy space, so vast that he had not thought there could be
anything in the world so great. The church and he seemed to float
together in the space, for the solid earth was all gone--and it came
into his head that the great building in which he stood, so fair and
high, was no larger than a mote that swims in the strong beams of the
sun. The space was all misty and dim at first, but over it hung a
light like the light of dawn, that seemed to gush from a place in the
cloud, near at hand and yet leagues away. Then as his sight became
more used to the place, he saw that it was all sloping upwards and
downwards, and built up of great steps or stairs, that ran across the
space and were lost at last in cloud; and that the light came from the
head of the steps. Then with a sudden shock of surprise he saw that
there were persons kneeling on the steps; and every moment his sight
became clearer and clearer, so that he could see the persons nearest
to him, their robes and hands, and even the very lineaments of their
faces.
Very near him there were three figures kneeling, not together in a
group, but with some space between them. And, in some way that he
could not explain, he felt that all the three were unconscious both of
each other and of himself.
Looking intently upon them, he saw that they were kings, in royal
robes. The nearest to him was an ancient man, with white hair; he
knelt very upright and strong; his face was like parchment, with heavy
lines, but his eyes glowed like a fire. Renatus thought he had never
seen so proud a look. He had an air of command, and Renatus seemed to
know that he had been a warrior in his youth. In his hands he held a
crown of fine golden work, filled with jewels of great rarity and
price; and the king held the crown as though he knew its worth; he
seemed, as it were, to be proffering it, but as a gift of mighty
value, the worthiest thing that he had to offer.
On a step below him at a little distance knelt the second; he was a
younger man, in the prime of life; he had the look more of a student
than a warrior, of one who was busied in many affairs, and who
pondered earnestly over high matters of policy and state. He had a
wiser face than the older man, but his brow was drawn by lines, as
though he had often doubted of himself and others; and he had a crown
in one hand, which he held a little irresolutely, as though he half
loved it, and were yet half wearied of it; as though he was fain to
lay it down, and yet not wholly glad to part with it.
Then Renatus turned a little to the third; and he was more richly
apparelled than the others; his hands were clasped in prayer; and by
his knee there lay a splendid diadem, an Emperor's crown, with few
jewels, but each the price of a kingdom. And Renatus saw that he was
very young, scarce older than himself; and that he had the most
beautiful face he had ever seen, with large soft eyes, clear-cut
features, and a mouth that looked both pure and strong; but in his
face there was such a passion of holiness and surrender, that Renatus
fell to wondering what it was that a man could so adore. He was the
only one of the three who looked, as it were, rapt out of himself; and
the crown lay beside him as if he had forgotten its very existence.
Then there came upon the air a great sound of jubilant and tender
music like the voice of silver trumpets--and the cloud began to lift
and draw up on every side, and revealed at last, very far off and very
high, yet strangely near and clear, a Throne at the head of the steps.
But Renatus dared not look thereon, for he felt that the time was not
come; but he saw, as it were reflected in the eyes of the kings, that
they looked upon a sight of awful splendour and mystery. Then he saw
that the two that still held their crowns laid them down upon the
ground with a sort of fearful haste, as though they were constrained;
but the youngest of the kings smiled, as though he were satisfied
beyond his dearest wish.
Then Renatus felt that somewhat was to be done too bright and holy
for a mortal eye to behold, and so he drew back and softly closed the
door; and it was a pain to find himself within the dark church again;
it was as though he had lost the sight of something that a man might
desire above all things to see--but he dared look no longer; and the
music came again, but this time more urgently, in a storm of sound.
Then Renatus went back to his place, that seemed to him very small and
humble beside what he had seen outside. And all the pride was emptied
out of his heart, for he knew that he had looked upon the truth, and
that it was wider than he had dreamed; and then he knelt and prayed
that God would keep him humble and diligent and brave; but then he
grew ashamed of his prayer, for he remembered that, after all, he was
but still praying for himself; and he had a thought of the young
Emperor's face, and he knew that there was something deeper and better
still than humility and diligence and courage; what it was he knew
not; but he thought that he had been, as it were, asking God for those
fair things, like flower-blooms or jewels, which a man may wear for
his own pride; but that they must rather rise and blossom, like plants
out of a rich soil. So he ended by praying that God would empty him of
all unworthy thoughts, and fill him full of that good and great thing,
which, in the Gospel story, Martha went near to miss, but Mary
certainly divined.
That was a blessed hour, to the thought of which Renatus afterwards
often turned in darker and more weary days. But it drew swiftly to an
end, and as he knelt, the bell beat one, and his vigil was over.
Presently the Duke came to attend him back; and Renatus could not
speak of the vision, but only told the Duke that he had seen a
wonderful thing, and he added a few words of grateful love, holding
the Duke's hand close in his own.
On the next day, before Renatus came to be enthroned, the barons came
to do him homage; and Renatus, asking God to give him words that he
might say what was in his heart, spoke to them, the Duke standing by;
he said that he well knew that it appeared strange that one so young
as himself should receive the homage of those who were older and wiser
and more strong, adding: "But I believe that I am truly called, under
God, to rule this land for the welfare of all that dwell therein, and
I will rule it with diligence. Nay--for it is not well that a land
should have many masters--I purpose that none shall rule it but
myself, under God." And at that the barons looked upon one another,
but Renatus, leaning a little forward, with his hand upon his
sword-hilt, said: "I think, my Lords, that there be some here that are
saying to themselves, _He hath learnt his lesson well_, and I hope
that it may be seen that it is so--but it is God and not man who hath
put it into my heart to say this; it is from Him that I receive this
throne. Counsel will I ask, and that gladly; but remembering the
account that I must one day make, I will rule this realm for the
welfare of the people thereof, and I will have all men do their parts;
so see that your homage be of the heart and not of the lips, for it is
to God that you make it, and not to me, who am indeed unworthy; but He
that hath set me in this place will strengthen my hands. I have spoken
this," he said, "not willingly; but I would have no one mistake my
purpose in the matter."
Then the barons came silently to do obeisance; and so Renatus came to
his own; but more of him I must not here say, save that he ruled his
realm wisely and well, and ever gave God the glory.
THE SLYPE HOUSE
In the town of Garchester, close to St. Peter's Church, and near the
river, stood a dark old house called the Slype House, from a narrow
passage of that name that ran close to it, down to a bridge over the
stream. The house showed a front of mouldering and discoloured stone
to the street, pierced by small windows, like a monastery; and indeed,
it was formerly inhabited by a college of priests who had served the
Church. It abutted at one angle upon the aisle of the church, and
there was a casement window that looked out from a room in the house,
formerly the infirmary, into the aisle; it had been so built that any
priest that was sick might hear the Mass from his bed, without
descending into the church. Behind the house lay a little garden,
closely grown up with trees and tall weeds, that ran down to the
stream. In the wall that gave on the water, was a small door that
admitted to an old timbered bridge that crossed the stream, and had a
barred gate on the further side, which was rarely seen open; though if
a man had watched attentively he might sometimes have seen a small
lean person, much bowed and with a halting gait, slip out very quietly
about dusk, and walk, with his eyes cast down, among the shadowy
byways.
The name of the man who thus dwelt in the Slype House, as it appeared
in the roll of burgesses, was Anthony Purvis. He was of an ancient
family, and had inherited wealth. A word must be said of his childhood
and youth. He was a sickly child, an only son, his father a man of
substance, who lived very easily in the country; his mother had died
when he was quite a child, and this sorrow had been borne very heavily
by his father, who had loved her tenderly, and after her death had
become morose and sullen, withdrawing himself from all company and
exercise, and brooding angrily over his loss, as though God had
determined to vex him. He had never cared much for the child, who had
been peevish and fretful; and the boy's presence had done little but
remind him of the wife he had lost; so that the child had lived alone,
nourishing his own fancies, and reading much in a library of curious
books that was in the house. The boy's health had been too tender for
him to go to school; but when he was eighteen, he seemed stronger, and
his father sent him to a university, more for the sake of being
relieved of the boy's presence than for his good. And there, being
unused to the society of his equals, he had been much flouted and
despised for his feeble frame; till a certain bitter ambition sprang
up in his mind, like a poisonous flower, to gain power and make
himself a name; and he had determined that as he could not be loved he
might still be feared; so he bided his time in bitterness, making
great progress in his studies; then, when those days were over, he
departed eagerly, and sought and obtained his father's leave to betake
himself to a university of Italy, where he fell into somewhat evil
hands; for he made a friendship with an old doctor of the college, who
feared not God and thought ill of man, and spent all his time in dark
researches into the evil secrets of nature, the study of poisons that
have enmity to the life of man, and many other hidden works of
darkness, such as intercourse with spirits of evil, and the black
influences that lie in wait for the soul; and he found Anthony an apt
pupil. There he lived for some years till he was nearly thirty, seldom
visiting his home, and writing but formal letters to his father, who
supplied him gladly with a small revenue, so long as he kept apart and
troubled him not.
Then his father had died, and Anthony came home to take up his
inheritance, which was a plentiful one; he sold his land, and visiting
the town of Garchester, by chance, for it lay near his home, he had
lighted upon the Slype House, which lay very desolate and gloomy; and
as he needed a large place for his instruments and devices, he had
bought the house, and had now lived there for twenty years in great
loneliness, but not ill-content.
To serve him he had none but a man and his wife, who were quiet and
simple people and asked no questions; the wife cooked his meals, and
kept the rooms, where he slept and read, clean and neat; the man moved
his machines for him, and arranged his phials and instruments, having
a light touch and a serviceable memory.
The door of the house that gave on the street opened into a hall; to
the right was a kitchen, and a pair of rooms where the man and his
wife lived. On the left was a large room running through the house;
the windows on to the street were walled up, and the windows at the
back looked on the garden, the trees of which grew close to the
casements, making the room dark, and in a breeze rustling their leaves
or leafless branches against the panes. In this room Anthony had a
furnace with bellows, the smoke of which discharged itself into the
chimney; and here he did much of his work, making mechanical toys, as
a clock to measure the speed of wind or water, a little chariot that
ran a few yards by itself, a puppet that moved its arms and
laughed--and other things that had wiled away his idle hours; the room
was filled up with dark lumber, in a sort of order that would have
looked to a stranger like disorder, but so that Anthony could lay his
hand on all that he needed. From the hall, which was paved with stone,
went up the stairs, very strong and broad, of massive oak; under which
was a postern that gave on the garden; on the floor above was a room
where Anthony slept, which again had its windows to the street boarded
up, for he was a light sleeper, and the morning sounds of the
awakening city disturbed him.
The room was hung with a dark arras, sprinkled with red flowers; he
slept in a great bed with black curtains to shut out all light; the
windows looked into the garden; but on the left of the bed, which
stood with its head to the street, was an alcove, behind the hangings,
containing the window that gave on the church. On the same floor were
three other rooms; in one of these, looking on the garden, Anthony had
his meals. It was a plain panelled room. Next was a room where he
read, filled with books, also looking on the garden; and next to that
was a little room of which he alone had the key. This room he kept
locked, and no one set foot in it but himself. There was one more room
on this floor, set apart for a guest who never came, with a great bed
and a press of oak. And that looked on the street. Above, there was a
row of plain plastered rooms, in which stood furniture for which
Anthony had no use, and many crates in which his machines and phials
came to him; this floor was seldom visited, except by the man, who
sometimes came to put a box there; and the spiders had it to
themselves; except for a little room where stood an optic glass
through which on clear nights Anthony sometimes looked at the moon and
stars, if there was any odd misadventure among them, such as an
eclipse; or when a fiery-tailed comet went his way silently in the
heavens, coming from none might say whence and going none knew
whither, on some strange errand of God.
Anthony had but two friends who ever came to see him. One was an old
physician who had ceased to practise his trade, which indeed was never
abundant, and who would sometimes drink a glass of wine with Anthony,
and engage in curious talk of men's bodies and diseases, or look at
one of Anthony's toys. Anthony had come to know him by having called
him in to cure some ailment, which needed a surgical knife; and that
had made a kind of friendship between them; but Anthony had little
need thereafter to consult him about his health, which indeed was now
settled enough, though he had but little vigour; and he knew enough of
drugs to cure himself when he was ill. The other friend was a foolish
priest of the college, that made belief to be a student but was none,
who thought Anthony a very wise and mighty person, and listened with
open mouth and eyes to all that he said or showed him. This priest,
who was fond of wonders, had introduced himself to Anthony by making
believe to borrow a volume of him; and then had grown proud of the
acquaintance, and bragged greatly of it to his friends, mixing up much
that was fanciful with a little that was true. But the result was that
gossip spread wide about Anthony, and he was held in the town to be a
very fearful person, who could do strange mischief if he had a mind
to; Anthony never cared to walk abroad, for he was of a shy habit, and
disliked to meet the eyes of his fellows; but if he did go about, men
began to look curiously after him as he went by, shook their heads and
talked together with a dark pleasure, while children fled before his
face and women feared him; all of which pleased Anthony mightily, if
the truth were told; for at the bottom of his restless and eager
spirit lay a deep vanity unseen, like a lake in woods; he hungered not
indeed for fame, but for repute--_monstrari digito_, as the poet has
it; and he cared little in what repute he was held, so long as men
thought him great and marvellous; and as he could not win renown by
brave deeds and words, he was rejoiced to win it by keeping up a
certain darkness and mystery about his ways and doings; and this was
very dear to him, so that when the silly priest called him Seer and
Wizard, he frowned and looked sideways; but he laughed in his heart
and was glad.
Now, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, there fell on him a
heaviness of spirit which daily increased upon him. He began to
question of his end and what lay beyond. He had always made pretence
to mock at religion, and had grown to believe that in death the soul
was extinguished like a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question of
his life and what he had done. He had made a few toys, he had filled
vacant hours, and he had gained an ugly kind of fame--and this was
all. Was he so certain, he began to think, after all, that death was
the end? Were there not, perhaps, in the vast house of God, rooms and
chambers beyond that in which he was set for awhile to pace to and
fro? About this time he began to read in a Bible that had lain dusty
and unopened on a shelf. It was his mother's book, and he found
therein many little tokens of her presence. Here was a verse
underlined; at some gracious passages the page was much fingered and
worn; in one place there were stains that looked like the mark of
tears; then again, in one page, there was a small tress of hair,
golden hair, tied in a paper with a name across it, that seemed to be
the name of a little sister of his mother's that died a child; and
again there were a few withered flowers, like little sad ghosts, stuck
through a paper on which was written his father's name--the name of
the sad, harsh, silent man whom Anthony had feared with all his heart.
Had those two, indeed, on some day of summer, walked to and fro, or
sate in some woodland corner, whispering sweet words of love together?
Anthony felt a sudden hunger of the heart for a woman's love, for
tender words to soothe his sadness, for the laughter and kisses of
children--and he began to ransack his mind for memories of his mother;
he could remember being pressed to her heart one morning when she lay
abed, with her fragrant hair falling about him. The worst was that he
must bear his sorrow alone, for there were none to whom he could talk
of such things. The doctor was as dry as an old bunch of herbs, and as
for the priest, Anthony was ashamed to show anything but contempt and
pride in his presence.
For relief he began to turn to a branch of his studies that he had
long disused; this was a fearful commerce with the unseen spirits.
Anthony could remember having practised some experiments of this kind
with the old Italian doctor; but he remembered them with a kind of
disgust, for they seemed to him but a sort of deadly juggling; and
such dark things as he had seen seemed like a dangerous sport with
unclean and coltish beings, more brute-like than human. Yet now he
read in his curious books with care, and studied the tales of
necromancers, who had indeed seemed to have some power over the souls
of men departed. But the old books gave him but little faith, and a
kind of angry disgust at the things attempted. And he began to think
that the horror in which such men as made these books abode, was not
more than the dark shadow cast on the mirror of the soul by their own
desperate imaginings and timorous excursions.
One day, a Sunday, he was strangely sad and heavy; he could settle to
nothing, but threw book after book aside, and when he turned to some
work of construction, his hand seemed to have lost its cunning. It was
a grey and sullen day in October; a warm wet wind came buffeting up
from the west, and roared in the chimneys and eaves of the old house.
The shrubs in the garden plucked themselves hither and thither as
though in pain. Anthony walked to and fro after his midday meal, which
he had eaten hastily and without savour; at last, as though with a
sudden resolution, he went to a secret cabinet and got out a key; and
with it he went to the door of the little room that was ever locked.
He stopped at the threshold for a while, looking hither and thither;
and then he suddenly unlocked it and went in, closing and locking it
behind him. The room was as dark as night, but Anthony going softly,
his hands before him, went to a corner and got a tinder-box which lay
there, and made a flame.
A small dark room appeared, hung with a black tapestry; the window
was heavily shuttered and curtained; in the centre of the room stood
what looked like a small altar, painted black; the floor was all bare,
but with white marks upon it, half effaced. Anthony looked about the
room, glancing sidelong, as though in some kind of doubt; his breath
went and came quickly, and he looked paler than was his wont.
Presently, as though reassured by the silence and calm of the place,
he went to a tall press that stood in a corner, which he opened, and
took from it certain things--a dish of metal, some small leathern
bags, a large lump of chalk, and a book. He laid all but the chalk
down on the altar, and then opening the book, read in it a little; and
then he went with the chalk and drew certain marks upon the floor,
first making a circle, which he went over again and again with anxious
care; at times he went back and peeped into the book as though
uncertain. Then he opened the bags, which seemed to hold certain kinds
of powder, this dusty, that in grains; he ran them through his hands,
and then poured a little of each into his dish, and mixed them with
his hands. Then he stopped and looked about him. Then he walked to a
place in the wall on the further side of the altar from the door, and
drew the arras carefully aside, disclosing a little alcove in the
wall; into this he looked fearfully, as though he was afraid of what
he might see.
In the alcove, which was all in black, appeared a small shelf, that
stood but a little way out from the wall. Upon it, gleaming very white
against the black, stood the skull of a man, and on either side of the
skull were the bones of a man's hand. It looked to him, as he gazed on
it with a sort of curious disgust, as though a dead man had come up to
the surface of a black tide, and was preparing presently to leap out.
On either side stood two long silver candlesticks, very dark with
disuse; but instead of holding candles, they were fitted at the top
with flat metal dishes; and in these he poured some of his powders,
mixing them as before with his fingers. Between the candlesticks and
behind the skull was an old and dark picture, at which he gazed for a
time, holding his taper on high. The picture represented a man fleeing
in a kind of furious haste from a wood, his hands spread wide, and his
eyes staring out of the picture; behind him everywhere was the wood,
above which was a star in the sky--and out of the wood leaned a
strange pale horned thing, very dim. The horror in the man's face was
skilfully painted, and Anthony felt a shudder pass through his veins.
He knew not what the picture meant; it had been given to him by the
old Italian, who had smiled a wicked smile when he gave it, and told
him that it had a very great virtue. When Anthony had asked him of the
subject of the picture, the old Italian had said, "Oh, it is as
appears; he hath been where he ought not, and he hath seen somewhat he
doth not like." When Anthony would fain have known more, and
especially what the thing was that leaned out of the wood, the old
Italian had smiled cruelly and said, "Know you not? Well, you will
know some day when you have seen him;" and never a word more would he
say.
When Anthony had put all things in order, he opened the book at a
certain place, and laid it upon the altar; and then it seemed as
though his courage failed him, for he drew the curtain again over the
alcove, unlocked the door, set the tinder-box and the candle back in
their place, and softly left the room.
He was very restless all the evening. He took down books from the
shelves, turned them over, and put them back again. He addressed
himself to some unfinished work, but soon threw it aside; he paced up
and down, and spent a long time, with his hands clasped behind him,
looking out into the desolate garden, where a still, red sunset burnt
behind the leafless trees. He was like a man who has made up his mind
to a grave decision, and shrinks back upon the brink. When his food
was served he could hardly touch it, and he drank no wine as his
custom was to do, but only water, saying to himself that his head must
be clear. But in the evening he went to his bedroom, and searched for
something in a press there; he found at last what he was searching
for, and unfolded a long black robe, looking gloomily upon it, as
though it aroused unwelcome thoughts; while he was pondering, he heard
a hum of music behind the arras; he put the robe down, and stepped
through the hangings, and stood awhile in the little oriel that looked
down into the church. Vespers were proceeding; he saw the holy lights
dimly through the dusty panes, and heard the low preluding of the
organ; then, solemn and slow, rose the sound of a chanted psalm on the
air; he carefully unfastened the casement which opened inward and
unclosed it, standing for a while to listen, while the air, fragrant
with incense smoke, drew into the room along the vaulted roof. There
were but a few worshippers in the church, who stood below him; two
lights burnt stilly upon the altar, and he saw distinctly the thin
hands of a priest who held a book close to his face. He had not set
foot within a church for many years, and the sight and sound drew his
mind back to his childhood's days. At last with a sigh he put the
window to very softly, and went to his study, where he made pretence
to read, till the hour came when he was wont to retire to his bed. He
sent his servant away, but instead of lying down, he sate, looking
upon a parchment, which he held in his hand, while the bells of the
city slowly told out the creeping hours.
At last, a few minutes before midnight, he rose from his place; the
house was now all silent, and without the night was very still, as
though all things slept tranquilly. He opened the press and took from
it the black robe, and put it round him, so that it covered him from
head to foot, and then gathered up the parchment, and the key of the
locked room, and went softly out, and so came to the door. This he
undid with a kind of secret and awestruck haste, locking it behind
him. Once inside the room, he wrestled awhile with a strong aversion
to what was in his mind to do, and stood for a moment, listening
intently, as though he expected to hear some sound. But the room was
still, except for the faint biting of some small creature in the
wainscot.
Then with a swift motion he took up the tinder-box and made a light;
he drew aside the curtain that hid the alcove; he put fire to the
powder in the candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and then
swiftly kindling sent up a thick smoky flame, fragrant with drugs,
burning hotly and red. Then he came back to the altar; cast a swift
glance round him to see that all was ready; put fire to the powder on
the altar, and in a low and inward voice began to recite words from
the book, and from the parchment which he held in his hand; once or
twice he glanced fearfully at the skull, and the hands which gleamed
luridly through the smoke; the figures in the picture wavered in the
heat; and now the powders began to burn clear, and throw up a steady
light; and still he read, sometimes turning a page, until at last he
made an end; and drawing something from a silver box which lay beside
the book, he dropped it in the flame, and looked straight before him
to see what might befall. The thing that fell in the flame burned up
brightly, with a little leaping of sparks, but soon it died down; and
there was a long silence, in the room, a breathless silence, which, to
Anthony's disordered mind, was not like the silence of emptiness, but
such silence as may be heard when unseen things are crowding quietly
to a closed door, expecting it to be opened, and as it were holding
each other back.
Suddenly, between him and the picture, appeared for a moment a pale
light, as of moonlight, and then with a horror which words cannot
attain to describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air a few feet from
him, that looked in his own eyes with a sort of intent fury, as though
to spring upon him if he turned either to the right hand or to the
left. His knees tottered beneath him, and a sweat of icy coldness
sprang on his brow; there followed a sound like no sound that Anthony
had ever dreamed of hearing; a sound that was near and yet remote, a
sound that was low and yet charged with power, like the groaning of a
voice in grievous pain and anger, that strives to be free and yet is
helpless. And then Anthony knew that he had indeed opened the door
that looks into the other world, and that a deadly thing that held him
in enmity had looked out. His reeling brain still told him that he was
safe where he was, but that he must not step or fall outside the
circle; but how he should resist the power of the wicked face he knew
not. He tried to frame a prayer in his heart; but there swept such a
fury of hatred across the face that he dared not. So he closed his
eyes and stood dizzily waiting to fall, and knowing that if he fell it
was the end.
Suddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt the horror of the
spell relax; he opened his eyes again, and saw that the face died out
upon the air, becoming first white and then thin, like the husk that
stands on a rush when a fly draws itself from its skin, and floats
away into the sunshine.
Then there fell a low and sweet music upon the air, like a concert of
flutes and harps, very far away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clear
radiance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his mind, appeared
in the space, and looked at him with a kind of heavenly love; then
beside the face appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave a
blessing towards him, which flowed like healing into his soul.
The relief from the horror, and the flood of tenderness that came into
his heart, made him reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in a
rising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a step forwards round
the altar; but as he did so, the vision disappeared, the lights shot
up into a flare and went out; the house seemed to be suddenly shaken;
in the darkness he heard the rattle of bones, and the clash of metal,
and Anthony fell all his length upon the ground and lay as one dead.
But while he thus lay, there came to him in some secret cell of the
mind a dreadful vision, which he could only dimly remember afterwards
with a fitful horror. He thought that he was walking in the cloister
of some great house or college, a cool place, with a pleasant garden
in the court. He paced up and down, and each time that he did so, he
paused a little before a great door at the end, a huge blind portal,
with much carving about it, which he somehow knew he was forbidden to
enter. Nevertheless, each time that he came to it, he felt a strong
wish, that constantly increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dream
there fell on him a certain heaviness, and the shadow of a cloud fell
over the court, and struck the sunshine out of it. And at last he made
up his mind that he would enter. He pushed the door open with much
difficulty, and found himself in a long blank passage, very damp and
chilly, but with a glimmering light; he walked a few paces down it.
The flags underfoot were slimy, and the walls streamed with damp. He
then thought that he would return; but the great door was closed
behind him, and he could not open it. This made him very fearful; and
while he considered what he should do, he saw a tall and angry-looking
man approaching very swiftly down the passage. As he turned to face
him, the other came straight to him, and asked him very sternly what
he did there; to which Anthony replied that he had found the door
open. To which the other replied that it was fast now, and that he
must go forward. He seized Anthony as he spoke by the arm, and urged
him down the passage. Anthony would fain have resisted, but he felt
like a child in the grip of a giant, and went forward in great terror
and perplexity. Presently they came to a door in the side of the wall,
and as they passed it, there stepped out an ugly shadowy thing, the
nature of which he could not clearly discern, and marched softly
behind them. Soon they came to a turn in the passage, and in a moment
the way stopped on the brink of a dark well, that seemed to go down a
long way into the earth, and out of which came a cold fetid air, with
a hollow sound like a complaining voice. Anthony drew back as far as
he could from the pit, and set his back to the wall, his companion
letting go of him. But he could not go backward, for the thing behind
him was in the passage, and barred the way, creeping slowly nearer.
Then Anthony was in a great agony of mind, and waited for the end.
But while he waited, there came some one very softly down the passage
and drew near; and the other, who had led him to the place, waited, as
though ill-pleased to be interrupted; it was too murky for Anthony to
see the new-comer, but he knew in some way that he was a friend. The
stranger came up to them, and spoke in a low voice to the man who had
drawn Anthony thither, as though pleading for something; and the man
answered angrily, but yet with a certain dark respect, and seemed to
argue that he was acting in his right, and might not be interfered
with. Anthony could not hear what they said, they spoke so low, but he
guessed the sense, and knew that it was himself of whom they
discoursed, and listened with a fearful wonder to see which would
prevail. The end soon came, for the tall man, who had brought him
there, broke out into a great storm of passion; and Anthony heard him
say, "He hath yielded himself to his own will; and he is mine here; so
let us make an end." Then the stranger seemed to consider; and then
with a quiet courage, and in a soft and silvery voice like that of a
child, said, "I would that you would have yielded to my prayer; but as
you will not, I have no choice." And he took his hand from under the
cloak that wrapped him, and held something out; then there came a
great roaring out of the pit, and a zigzag flame flickered in the
dark. Then in a moment the tall man and the shadow were gone; Anthony
could not see whither they went, and he would have thanked the
stranger; but the other put his finger to his lip as though to order
silence, and pointed to the way he had come, saying, "Make haste and
go back; for they will return anon with others; you know not how dear
it hath cost me." Anthony could see the stranger's face in the gloom,
and he was surprised to see it so youthful; but he saw also that tears
stood in the eyes of the stranger, and that something dark like blood
trickled down his brow; yet he looked very lovingly at him. So Anthony
made haste to go back, and found the door ajar; but as he reached it,
he heard a horrible din behind him, of cries and screams; and it was
with a sense of gratitude, that he could not put into words, but which
filled all his heart, that he found himself back in the cloister
again. And then the vision all fled away, and with a shock coming to
himself, he found that he was lying in his own room; and then he knew
that a battle had been fought out over his soul, and that the evil had
not prevailed.
He was cold and aching in every limb; the room was silent and dark,
with the heavy smell of the burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept to
the door, and opened it; locked it again, and made his way in the dark
very feebly to his bed-chamber; he had just the strength to get into
his bed, and then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he lay, and
thought that he was dying. Presently from without there came the
crying of cocks, and a bell beat the hour of four; and after that, in
his vigil of weakness, it was strange to see the light glimmer in the
crevices, and to hear the awakening birds that in the garden bushes
took up, one after another, their slender piping song, till all the
choir cried together.
But Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart; and he had a sense,
though he could not say why, that it was as once in his childhood,
when he was ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while he slept.
So he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness that was a blessed
hour.
When his man came to rouse him in the morning, Anthony said that he
believed that he was very ill, that he had had a fall, and that the
old doctor must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely upon
him, that Anthony knew that he had some fear upon his mind. Presently
the doctor was brought, and Anthony answered such questions as were
put to him, in a faint voice, saying, "I was late at my work, and I
slipped and fell." The doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions;
and when he went away he heard his man behind the door asking the
doctor about the strange storm in the night, that had seemed like an
earthquake, or as if a thunderbolt had struck the house. But the
doctor said very gruffly, "It is no time to talk thus, when your
master is sick to death." But Anthony knew in himself that he would
not die yet.
It was long ere he was restored to a measure of health; and indeed he
never rightly recovered the use of his limbs; the doctor held that he
had suffered some stroke of palsy; at which Anthony smiled a little,
and made no answer.
When he was well enough to creep to and fro, he went sadly to the
dark room, and with much pain and weakness carried the furniture out
of it. The picture he cut in pieces and burnt; and the candles and
dishes, with the book, he cast into a deep pool in the stream; the
bones he buried in the earth; the hangings he stored away for his own
funeral.
Anthony never entered his workroom again; but day after day he sate
in his chair, and read a little, but mostly in the Bible; he made a
friend of a very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his heart, and
to whom he conveyed much money to be bestowed on the poor; there was a
great calm in his spirit, which was soon written in his face, in spite
of his pain, for he often suffered sorely; but he told the priest that
something, he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by him, waiting
patiently for his coming; and so Anthony awaited his end.
OUT OF THE SEA
It was about ten of the clock on a November morning in the little
village of Blea-on-the-Sands. The hamlet was made up of some thirty
houses, which clustered together on a low rising ground. The place was
very poor, but some old merchant of bygone days had built in a pious
mood a large church, which was now too great for the needs of the
place; the nave had been unroofed in a heavy gale, and there was no
money to repair it, so that it had fallen to decay, and the tower was
joined to the choir by roofless walls. This was a sore trial to the
old priest, Father Thomas, who had grown grey there; but he had no art
in gathering money, which he asked for in a shamefaced way; and the
vicarage was a poor one, hardly enough for the old man's needs. So the
church lay desolate.
The village stood on what must once have been an island; the little
river Reddy, which runs down to the sea, there forking into two
channels on the landward side; towards the sea the ground was bare,
full of sand-hills covered with a short grass. Towards the land was a
small wood of gnarled trees, the boughs of which were all brushed
smooth by the gales; looking landward there was the green flat, in
which the river ran, rising into low hills; hardly a house was visible
save one or two lonely farms; two or three church towers rose above
the hills at a long distance away. Indeed Blea was much cut off from
the world; there was a bridge over the stream on the west side, but
over the other channel was no bridge, so that to fare eastward it was
requisite to go in a boat. To seaward there were wide sands, when the
tide was out; when it was in, it came up nearly to the end of the
village street. The people were mostly fishermen, but there were a few
farmers and labourers; the boats of the fishermen lay to the east side
of the village, near the river channel which gave some draught of
water; and the channel was marked out by big black stakes and posts
that straggled out over the sands, like awkward leaning figures, to
the sea's brim.
Father Thomas lived in a small and ancient brick house near the
church, with a little garden of herbs attached. He was a kindly man,
much worn by age and weather, with a wise heart, and he loved the
quiet life with his small flock. This morning he had come out of his
house to look abroad, before he settled down to the making of his
sermon. He looked out to sea, and saw with a shadow of sadness the
black outline of a wreck that had come ashore a week before, and over
which the white waves were now breaking. The wind blew steadily from
the north-east, and had a bitter poisonous chill in it, which it
doubtless drew from the fields of the upper ice. The day was dark and
overhung, not with cloud, but with a kind of dreary vapour that shut
out the sun. Father Thomas shuddered at the wind, and drew his patched
cloak round him. As he did so, he saw three figures come up to the
vicarage gate. It was not a common thing for him to have visitors in
the morning, and he saw with surprise that they were old Master John
Grimston, the richest man in the place, half farmer and half
fisherman, a dark surly old man; his wife, Bridget, a timid and
frightened woman, who found life with her harsh husband a difficult
business, in spite of their wealth, which, for a place like Blea, was
great; and their son Henry, a silly shambling man of forty, who was
his father's butt. The three walked silently and heavily, as though
they came on a sad errand.
Father Thomas went briskly down to meet them, and greeted them with
his accustomed cheerfulness. "And what may I do for you?" he said. Old
Master Grimston made a sort of gesture with his head as though his
wife should speak; and she said in a low and somewhat husky voice,
with a rapid utterance, "We have a matter, Father, we would ask you
about--are you at leisure?" Father Thomas said, "Ay, I am ashamed to
be not more busy! Let us go within the house." They did so; and even
in the little distance to the door, the Father thought that his
visitors behaved themselves very strangely. They peered round from
left to right, and once or twice Master Grimston looked sharply behind
them, as though they were followed. They said nothing but "Ay" and
"No" to the Father's talk, and bore themselves like people with a sore
fear on their backs. Father Thomas made up his mind that it was some
question of money, for nothing else was wont to move Master Grimston's
mind. So he had them into his parlour and gave them seats, and then
there was a silence, while the two men continued to look furtively
about them, and the goodwife sate with her eyes upon the priest's
face. Father Thomas knew not what to make of this, till Master
Grimston said harshly, "Come, wife, tell the tale and make an end; we
must not take up the Father's time."
"I hardly know how to say it, Father," said Bridget, "but a strange
and evil thing has befallen us; there is something come to our house,
and we know not what it is--but it brings a fear with it." A sudden
paleness came over her face, and she stopped, and the three exchanged
a glance in which terror was visibly written. Master Grimston looked
over his shoulder swiftly, and made as though to speak, yet only
swallowed in his throat; but Henry said suddenly, in a loud and woeful
voice: "It is an evil beast out of the sea." And then there followed a
dreadful silence, while Father Thomas felt a sudden fear leap up in
his heart, at the contagion of the fear that he saw written on the
faces round him. But he said with all the cheerfulness he could
muster, "Come, friends, let us not begin to talk of sea-beasts; we
must have the whole tale. Mistress Grimston, I must hear the story--be
content--nothing can touch us here." The three seemed to draw a faint
content from his words, and Bridget began:--
"It was the day of the wreck, Father. John was up betimes, before the
dawn; he walked out early to the sands, and Henry with him--and they
were the first to see the wreck--was not that it?" At these words the
father and son seemed to exchange a very swift and secret look, and
both grew pale. "John told me there was a wreck ashore, and they went
presently and roused the rest of the village; and all that day they
were out, saving what could be saved. Two sailors were found, both
dead and pitifully battered by the sea, and they were buried, as you
know, Father, in the churchyard next day; John came back about dusk
and Henry with him, and we sate down to our supper. John was telling
me about the wreck, as we sate beside the fire, when Henry, who was
sitting apart, rose up and cried out suddenly, 'What is that?'"
She paused for a moment, and Henry, who sate with face blanched,
staring at his mother, said, "Ay, did I--it ran past me suddenly."
"Yes, but what was it?" said Father Thomas trying to smile; "a dog or
cat, methinks." "It was a beast," said Henry slowly, in a trembling
voice--"a beast about the bigness of a goat. I never saw the like--yet
I did not see it clear; I but felt the air blow, and caught a whiff of
it--it was salt like the sea, but with a kind of dead smell behind."
"Was that all you saw?" said Father Thomas; "belike you were tired and
faint, and the air swam round you suddenly--I have known the like
myself when weary." "Nay, nay," said Henry, "this was not like
that--it was a beast, sure enough." "Ay, and we have seen it since,"
said Bridget. "At least I have not seen it clearly yet, but I have
smelt its odour, and it turns me sick--but John and Henry have seen it
often--sometimes it lies and seems to sleep, but it watches us; and
again it is merry, and will leap in a corner--and John saw it skip
upon the sands near the wreck--did you not, John?" At these words the
two men again exchanged a glance, and then old Master Grimston, with a
dreadful look in his face, in which great anger seemed to strive with
fear, said, "Nay, silly woman, it was not near the wreck, it was out
to the east." "It matters little," said Father Thomas, who saw well
enough this was no light matter. "I never heard the like of it. I will
myself come down to your house with a holy book, and see if the thing
will meet me. I know not what this is," he went on, "whether it is a
vain terror that hath hold of you; but there be spirits of evil in the
world, though much fettered by Christ and His Saints--we read of such
in Holy Writ--and the sea, too, doubtless hath its monsters; and it
may be that one hath wandered out of the waves, like a dog that hath
strayed from his home. I dare not say, till I have met it face to
face. But God gives no power to such things to hurt those who have a
fair conscience."--And here he made a stop, and looked at the three;
Bridget sate regarding him with a hope in her face; but the other two
sate peering upon the ground; and the priest divined in some secret
way that all was not well with them. "But I will come at once," he
said, rising, "and I will see if I can cast out or bind the thing,
whatever it be--for I am in this place as a soldier of the Lord, to
fight with works of darkness." He took a clasped book from a table,
and lifted up his hat, saying, "Let us set forth." Then he said as
they left the room, "Hath it appeared to-day?" "Yes, indeed," said
Henry, "and it was ill content. It followed us as though it were
angered." "Come," said Father Thomas, turning upon him, "you speak
thus of a thing, as you might speak of a dog--what is it like?" "Nay,"
said Henry, "I know not; I can never see it clearly; it is like a
speck in the eye--it is never there when you look upon it--it glides
away very secretly; it is most like a goat, I think. It seems to be
horned, and hairy; but I have seen its eyes, and they were yellow,
like a flame."
As he said these words Master Grimston went in haste to the door, and
pulled it open as though to breathe the air. The others followed him
and went out; but Master Grimston drew the priest aside, and said like
a man in a mortal fear, "Look you, Father, all this is true--the thing
is a devil--and why it abides with us I know not; but I cannot live
so; and unless it be cast out it will slay me--but if money be of
avail, I have it in abundance." "Nay," said Father Thomas, "let there
be no talk of money--perchance if I can aid you, you may give of your
gratitude to God." "Ay, ay," said the old man hurriedly, "that was
what I meant--there is money in abundance for God, if He will but set
me free."
So they walked very sadly together through the street. There were few
folk about; the men and the children were all abroad--a woman or two
came to the house doors, and wondered a little to see them pass so
solemnly, as though they followed a body to the grave.
Master Grimston's house was the largest in the place. It had a walled
garden before it, with a strong door set in the wall. The house stood
back from the road, a dark front of brick with gables; behind it the
garden sloped nearly to the sands, with wooden barns and warehouses.
Master Grimston unlocked the door, and then it seemed that his terrors
came over him, for he would have the priest enter first. Father
Thomas, with a certain apprehension of which he was ashamed, walked
quickly in, and looked about him. The herbage of the garden had mostly
died down in the winter, and a tangle of sodden stalks lay over the
beds. A flagged path edged with box led up to the house, which seemed
to stare at them out of its dark windows with a sort of steady gaze.
Master Grimston fastened the door behind them, and they went all
together, keeping close one to another, up to the house, the door of
which opened upon a big parlour or kitchen, sparely furnished, but
very clean and comfortable. Some vessels of metal glittered on a rack.
There were chairs, ranged round the open fireplace. There was no sound
except that the wind buffeted in the chimney. It looked a quiet and
homely place, and Father Thomas grew ashamed of his fears. "Now," said
he in his firm voice, "though I am your guest here, I will appoint
what shall be done. We will sit here together, and talk as cheerfully
as we may, till we have dined. Then, if nothing appears to us,"--and
he crossed himself--"I will go round the house, into every room, and
see if we can track the thing to its lair: then I will abide with you
till evensong; and then I will soon return, and lie here to-night.
Even if the thing be wary, and dares not to meet the power of the
Church in the day-time, perhaps it will venture out at night; and I
will even try a fall with it. So come, good people, and be comforted."
So they sate together; and Father Thomas talked of many things, and
told some old legends of saints; and they dined, though without much
cheer; and still nothing appeared. Then, after dinner, Father Thomas
would view the house. So he took his book up, and they went from room
to room. On the ground floor there were several chambers not used,
which they entered in turn, but saw nothing; on the upper floor was a
large room where Master Grimston and his wife slept; and a further
room for Henry, and a guest-chamber in which the priest was to sleep
if need was; and a room where a servant-maid slept. And now the day
began to darken and to turn to evening, and Father Thomas felt a
shadow grow in his mind. There came into his head a verse of Scripture
about a spirit which found a house "empty, swept and garnished," and
called his fellows to enter in.
At the end of the passage was a locked door; and Father Thomas said:
"This is the last room--let us enter." "Nay, there is no need to do
that," said Master Grimston in a kind of haste; "it leads
nowhither--it is but a room of stores." "It were a pity to leave it
unvisited," said the Father--and as he said the word, there came a
kind of stirring from within. "A rat, doubtless," said the Father,
striving with a sudden sense of fear; but the pale faces round him
told another tale. "Come, Master Grimston, let us be done with this,"
said Father Thomas decisively; "the hour of vespers draws nigh." So
Master Grimston slowly drew out a key and unlocked the door, and
Father Thomas marched in. It was a simple place enough. There were
shelves on which various household matters lay, boxes and jars, with
twine and cordage. On the ground stood chests. There were some clothes
hanging on pegs, and in a corner was a heap of garments, piled up. On
one of the chests stood a box of rough deal, and from the corner of it
dripped water, which lay in a little pool on the floor. Master
Grimston went hurriedly to the box and pushed it further to the wall.
As he did so, a kind of sound came from Henry's lips. Father Thomas
turned and looked at him; he stood pale and strengthless, his eyes
fixed on the corner--at the same moment something dark and shapeless
seemed to slip past the group, and there came to the nostrils of
Father Thomas a strange sharp smell, as of the sea, only that there
was a taint within it, like the smell of corruption.
They all turned and looked at Father Thomas together, as though
seeking a comfort from his presence. He, hardly knowing what he did,
and in the grasp of a terrible fear, fumbled with his book; and
opening it, read the first words that his eye fell upon, which was the
place where the Blessed Lord, beset with enemies, said that if He did
but pray to His Father, He should send Him forthwith legions of angels
to encompass Him. And the verse seemed to the priest so like a message
sent instantly from heaven that he was not a little comforted.
But the thing, whatever the reason was, appeared to them no more at
that time. Yet the thought of it lay very heavy on Father Thomas's
heart. In truth he had not in the bottom of his mind believed that he
would see it, but had trusted in his honest life and his sacred
calling to protect him. He could hardly speak for some minutes--moreover
the horror of the thing was very great--and seeing him so grave, their
terrors were increased, though there was a kind of miserable joy in
their minds that some one, and he a man of high repute, should suffer
with them.
Then Father Thomas, after a pause--they were now in the parlour--said,
speaking very slowly, that they were in a sore affliction of Satan,
and that they must withstand him with a good courage--"and look you,"
he added, turning with a great sternness to the three, "if there be
any mortal sin upon your hearts, see that you confess it and be
shriven speedily--for while such a thing lies upon the heart, so long
hath Satan power to hurt--otherwise have no fear at all."
Then Father Thomas slipped out to the garden, and hearing the bell
pulled for vespers, he went to the church, and the three would go with
him, because they would not be left alone. So they went together; by
this time the street was fuller, and the servant-maid had told tales,
so that there was much talk in the place about what was going forward.
None spoke with them as they went, but at every corner you might see
one check another in talk, and a silence fall upon a group, so that
they knew that their terrors were on every tongue. There was but a
handful of worshippers in the church, which was dark, save for the
light on Father Thomas' book. He read the holy service swiftly and
courageously, but his face was very pale and grave in the light of the
candle. When the vespers were over, and he had put off his robe, he
said that he would go back to his house, and gather what he needed for
the night, and that they should wait for him at the churchyard gate.
So he strode off to his vicarage. But as he shut to the door, he saw a
dark figure come running up the garden; he waited with a fear in his
mind, but in a moment he saw that it was Henry, who came up
breathless, and said that he must speak with the Father alone. Father
Thomas knew that somewhat dark was to be told him. So he led Henry
into the parlour and seated himself, and said, "Now, my son, speak
boldly." So there was an instant's silence, and Henry slipped on to
his knees.
Then in a moment Henry with a sob began to tell his tale. He said
that on the day of the wreck his father had roused him very early in
the dawn, and had told him to put on his clothes and come silently,
for he thought there was a wreck ashore. His father carried a spade in
his hand, he knew not then why. They went down to the tide, which was
moving out very fast, and left but an inch or two of water on the
sands. There was but a little light, but, when they had walked a
little, they saw the black hull of a ship before them, on the edge of
the deeper water, the waves driving over it; and then all at once they
came upon the body of a man lying on his face on the sand. There was
no sign of life in him, but he clasped a bag in his hand that was
heavy, and the pocket of his coat was full to bulging; and there lay,
moreover, some glittering things about him that seemed to be coins.
They lifted the body up, and his father stripped the coat off from the
man, and then bade Henry dig a hole in the sand, which he presently
did, though the sand and water oozed fast into it. Then his father,
who had been stooping down, gathering somewhat up from the sand,
raised the body up, and laid it in the hole, and bade Henry cover it
with the sand. And so he did till it was nearly hidden. Then came a
horrible thing; the sand in the hole began to move and stir, and
presently a hand was put out with clutching fingers; and Henry had
dropped the spade, and said, "There is life in him," but his father
seized the spade, and shovelled the sand into the hole with a kind of
silent fury, and trampled it over and smoothed it down--and then he
gathered up the coat and the bag, and handed Henry the spade. By this
time the town was astir, and they saw, very faintly, a man run along
the shore eastward; so, making a long circuit to the west, they
returned; his father had put the spade away and taken the coat
upstairs; and then he went out with Henry, and told all he could find
that there was a wreck ashore.
The priest heard the story with a fierce shame and anger, and turning
to Henry he said, "But why did you not resist your father, and save
the poor sailor?" "I dared not," said Henry shuddering, "though I
would have done so if I could; but my father has a power over me, and
I am used to obey him." Then said the priest, "This is a dark matter.
But you have told the story bravely, and now will I shrive you, my
son." So he gave him shrift. Then he said to Henry, "And have you seen
aught that would connect the beast that visits you with this thing?"
"Ay, that I have," said Henry, "for I watched it with my father skip
and leap in the water over the place where the man lies buried." Then
the priest said, "Your father must tell me the tale too, and he must
make submission to the law." "He will not," said Henry. "Then will I
compel him," said the priest. "Not out of my mouth," said Henry, "or
he will slay me too." And then the priest said that he was in a strait
place, for he could not use the words of confession of one man to
convict another of his sin. So he gathered his things in haste, and
walked back to the church; but Henry went another way, saying "I made
excuse to come away, and said I went elsewhere; but I fear my father
much--he sees very deep; and I would not have him suspect me of having
made confession."
Then the Father met the other two at the church gate; and they went
down to the house in silence, the Father pondering heavily; and at the
door Henry joined them, and it seemed to the Father that old Master
Grimston regarded him not. So they entered the house in silence, and
ate in silence, listening earnestly for any sound. And the Father
looked oft on Master Grimston, who ate and drank and said nothing,
never raising his eyes. But once the Father saw him laugh secretly to
himself, so that the blood came cold in the Father's veins, and he
could hardly contain himself from accusing him. Then the Father had
them to prayers, and prayed earnestly against the evil, and that they
should open their hearts to God, if He would show them why this misery
came upon them.
Then they went to bed; and Henry asked that he might lie in the
priest's room, which he willingly granted. And so the house was dark,
and they made as though they would sleep; but the Father could not
sleep, and he heard Henry weeping silently to himself like a little
child.
But at last the Father slept--how long he knew not--and suddenly
brake out of his sleep with a horror of darkness all about him, and
knew that there was some evil thing abroad. So he looked upon the
room. He heard Henry mutter heavily in his sleep as though there was a
dark terror upon him; and then, in the light of the dying embers, the
Father saw a thing rise upon the hearth, as though it had slept there,
and woke to stretch itself. And then in the half-light it seemed
softly to gambol and play; but whereas when an innocent beast does
this in the simple joy of its heart, and seems a fond and pretty
sight, the Father thought he had never seen so ugly a sight as the
beast gambolling all by itself, as if it could not contain its own
dreadful joy; it looked viler and more wicked every moment; then, too,
there spread in the room the sharp scent of the sea, with the foul
smell underneath it, that gave the Father a deadly sickness; he tried
to pray, but no words would come, and he felt indeed that the evil was
too strong for him. Presently the beast desisted from its play, and
looking wickedly about it, came near to the Father's bed, and seemed
to put up its hairy forelegs upon it; he could see its narrow and
obscene eyes, which burned with a dull yellow light, and were fixed
upon him. And now the Father thought that his end was near, for he
could stir neither hand nor foot, and the sweat rained down his brow;
but he made a mighty effort, and in a voice which shocked himself, so
dry and husky and withal of so loud and screaming a tone it was, he
said three holy words. The beast gave a great quiver of rage, but it
dropped down on the floor, and in a moment was gone. They Henry woke,
and raising himself on his arm, said somewhat; but there broke out in
the house a great outcry and the stamping of feet, which seemed very
fearful in the silence of the night. The priest leapt out of his bed
all dizzy, and made a light, and ran to the door, and went out, crying
whatever words came to his head. The door of Master Grimston's room
was open, and a strange and strangling sound came forth; the Father
made his way in, and found Master Grimston lying upon the floor, his
wife bending over him; he lay still, breathing pitifully, and every
now and then a shudder ran through him. In the room there seemed a
strange and shadowy tumult going forward; but the Father saw that no
time could be lost, and kneeling down beside Master Grimston, he
prayed with all his might.
Presently Master Grimston ceased to struggle and lay still, like a man
who had come out of a sore conflict. Then he opened his eyes, and the
Father stopped his prayers, and looking very hard at him he said, "My
son, the time is very short--give God the glory." Then Master
Grimston, rolling his haggard eyes upon the group, twice strove to
speak and could not; but the third time the Father, bending down his
head, heard him say in a thin voice, that seemed to float from a long
way off, "I slew him ... my sin." Then the Father swiftly gave him
shrift, and as he said the last word, Master Grimston's head fell over
on the side, and the Father said, "He is gone." And Bridget broke out
into a terrible cry, and fell upon Henry's neck, who had entered
unseen.
Then the Father bade him lead her away, and put the poor body on the
bed; as he did so he noticed that the face of the dead man was
strangely bruised and battered, as though it had been stamped upon by
the hoofs of some beast. Then Father Thomas knelt, and prayed until
the light came filtering in through the shutters; and the cocks crowed
in the village, and presently it was day. But that night the Father
learnt strange secrets, and something of the dark purposes of God was
revealed to him.
In the morning there came one to find the priest, and told him that
another body had been thrown up on the shore, which was strangely
smeared with sand, as though it had been rolled over and over in it;
and the Father took order for its burial.
Then the priest had long talk with Bridget and Henry. He found them
sitting together, and she held her son's hand and smoothed his hair,
as though he had been a little child; and Henry sobbed and wept, but
Bridget was very calm. "He hath told me all," she said, "and we have
decided that he shall do whatever you bid him; must he be given to
justice?" and she looked at the priest very pitifully. "Nay, nay,"
said the priest. "I hold not Henry to account for the death of the
man; it was his father's sin, who hath made heavy atonement--the
secret shall be buried in our hearts."
Then Bridget told him how she had waked suddenly out of her sleep, and
heard her husband cry out; and that then followed a dreadful kind of
struggling, with the scent of the sea over all; and then he had all at
once fallen to the ground and she had gone to him--and that then the
priest had come.
Then Father Thomas said with tears that God had shown them deep things
and visited them very strangely; and they would henceforth live humbly
in His sight, showing mercy.
Then lastly he went with Henry to the store-room; and there, in the
box that had dripped with water, lay the coat of the dead man, full of
money, and the bag of money too; and Henry would have cast it back
into the sea, but the priest said that this might not be, but that it
should be bestowed plentifully upon shipwrecked mariners unless the
heirs should be found. But the ship appeared to be a foreign ship, and
no search ever revealed whence the money had come, save that it seemed
to have been violently come by.
Master Grimston was found to have left much wealth. But Bridget would
sell the house and the land, and it mostly went to rebuild the church
to God's glory. Then Bridget and Henry removed to the vicarage and
served Father Thomas faithfully, and they guarded their secret. And
beside the nave is a little high turret built, where burns a lamp in a
lantern at the top, to give light to those at sea.
Now the beast troubled those of whom I write no more; but it is
easier to raise up evil than to lay it; and there are those that say
that to this day a man or a woman with an evil thought in their hearts
may see on a certain evening in November, at the ebb of the tide, a
goatlike thing wade in the water, snuffing at the sand, as though it
sought but found not. But of this I know nothing.
THE TROTH OF THE SWORD
Sir Hugh was weary, for he had ridden far and fast that day, and
ridden warily too, by bypaths and green forest roads, for the country
was much harried by robbers at that time, under the grim chief that
went by the name of the Red Hound: he was an outlaw that had been a
knight; but for his cruelty and his blackness of heart and his
pitiless wickedness he had been driven from his stronghold into the
forest, where he lived a hunted life, rending hitherto all that were
sent against him, a terror in the land; writing his anger upon broken
churches and charred farmsteads. Sparing none but the children whom he
took to serve him, and maidens to please himself and his men.
But Sir Hugh had been safe enough; for the Red Hound was out
northwards; and Sir Hugh was gallantly attended by a troop of jingling
horse, that went swiftly before and behind him, while he rode in the
midst, silent as was his wont, his eyes dwelling wistfully upon the
green and lonely places of the forest, the bright faces of the
flowers, and the woodland things that slipped away into the brake. For
all his deeds of might--and Hugh though young in years was old in
valour--he had a deep desire for peace and the fair and beautiful arts
of life. He could sing tuneably to the lute; and he loved the delicate
things of earth with a love of which he spoke to none.
At last they struck out of the forest into a firmer road; and here was
a wall by the wayside and a towered gate; but the wood climbed steeply
within. At the gate they halted, and presently Sir Hugh was admitted.
The road within was paved with stone, and led to the left; and here
Sir Hugh dismounted, and saying that he would stretch his limbs, left
his horse to be led by the page that rode beside him, giving him a
smiling glance, which had made the boy a willing and loving servant.
The troop rode off among the copses; and Sir Hugh, taught by the
porter, took a grassy path that led steeply through the wood to the
right, the porter telling him that he would be the first at the castle
gate; for the path was steep and direct, while the road wound at an
easier slope, to the top of the hill where the Castle stood.
Sir Hugh unlaced his helmet, for the day had been still and hot. He
was a very gracious youth to behold. His face was beardless and
clean-cut. His skin was as the skin of a child, for he had lived a
pure life, eating and drinking sparingly. Another might have been
mocked for this; but Sir Hugh was so gallant a fighter, so courteous,
so loving, that he was let to please himself. His eyes were large and
quiet; his hair rippled into short brown curls. He had no signs of
travel, save a little dust upon his brow; and this he washed off at a
rill that fell clear through the wood, dripping from the rocks. And so
he went up easily, and glancing about him. The oak-copse interlaced
its boughs above his head; the sun had lately set, and there was a
soft twilight in the forest. In the pale sky floated a few dark
clouds, with rims of fire caught from the sinking sun; sometimes the
wood was all about him, with close undergrowth and grassy paths.
Sometimes he saw a pile of rocks, all overgrown with moss, indistinct
in the gloom. Sometimes he saw a dell where a stream went murmuring
down, hidden in climbing plants; sometimes a little lawn would open in
the heart of the chase, where a deer stood to graze, leaping lightly
into the brake at the sight of him.
He came very suddenly to the end of the path. Through the interlaced
leaves of the copse a great bulk loomed up, that seemed strangely high
and dark; the wood ended, and he saw the Castle before him, with its
turrets and battlements showing black against the green sky; a light
or two burnt with a fiery redness in some of the high windows.
He stepped out on to the wide platform of the Castle, and saw before
him the wooded ridges of the lower hills, with light veils of mist
lying among them, that had a golden hue from the setting sun; beyond,
rose the shadowy shapes of mountains, that seemed to guard a sweet and
solemn secret of peace in their midst. As he looked round, his troop
rode briskly out of the wood, with a sudden clatter, and a sharp
ringing of weapons, as they came out upon the paved space; and
presently a warder looked out, and the great doors of the Castle were
opened to them.
Sir Hugh bore with him a letter of great import. The Lord whom he
served, the Earl Fitz-Simon, was a man of haughty strength and great
pride. His Countess was lately dead, and he had no son to bear his
name. He was old and grizzled and brought a terror about with him. He
was as powerful indeed as the King himself, of whom the Earl spoke
scornfully, without concealment, doing him a scanty homage when they
met. Sir Hugh was of distant kin to him, and had been brought up in
his Castle; and the Earl went as near loving him as he had ever gone,
wishing that he had him as his son, and indeed desiring that he should
have the Earldom after him if he had no heir of his own, and marry his
only daughter, a grim maiden. And Hugh loved the Earl very faithfully,
giving him the worship of a son.
On the day before the Earl had sent for him; and Hugh had stood
beside him as he sate and wrote in silence, watching his great bony
hand and his knotted brow, bristled with stiff hair. Presently the
Earl had thrown down his pen, and exclaiming that he was but an ill
clerk, had smiled pleasantly upon Hugh, telling him in a few sour
words that he meant to take another wife, and that his choice had
fallen upon the Lady Mary, the daughter of the Lord Bigod (whose
Castle it was that Sir Hugh now approached). "A goodly maiden, apt to
bear strong children to my body." And as he said this he made a pause,
and watched Hugh narrowly to see how he took the news, and whether he
had hoped for the Earldom after him. But Hugh had given him an open
smile in return, and said that he wished him much happiness, and heirs
to rule after him. And the Earl had nodded well-pleased, knowing that
Hugh had spoken what was in his heart, and that no other man that he
knew would have so wished in Hugh's place; and then the Earl had sworn
a coarse oath or two, saying that he was old and spent, and if he did
not beget an heir, Hugh should come after him; but that if he did
beget a man-child, then that Hugh should have the guarding of him
after he himself was gone. And then he did up his letter roughly,
splashed wax upon it, and pricked it with a signet; and bade Hugh ride
in haste with a score of troopers, saying, "And I trust you with this
because you do not turn your eyes aside to vanity, as the priests say,
and care nothing for the looks of maidens; therefore you will be a
safe messenger; and you will put my ring (he gave it him) upon the
Lady Mary's finger before the priest, and kiss her on the lips if you
have a mind; and bid her ride within the week to the wedding; and stay
not for the Lord Bigod, for he is more maid than man, and will not
willingly let his daughter go; but will fear to keep her from my
behest."
And then he beat his hand on Hugh's shoulder, as his manner was when
he was pleased; and then to Hugh's surprise bent and kissed his cheek,
as a man might kiss his son, and then, as if ashamed, frowned upon
him, and said "with haste!"--and in an hour Hugh was gone.
Now when they entered the Castle, which had a great court within,
full of galleries, there was a great stir of people to see them; the
horses were led away to the stables; the troopers passed into the
guard room; and an old seneschal with a white staff asked Hugh
courteously of his business, and then led him up a flight of steps,
and into a long dark room, hung with a faded green arras.
Here sate a pale thin man at a table, looking upon a book, in a
velvet gown; the seneschal cried out Hugh's name, who made an
obeisance, and then advancing, put the letter in the hands of the Lord
Bigod, saying, "From the Earl Fitz-Simon; these." Then the Lord Bigod
rent the paper, looking curiously upon it; and read therein. Hugh
observed him closely; he looked more like a priest than a knight, but
there was something very sweet and noble about his air, and he looked
as a man might look who had known both sorrow and thought, and wished
well to all the world. The Lord Bigod read the letter, and then grew
somewhat pale; then he read it again, and walked to the window,
turning it in his hands. He stood so long, holding the letter behind
him, and looking out, that Hugh saw that he was wrestling in mind and
ill-at-ease. Then he turned, and said very courteously to Hugh, though
his voice trembled somewhat, "Know you what is within this letter?"
And Hugh said, "Yea, sir." And the Lord Bigod said, "It is a great
matter." And then, after another long silence, the Lord Bigod turned
to the seneschal who waited at the door, and said, "See that Sir Hugh
be well bestowed:" and then with an inclination of the head to Sir
Hugh he added, "I will think hereon, and you shall hear my words
to-morrow." Hugh turned and followed the seneschal out; and he felt a
great pity for the kind Lord whom he had left, for he saw that he was
in great sadness of mind and perplexity. The seneschal asked Hugh if
he would join the knights, but Hugh said he was weary and would rest.
So the seneschal led him to a spacious chamber, from which Hugh could
see the tree-tops of the forest, and the mountains very black, with a
great orange glow of sunset behind; food was served him, and his page
came to him, to do off his armour. And presently, seeing that the page
was very weary, he bade him lie down to sleep; so the page lay down
upon a little bed that was in a turret opening on the room; and soon
after Sir Hugh himself lay down upon a great pillared bed, made of
oak, and hung with tapestries. But he could not sleep, but lay wearily
gazing at the glimmering window and hearing the breathing of the boy
in the turret hard by, till at last he too fell asleep.
The morning came with a great brightness and freshness, with the
hoarse cries of the jackdaws that lived in the ledges of the tower;
Sir Hugh dressed himself carefully and noiselessly, not to wake the
page, who still slept deeply; then he stood beside the boy's bed; the
boy stretched out his arms in slumber and then awoke, ashamed to be
later than his master, and to find him apparelled.
Presently the seneschal came, and led Hugh to the Hall, where were
the two sons of the Lord Bigod, with a large company of knights, that
stood up at his appearing, and did him great honour; and then came a
message for him to go to the Lord Bigod. Hugh saw at once that he was
very weary and had not slept; the letter lay on the table beside him;
and he said to Hugh that he had given the letter great thought, and
that it was a very honourable behest: "And herewith I accept it for
the Lady Mary," he said stammeringly, "who will do as my daughter and
as the chosen of the honourable Earl should do." Then he was silent
for a space, presently adding, "I have not told my daughter the
tidings yet; I will tell her; and then you shall have speech with her;
but I would," he added, "that there was not such haste in the matter;
for a maiden is a tender thing and merits tender usage; do you think,
sir"--and here he looked anxiously upon Hugh--"do you think that the
Earl will consent to a longer delay, that the maiden may grow
accustomed to the thought? She has as yet spoken to no man but myself
and her brothers, and though she is fearless and of a high spirit"--he
broke off suddenly, and then with a wistful glance at Sir Hugh, added,
"Will the Earl delay awhile?" Sir Hugh felt a great pity for the man
who stood so anxiously before him, but he hardened his heart and said,
"I think that the Earl will not delay his purpose: he is swift to do
his will." A great cloud of sadness came down on the Lord Bigod's
face, and he said very low, "That is a good way, the way of a great
warrior--so be it then, sir," and he softly withdrew, asking Hugh to
wait for him.
Then fell a long silence; and Hugh, looking upon the folded letter on
the table, felt it to be a cruel thing; but he never wavered in
loyalty to the Earl, and thought to himself that the longer the maiden
waited the more would she perchance be terrified; that great men must
wed as they would--and other things with which he sought to excuse
what seemed a harsh deed.
Suddenly he heard a footstep; a door opened; and the Lord Bigod
appeared, leading a maiden into the room, who encircled his arm with
her hands. She was tall and slender, apparelled all in white, with a
girdle of gold. She was very pale, but bore herself with a gentle and
simple grace; and there fell upon Hugh a thought that he cast from him
as it were with both his hands. He had never known love, and his heart
was as pure as snow; the maidens that he had seen had appeared to him
but as distant visions of tenderness and grace, stirring in his heart
nothing but a sort of brotherly compassion for things so delicate and
frail, and unfit for the hard world in which men must live. But at the
sight of the Lady Mary, her great eyes, in which there seemed a trace
of swimming tears, he felt suddenly a deep passionate hunger of the
heart, as though a sweet and deep mystery, lying far-off, had been
brought suddenly near to him. Was this love, that great power of which
the poets sung; the power which had lost kingdoms and wrought the
destruction of men? He feared it was so indeed. He felt as a poor man
might, who had lived in pinching want, and had suddenly found a great
treasure of gold, at the stroke of a mattock in his field. One glance
passed between them; and it seemed as though some other thing had
passed; as though their souls had leapt together. Then he dropped his
eyes and stood waiting, while a faint fragrance seemed to pass upon
the air. Then the Lord Bigod said very gravely, "Sir Hugh, I have told
the Lady Mary of your errand; and she will do the bidding of the Earl
in every point. To-day we will make preparation; to-morrow shall the
betrothal be; and on the third day the Lady Mary shall ride with you;
and now I will leave you together for awhile; for the Lady Mary would
ask you many things, and you will be courteous and tell her all." Then
he kissed his daughter, and led her to a chair before the table, and
motioned to Sir Hugh to be seated at the table-side; and then he went
out of the room in haste.
Then the Lady Mary began to speak in a low clear voice that had no
trembling in it; but her hands that were clasped together on the table
trembled; and Hugh took courage, and told her of the greatness of the
Earl and his high courage, praising him generously and nobly; he spoke
of the Earl's daughter, and of the kinsfolk that abode there; and of
the priest of the Castle, and of the knights; and of the Castle
itself, and its great woodland chase; and the Lady Mary heard him
attentively, her eyes fixed upon his face, and her lips parted. And
then she asked him one or two questions, but broke off, and said, "Sir
Hugh, you will know that all this is very new and strange to me; but
it is not the newness and strangeness that is most in my heart; but it
is the thought of what I leave behind, this house and my kin; and my
father who is above all things dear to me--for I know no other place
but this, and no other faces have I seen." Then Sir Hugh felt his
whole heart melted within him at the sight both of her grief and of
her high courage. And the thought that she should thus pass in all her
stainless grace to the harsh embrace of the old and grim Earl, came
like a horror into his heart; but he only said, "Lady, I have dwelt
all my life with the Earl and he has ever used me gently and
graciously, and he is as a father to me; I know that men fear him; yet
I can but say that he has a true heart full of wisdom and might." And
the Lady Mary smiled faintly, and said, "I will be sure it is so
indeed." And so she rose, and presently withdrew.
The day passed like a swift dream for Sir Hugh. He could think of
nothing but the Lady Mary, with a strange leaping of the heart; that
she was in the Castle above him, hidden somewhere like a flower in the
dark walls; that he would stand before her to plight his Lord's troth;
that he would ride with her through the forest; and that he would have
her near him through the months, when she was wedded to the Earl--all
this was a secret and urgent joy to him; not that he thought ever to
win her love--such a traitorous imagining never even crossed his
mind--but he thought that she would be as a sweet sister to him, whom
he would guard as he could from every shadow of care; the thought of
her sadness, and of her fear of the Earl worked strongly in his heart;
but he saw no way out of that; and indeed believed, or tried to
believe in his heart, that she would love the Earl for his might, and
that he would love her for her grace, and that so all would be well.
The next day he rose very early, and was soon summoned to the chapel.
There were few present; there seemed indeed, from soft movements and
whisperings, to be ladies in a gallery beside the altar, but they were
hidden in a lattice. The sons of the Lord Bigod were there, looking
full of joyful excitement; other lords and knights sate within the
chapel, and an old priest, in stiff vestments, with a worn and patient
face, knelt by the altar, his lips moving as in prayer. Presently the
Lord Bigod came in, as pale as death and sore troubled, and with him
walked the Lady Mary, who seemed to bring the very peace of God with
her. She was pale, but clear of complexion, and with a great
brightness in her eyes, as of one whose will was strong. Then Hugh
drew near to the altar, and plighted the Earl's troth to her, putting
the great ring, with its ruby as red as blood, upon her finger. He
noticed, as he waited to put the ring upon her hand, that a ray of
light from the window darted through the signet, and cast a light,
like a drop of blood, upon the maiden's white palm; and then the voice
of the priest, raised softly in blessing, fell upon his ear with a
tender hope; and at the end he knelt down very gently, and kissed the
Lady Mary's hand in token of fealty; and the thought of the Earl's
jest about bidding him to kiss her on the lips came like a shameful
thought into his mind.
Then the day passed slowly and sadly; but he saw not the Lady Mary
save once, when, as he walked in the wood, trying to cool his hot
brain with the quiet, he saw her stand on a balcony looking out over
the forest with an infinite and patient sadness of air, as of one that
bade farewell.
And again the sun went down, and the night passed; and at daybreak he
heard the clatter of horsehoofs in the court, the jingling of the
stirrups, and the voices of his troop, who made merry adieux to their
new comrades.
Then he came down himself; and saw beside his horse a smaller horse
richly caparisoned; then in a moment, very swiftly, came the Lady Mary
down the stairs, with the Lord Bigod and her brothers; she kissed her
brothers, who looked smilingly at her; and then her father, hanging
for a moment on his neck, and whispering a word into his ear; and Hugh
could see the Lord Bigod's face working, as he restrained his tears,
in anguish of heart. Then she smiled palely upon Hugh; her father
lifted her to her horse; and they rode out with a great waving of
handkerchiefs and crying of farewells, the bell of the Castle ringing
as sweet as honey in the tower.
They rode all day in the green forest, with a troop in front and a
troop behind. The air was cool and fresh, and the sun lay sweetly upon
the glades and woodpaths. All things seemed to rejoice together; the
birds sang out of their simple joy, and the doves cooed, hidden in the
heart of great green trees; and the joy of being with the maiden
outweighed all other thoughts in the mind of Sir Hugh. Sometimes they
were silent, and sometimes they talked softly together like brother
and sister. What pleased him best was that she seemed to have put all
care and anxiety away from her mind; once or twice, after a silence,
he saw a tear glisten on her cheek; but she spoke, with no show of
courage, but as though she had formed a purpose, and would take
whatever befel her with a gentle tranquillity. The little services
that he was enabled to do her seemed to him like a treasure that he
laid up for the days to come; and the love which he felt in his heart
had no shadow in it; it was simply as the worship of a pure spirit for
the most delicate and beautiful thing that the world could hold.
At last the sun set when they were yet some miles from the Earl's
Castle; and while Hugh was still counting up the minutes that remained
to him, he saw the troop in front come to a halt; and presently one of
them rode back, and told him with an uneasy air that there was a great
smoke in the wood to the left; and that they thought they were not far
from the haunts of the Red Hound. But Hugh said lightly, not to
terrify the maiden, that the Red Hound was far to the north; to which
the trooper replied with a downcast look, "It was so said, sir." "Ride
on then warily!" said Hugh--and he bade the troop behind come up
nearer. The Lady Mary presently asked him what the matter was; and
though by this time a dreadful anxiety had sprung into Hugh's mind, he
told her who the Red Hound was, and she replied that she had heard of
him; but seeing that he was somewhat troubled she forbore to speak
more of that, but pointed out to him a little tuft of red flowers that
grew daintily in the crevice of a rock beside the path. He turned to
look at it; and suddenly became aware that something, he could not
clearly say what, had slipped away at that moment from the bushes
beside the road; the thought came into his mind that this was a spy
set to watch them; and so he bade the men draw their swords, and close
about them in a ring.
They were now in the thickest of the wood. The green road in which
they were riding dipped down to a low marshy place, where a stream
soaked through the path. The rock, which seemed like a little
pinnacle, rose sharply on their left clear of the bushes: all else was
forest, except that a little path or clearing led up to the left,
among the trees. There was an utter stillness in the air, which was
all full of a golden light. The swords came merrily out of the
scabbards with a sudden clang. The troopers closed in about them; but
then, with a sudden dark rush out of the wood, there swept down the
clearing a number of horsemen, roughly clad with leather cuirasses and
gaiters, all armed with long pointed spears. It seemed as though they
must have been ambushed there against them, they came on with such
suddenness.
In a moment there was a scene of fierce confusion; swords flashed
high; there were groans and shouts; a trooper, pierced by a lance,
fell writhing at their feet; one of the enemy, cut down by a sword
blow, fell to the earth and crouched there, blood dripping from his
head and shoulder; but the armoured troopers, well drilled and
trained, would have prevailed, had not a flight of arrows sung with a
sharp rattle out of the thicket, and four of the men behind him fell,
two of them instantly slain, and two grievously wounded. The riderless
horses, wounded too, rushed snorting down the road, and another troop
of men on foot poured out of the forest behind them.
In the middle of the enemies' lancers rode a tall man, red-haired and
scowling, with yet something of a knightly air. Hugh recognised him at
once as none other than the Red Hound himself, whom he had seen long
ago before the days of his outlawry. He did not join in the fight, but
sate on his horse a little apart, shouting a command from moment to
moment.
Hugh cast a swift glance round; the men on foot were yet some little
way off, running down the road; the troopers in front had pushed the
lancemen a little way up the clearing; and Hugh determined to attempt
a desperate rush with the Lady Mary up the road: desperate indeed it
was, but he saw that if he could but get clear of the fight, there
were none that could follow, except perhaps the chief himself; Hugh
leant across his horse's neck; the Lady Mary sate still and silent,
like the daughter of a line of knights, looking at the combat with a
steady and unblenching look. He laid his hand on her bridle rein, and
she turned and looked in his eyes; and he saw that therein which made
him glad in the midst of the dangers--though he was too much
accustomed to battle to have fear for himself--it was as a man, that
had been long voyaging, might see, in a clear dawn, the cliffs of his
home across the leaping seas.
He pointed, and said a word in her ear; she glanced at him, nodded,
and drew up her rein; but at that moment his horse gave a short upward
jerk, and then fell grovelling on his knees, an arrow sticking in his
side, close to Sir Hugh's knee. He flung his foot clear, and leapt to
the Lady's side; and then in a moment he saw that the battle was gone
against him past mending. Another flight of arrows sang from the
thicket, and four of the troopers in the glade fell from their horses,
and the lancers, who were drawing back, pressed down upon them. Then
Sir Hugh signed swiftly to the Lady that she should ride clear; but in
that moment the Lady's horse fell too. Sir Hugh caught her in his
arms, and dragged her free of the horse, tearing her gown by the knee,
for the arrow that had slain the horse had pierced through the Lady's
garment, though without wounding her. Then he saw that they were very
hard beset, and that there was no way out; so he hastened to the rock,
laid his hands upon a little ledge about as high as his head; leapt
up, set his sword beside him, and then, stooping down, drew the Lady
up beside him. Then he shouted to his men to come back to the rock;
there were but a handful left; but they drew back slowly, and made a
little ring about the base of the rock, while the others drew slowly
in around them, but halted at a little distance, fearing the flashing
swords.
The Red Hound himself stood near at hand; Hugh heard him shout his
commands aloud, and heard him say that they should save the girl
alive, and take the Knight captive if they could--and the Lady Mary
heard it too, for she turned to Sir Hugh, and with a sudden look of
entreaty, said, "Hugh, I must not fall into his hands." He looked at
her smiling, and said, "Nay, dear, you shall not."
And then Hugh saw that it was indeed the end, and that his death was
at hand; he had seen men in abundance die, and had often wondered how
it was that death should come to him at the last. But now, instead of
fear, there came to him a sort of fierce joy that he should die with
her whom he was now not ashamed to love; and in the midst of the
shouting and the tumult, he had a sudden vision of himself and her
wandering away, two happy spirits, hand in hand, from the place of
their passion.
And now the last of his troopers had fallen. Then the Lady Mary drew
close to him, and said, "Is it time?" And he said, "Yes, dear, it is
the time; fear nought--you will feel nothing--and you will wait for
me, for I shall follow you close. And now, dear one, turn your face
from me lest it unman me--there is nought to fear." So she smiled
again, and he kissed her on the lips, and she turned from him; and he
struck one stroke with his sword; she quivered once, and sinking down
moved no more.
Then Sir Hugh prayed a prayer; and looking upon his sword, off which
the blood now dripped, he poised it in his hand like a lance. The
spearmen had closed in to the rock. But Hugh hurled his sword point
foremost at the Red Hound, and saw it sink through his skull, till the
hilt clattered on his brow; and then he cast one look upon the Lady;
and, as a man might enter the gates of his home, he leapt very
joyfully down among the spears.
THE HILL OF TROUBLE
There was once a great scholar, Gilbert by name, who lived at
Cambridge, and was Fellow of St. Peter's College there. He was still
young, and yet he had made himself a name for learning, and still more
for wisdom, which is a different thing, though the two are often
confused. Gilbert was a slender, spare man, but well-knit and
well-proportioned. He loved to wear old scholarly garments, but he had
that sort of grace in wearing them that made him appear better
apparelled than most men in new clothes. His hair was thick and
curling, and he had small features clearly cut. His lips were somewhat
thin, as though from determined thought. He carried his eyes a little
wrinkled up, as though to spare them from the light; but he had a
gracious look which he turned on those with whom he spoke; and when he
opened his eyes upon you, they were large and clear, as though charged
with dreams; and he had a very sweet smile, trustful and gentle, that
seemed to take any that spoke with him straight to his heart, and made
him many friends. He had the look rather of a courtier than of a
priest, and he was merry and cheerful in discourse, so that you might
be long with him and not know him to be learned. It may be said that
he had no enemies, though he did not conceal his beliefs and thoughts,
but stated them so courteously and with such deference to opposite
views, that he drew men insensibly to his side. It was thought by many
that he ought to go into the world and make a great name for himself.
But he loved the quiet College life, the familiar talk with those he
knew. He loved the great plenty of books and the discourse of simple
and wise men. He loved the fresh bright hours of solitary work, the
shady College garden, with its butts and meadows, bordered by ancient
walls. He loved to sit at meat in the cool and spacious hall; and he
loved too the dark high-roofed College Church, and his own canopied
stall with the service-books in due order, the low music of the organ,
and the sweet singing of the choir. He was not rich, but his
Fellowship gave him all that he desired, together with a certain
seemly dignity of life that he truly valued; so that his heart was
very full of a simple happiness from day to day, and he thought that
he would be more than content to live out his life in the peaceful
College that he loved so well.
But he was ambitious too; he was writing a great book full of holy
learning; and he had of late somewhat withdrawn himself from the life
of the College; he sate longer at his studies and he was seen less
often in other Colleges. Ten years he gave himself to finish his task,
and he thought that it would bring him renown; but that was only a
far-off dream, gilding his studies with a kind of peaceful glory; and
indeed he loved the doing of his work better than any reward he might
get for it.
One summer he felt he wanted some change of life; the sultry Cambridge
air, so dry and low, seemed to him to be heavy and lifeless. He began
to dream of fresh mountain breezes, and the sound of leaping streams;
so at last he packed his books into a box, and set off a long journey
into the hills of the West, to a village where an old friend of his
was the priest, who he knew would welcome him.
On the sixth day he arrived at the place; he had enjoyed the journey;
much of the time he had ridden, but he often walked, for he was very
strong and active of body; he had delighted in seeing the places he
had passed through, the churches and the towns and the castles that
lay beside the way; he had been pleased with the simple friendly inns,
and as his custom was had talked with all travellers that he met. And
most of all he had loved, as he drew nearer the West, to see the great
green slopes of hills, the black heads of mountains, the steep wooded
valleys, where the road lay along streams, that dashed among mossy
boulders into still pools.
At last he came to the village which he sought, which lay with its
grey church and low stone houses by a bridge, in a deep valley. The
vicarage lay a little apart in a pleasant garden; and his friend the
Vicar had made him greatly welcome. The Vicar was an old man and
somewhat infirm, but he loved the quiet life of the country, and knew
all the joys and sorrows of his simple flock. A large chamber was set
apart for Gilbert, who ranged his books on a great table, and prepared
for much quiet work. The window of the chamber looked down the valley,
which was very still. There was no pattering of feet in the road, as
there was at Cambridge; the only sounds were the crying of cocks or
the bleating of sheep from the hill-pastures, the sound of the wind in
the woods, and the falling of water from the hills. So Gilbert was
well content.
For the first few days he was somewhat restless; he explored the
valley in all directions. The Vicar could not walk much, and only
crept to and fro in the town, or to church; and though he sometimes
rode to the hills, to see sick folk on upland farms, yet he told
Gilbert that he must go his walks alone; and Gilbert was not loth; for
as he thus went by himself in the fresh air, a stream of pleasant
fancies and gentle thoughts passed lightly through his head, and his
work shaped itself in his brain, like a valley seen from a height,
where the fields and farms lie out, as if on a map, with the road
winding among them that ties them with the world.
One day Gilbert walked alone to a very solitary place among the
hills, a valley where the woods grew thickly; the valley was an
estuary, where the sea came up blue and fresh twice in the day,
covering the wide sandbanks with still water that reflected the face
of the sky; in the midst of the valley, joined with the hillside by a
chain of low mounds, there rose a large round hill, covered with
bushes which grew thickly over the slopes, and among little crags,
haunted by hawks and crows. It looked a very solitary, peaceful hill,
and he stopped at a farm beside the road to inquire of the way
thither, because he was afraid of finding himself unable to cross the
streams.
At his knock there came out an ancient man, with whom Gilbert entered
into simple travellers' talk of the weather and the road; Gilbert
asked him the name of the place, and the man told him that it was
called the Gate of the Old Hollow. Then Gilbert pointing to the hill
that lay in the midst, asked him what that was. The old man looked at
him for a moment without answering, and then said in a low voice,
"That, sir, is the Hill of Trouble." "That is a strange name!" said
Gilbert. "Yes," said the old man, "and it is a strange place, where no
one ever sets foot--there is a cruel tale about it; there is something
that is not well about the place."
Gilbert was surprised to hear the other speak so gravely; but the old
man, who was pleased with his company, asked him if he would not rest
awhile and eat; and Gilbert said that he would do so gladly, and the
more gladly if the other would tell him the story of the place. The
old man led him within into a large room, with plain oak furniture,
and brought him bread and honey and milk; and Gilbert ate, while the
old man told him the legend of the Hill.
He said that long years ago it was a place of heathen worship, and
that there stood a circle of stones upon it, where sacrifice was done;
and that men, it was said, were slain there with savage rites; and
that when the Christian teachers came, and the valley became obedient
to the faith, it was forbidden the villagers to go there, and for long
years it was desolate; but there had dwelt in the manor-house hard by
a knight, fearless and rough, who regarded neither God nor man, who
had lately wedded a wife whom he loved beyond anything in the world.
And one day there was with the knight a friend who was a soldier, and
after dinner, in foolish talk, the knight said that he would go to the
Hill, and he made a wager on it. The knight's lady besought him not to
go, but he girded on his sword and went laughing. Now at the time, the
old man said, there was much fighting in the valley, for the people
were not yet subject to the English king, but paid tribute to their
own Lords; and the knight had been one that fought the best. What the
knight saw on the hill no one ever knew, but he came back at sundown,
pale, and like a man that has been strangely scared, looking behind
him as though he expected to be followed by something; and from that
day he kept his chamber, and would not go abroad, or if he went out,
he went fearfully, looking about him; and the English men-at-arms came
to the valley, but the knight that had ever been foremost in the fight
would not ride out to meet them, but kept his bed. The manor lay off
the road, and he ordered a boy to lie in the copse beside the way, and
to come up to the house to tell him if any soldiers went by. But a
troop of horse came secretly over the hill; and seeing the place lie
so solitary and deserted, and being in haste, they came not in, but
one of them shot a bolt at a venture; but the knight, it seemed, must
have stolen from his bed, and have been peeping through the shutters;
for the knight's lady who sate below in sore shame and grief for her
husband's cowardice, heard a cry, and coming up found him in his
bedgown lying by the window, and a bolt sticking in his brain.
Her grief and misery were so sore at this, that she was for a time
nearly mad; they buried the knight in secret in the churchyard; but
the lady sate for many days speaking to no one, beating with her hand
upon the table and eating little.
One day it seems that she had the thought to go herself to the Hill
of Trouble, so she robed herself in haste, and went at early dawn; she
went in secret, and came back at noon, smiling to herself, with all
her grief gone; and she sate for three days thus with her hands
folded, and from her face it was plain that there was joy in her
heart; and on the third evening they found her cold and stiff in her
chair, dead an hour since, but she was still smiling. And the lands
passed to a distant kinsman. And since that day, said the old man, no
one had ever set foot on the Hill, except a child not long since that
strayed thither, and came back in a great fear, saying that he had
seen and spoken with an old man, that had seemed to be angry, but that
another person, all in white, had come between them, and had led him
by the hand to the right road; it could not be known why the child was
frightened, but he said that it was the way the old man looked, and
the suddenness with which he came and went; but of the other he had no
fear, though he knew him not. "And that, sir, is the tale."
Gilbert was very much astonished at the tale, and though he was not
credulous, the story dwelt strongly in his mind. It was now too late
to visit the Hill, even if he had wished; and he could not have so
vexed the old man as to visit it from his house. He stood for awhile
at the gate looking down at it. It was hot and still in the valley.
The tide was out and the warm air quivered over the sandbanks. But the
Hill had a stillness of its own, as though it guarded a secret, and
lay looking out towards the sea. He could see the small crags upon it,
in the calm air, and the bushes that grew plentifully all over it,
with here and there a little green lawn, or a glade sloping down to
the green flat in which it stood. The old man was beside him and said
in his shrill piping voice, "You are not thinking of going to the
Hill, sir?" "Not now, at all events," said Gilbert, smiling. But the
old man said, "Ah, sir, you will not go--there are other things in
this world of ours, beside the hills and woods and farms; it would be
strange if that were all. The spirits of the dead walk at noonday in
the places they have loved; and I have thought that the souls of those
who have done wickedness are sometimes bound to a place where they
might have done good things, and while they are vexed at all the evil
their hands have wrought, they are drawn by a kind of evil habit to do
what they chose to do on earth. Perhaps those who are faithful can
resist them--but it is ill to tempt them."
Gilbert was surprised at this wise talk from so simple a man; and he
said, "How is it that these thoughts come into your mind?" "Oh, sir,"
said the other, "I am old and live much alone; and these are some of
the thoughts that come into my head as I go about my work, but who
sends them to me I cannot tell."
Then Gilbert said farewell, and would have paid for his meal, but the
old man courteously refused, and said that it was a pleasure to see a
stranger in that lonely place; and that it made him think more kindly
of the world to talk so simply with one who was, he was sure, so great
a gentleman.
Gilbert smiled, and said he was only a simple scholar; and then he
went back to the vicarage house. He told the Vicar of his adventure,
and the Vicar said he had heard of the Hill, and that there was
something strange in the dread which the place inspired. Then Gilbert
said, half impatiently, that it was a pity that people were so ridden
by needless superstition, and made fears for themselves when there was
so much in the world that it was well to fear. But the old Vicar shook
his head. "They are children, it is true," he said, "but children, I
often think, are nearer to heaven than ourselves, and perhaps have
glimpses of things that it is harder for us to see as we get older and
more dull."
But Gilbert made up his mind as they talked that he would see the
place for himself; and that night he dreamed of wandering over lonely
places with a fear upon him of he knew not what. And waking very
early, after a restless night, and seeing the day freshly risen, and
the dewy brightness of the valley, he put on his clothes in haste, and
taking with him a slice of bread from the table, he set out blithely
for the Hill, with an eagerness of spirit that he had been used to
feel as a child.
He avoided the farm, and took a track that seemed to lead into the
valley, which led him up and down through little nooks and pastures,
till he came to the base of the Hill. It was all skirted by a low wall
of piled stones covered with grey lichens, where the brambles grew
freely; but the grass upon the Hill itself had a peculiar richness and
luxuriance, as though it was never trodden or crushed underfoot.
Gilbert climbed the wall, but the brambles clung to him as though to
keep him back; he disentangled them one by one, and in a moment he
found himself in a little green glade, among small crags, that seemed
to lead to the top of the Hill. He had not gone more than a few paces
when the pleasure and excitement died out of his mind, and left him
feeling weary and dispirited. But he said to himself that it was his
troubled night, and the walk at the unusual hour, and the lack of
food; so he took out his bread and ate it as he walked, and presently
he came to the top.
Then he suddenly saw that he was at the place described; in front of
him stood a tall circle of stones, very grey with age. Some of them
were flung down and were covered with bushes, but several of them
stood upright. The place was strangely silent; he walked round the
circle, and saw that it occupied the top of the Hill; below him were
steep crags, and when he looked over he was surprised to see all down
the rocks, on ledges, a number of crows that sate silent in the sun.
At the motion he made, a number of them, as though surprised to be
disturbed, floated off into the air, with loud jangling cries; and a
hawk sailed out from the bushes and hung, a brown speck, with
trembling wings. Gilbert saw the rich plain at his feet and the
winding creek of the sea, and the great hills on left and right, in a
blue haze. Then he stepped back, and though he had a feeling that it
would be wiser not to go, he put it aside and went boldly into the
circle of stones. He stood there for a moment, and then feeling very
weary, sate down on the turf, leaning his back against a stone; then
came upon him a great drowsiness. He was haunted by a sense that it
was not well to sleep there, and that the dreaming mind was an ill
defence against the powers of the air--yet he put the thought aside
with a certain shame and fell asleep.
He woke with a sudden start some time after; there was a chill in
his limbs, not from the air which glowed bright in the steady sun, but
a chill of the spirit that made his hair prickle in an unusual way. He
raised himself up and looked round him, for he knew by a certain sense
that he was not alone; and then he saw leaning against one of the
stones and watching him intently, a very old and weary-looking man.
The man was pale and troubled; he had a rough cloak such as the
peasants wore, the hood of which was pulled over his head; his hair
was white and hung about his ears; he had a staff in his hand. But
there was a dark look about him, and Gilbert divined in some swift
passage of the spirit that he did not wish him well. Gilbert rose to
his feet, and at the same moment the old man drew near; and though he
looked so old and feeble, Gilbert had the feeling that he was strong
and even dangerous. But Gilbert showed no surprise; he doffed his hat
to the old man, and said courteously that he hoped he had not wandered
to some private place, where he ought not to be. "The heat was great,
and I slept unawares," he said. The old man at first made no answer,
and then said in a very low and yet clear voice, "Nay, sir, you are
welcome. The Hill is free to all; but it has an evil name, I know, and
I see but few upon it." Then Gilbert said courteously that he was but
a passer-by, and that he must set off home again, before the sun was
high. And at that the old man said, "Nay, sir, but as you have come,
you will surely wait awhile and speak with me. I see," he added, "so
few of humankind, that my mind and tongue are alike stiff with disuse;
but you can tell me something of your world--and I," he added, "can
tell you something of mine." Then there came suddenly on Gilbert a
great fear, and he looked round on the tall stones of the circle that
seemed to be like a prison. Then he said, "I am but a simple scholar
from Cambridge, and my knowledge of the world is but small; we work,"
he said, "we write and read, we talk and eat together, and sometimes
we pray." The old man looked at him with a sudden look, under his
brows, as he said the words; and then he said, "So, sir, you are a
priest; and your faith is a strong one and avails much; but there is a
text about the strong man armed who is overcome of the stronger. And
though the faith you teach is like a fort in an enemy's country, in
which men may dwell safely, yet there is a land outside; and a fort
cannot always hold its own." He said this in so evil and menacing a
tone that Gilbert said, "Come, sir, these are wild words; would you
speak scorn of the faith that is the light of God and the victory that
overcometh?" Then the old man said, "Nay, I respect the faith--and
fear it even," he added in a secret tone--"but I have grown up in a
different belief, and the old is better--and this also is a little
stronghold, which holds its own in the midst of foes; but I would not
be disputing," he added--and then with a smile, "Nay, sir, I know what
is in your mind; you like not this place--and you are right; it is not
fit for you to set your holy feet in; but it is mine yet; and so you
must even accept the hospitality of the place; you shall look thrice
in my glass, and see if you like what you shall see." And he held out
to Gilbert a small black shining thing. Gilbert would have wished to
refuse it, but his courtesy bade him take it--and indeed he did not
know if he could have refused the old man, who looked so sternly upon
him. So he took it in his hand. It was a black polished stone like a
sphere, and it was very cold to the touch--so cold that he would fain
have thrown it down; but he dared not. So he said with such spirit as
he could muster, "And what shall I see beside the stone?--it seems a
fair and curious jewel--I cannot give it a name." "Nay," said the old
man sharply, "it is not the stone; the stone is naught; but it hides a
mystery. You shall see it in the stone."
And Gilbert said, "And what shall I see in the stone?" And the old man
said, "What shall be."
So Gilbert looked upon the stone; the sun shone upon it in a bright
point of light--and for an instant he saw nothing but the gleaming
sides of the ball. But in a moment there came upon him a dizziness
like that which comes upon a man who, walking on a hill-top, finds
himself on the edge of a precipice. He seemed to look into a great
depth, into the dark places of the earth--but in the depth there hung
a mist like a curtain. Now while he looked at it he saw a commotion in
the mist; and looking closer, he saw that it seemed to be something
waving to and fro that drove the mist about; and presently he saw the
two arms of a man; and then the mist parted, and he saw the figure of
a man standing and waving with his arms, like a man who would fan
smoke aside; and the smoke fled from the waving arms and rolled away;
and the man stepped aside.
Then Gilbert looked beyond, and he saw a room with a low ceiling and a
mullioned window; and he knew it at once for his room in St. Peter's
College. There were books on the table; and he saw what seemed like
himself, risen to his feet, as though at a sound; and then he saw the
door open and a man come in who made an obeisance, and the two seemed
to talk together, and presently Gilbert saw the other man pull
something from a cloth and put it in his own hands. And the figure of
himself seemed to draw near the window to look at the thing; and
though it was all very small and distant, yet Gilbert could see that
he held in his hands a little figure that seemed a statue. And then
the mist rolled in again and all was hid.
He came to himself like a man out of a dream, he had been so intent on
what appeared; and he saw the hill-top and the circle of stones, and
the old man who stood watching him with a secret smile upon his face.
Then Gilbert made as though he would give the stone back, but before
he could speak, the old man pointed to the stone again--and Gilbert
looked again and saw the deep place, and the cloud, and the man part
the cloud.
Then he saw within a garden, and he knew it at once to be the garden
of St. Peter's; it seemed to be summer, for the trees were in leaf. He
saw himself stand, carrying something in his hand, and looking at a
place in the garden wall. There was something on the wall, a patch of
white, but he could not see what it was; and beneath it there stood a
small group of men in scholars' dress who looked upon the wall, but he
could not see their faces; but one whom he recognised as the Master of
the College stood with a stick in his hand, and pointed to the white
patch on the wall--and then something seemed to run by, a cat or dog,
and all at once the cloud flowed in over the picture; and again he
came to himself and saw the hill-top, and the stones, and the old man,
who had drawn a little nearer, and looked at him with a strange smile.
And again he pointed to the stone; and Gilbert looked again and saw
the cloud work very swiftly and part, and the man who swept the clouds
off came forth for an instant, and then was lost to view.
And Gilbert saw a very dark place, with something long and white,
that glimmered faintly, lying in the midst; and he bent down to look
at it, but could not discern what it was. Then he saw in the darkness
which surrounded the glimmering thing some small threads of dusky
white, and some small round things; and he looked at them long; and
presently discerned that the round things were pebbles, and that the
white threads were like the roots of trees; and then he perceived that
he was looking into the earth; and then with a sickly chill of fear he
saw that the long and glimmering thing was indeed the body of a man,
wrapped in grave-clothes from head to foot. And he could now
distinguish--for it grew more distinct--the sides of a coffin about
it, and some worms that moved to and fro in their dark burrows; but
the corpse seemed to shine with a faint light of its own--and then he
could see the wasted feet, and the thin legs and arms of the body
within; the hands were folded over the breast; and then he looked at
the face; and he saw his own face, only greatly sunk and fallen, with
a bandage that tied up the chin, and leaden eyes; and then the clouds
swept in upon it; and he came to himself like a drowning man, and saw
that he was in the same place; and his first thought was a thrill of
joy to know that he was alive; but then he groaned aloud, and he saw
the old man stand beside him with a very terrible look upon his face,
holding out his hand for the stone in silence; so Gilbert gave him
back the stone, and then with a fierce anger said, "Why have you shown
me this? for this is the trickery of hell." And the old man looked at
him very sternly and said, "Why then did you come to this place? You
were not called hither, and they that pry must be punished. A man who
pulls open the door which leads from the present into the future must
not be vexed if he sees the truth--and now, sir," he added very
angrily, "depart hence in haste; you have seen what you have seen." So
Gilbert went slowly from the circle, and very heavily, and as he
stepped outside he looked back. But there was nothing there but the
turf and the grey stones.
Gilbert went slowly down the Hill with a shadow upon him, like a man
who has passed through a sudden danger, or who has had a sudden
glimpse into the dark realities of life. But the whole experience was
so strange and dreamlike, so apart from the wholesome current of his
life, that his fears troubled him less than he had supposed; still, a
kind of hatred for the quiet valley began to creep over him, and he
found himself sitting long over his books, looking down among the
hills, and making no progress. If he was not silent when in company
with the old Vicar, it was because he made a strong effort, and
because his courtesy came to his assistance. Indeed the old Vicar
thought that he had never known Gilbert so tender or thoughtful as he
had been in the last week of his visit. The truth was that it was an
effort to Gilbert to talk about himself, and he therefore drew the old
priest on to talk about the details of his own life and work. Thus,
though Gilbert talked less himself, he was courteously attentive, so
that the old man had a sense that there had been much pleasant
interchange of feeling, whereas he had contributed the most of the
talk himself. Gilbert, too, found a great comfort in the offices of
the Church in these days, and prayed much that, whatever should befall
him, he might learn to rest in the mighty will of God for himself,
whatever that will might be.
Soon after this he went back to Cambridge, and there, among his old
friends and in his accustomed haunts, the whole impression of the
vision on the Hill of Trouble grew faint and indistinct, especially as
no incident occurred to revive it. He threw himself into his work, and
the book grew under his hands; and he seemed to be more eager to fill
his hours than before, and avoided solitary meditation.
Some three years after the date of his vision, there was announced to
him by letter the advent of a great scholar to Cambridge, who had read
one of Gilbert's books, and was desirous to be introduced to him.
Gilbert was sitting one day in his rooms, after a happy quiet morning,
when the porter came to the door and announced the scholar. He was a
tall eager man, who came forward with great friendliness, and said
some courteous words about his pleasure at having met one whom he was
so desirous to see. He carried something in his hand, and after the
first compliments, said that he had ventured to bring Gilbert a little
curiosity that had lately been dug up at Rome, and which he had been
fortunate in securing. He drew off a wrapper, and held out to Gilbert
a little figure of a Muse, finely sculptured, with an inscription on
the pedestal. Gilbert stepped to the window to look at it, and as he
did so it flashed across his mind that this was surely the scene that
he had observed in the black stone. He stood for a moment with the
statue in his hand, with such a strange look in his face, that the
new-comer thought for an instant that his gift must have aroused some
sad association. But Gilbert recovered himself in a moment and
resolutely put the thought out of his mind, praised the statue, and
thereupon entered into easy talk.
The great scholar spent some days at Cambridge, and Gilbert was much
with him. They talked of learned matters together, but the great
scholar said afterwards that though Gilbert was a man of high genius
and of great insight into learning, yet he felt in talking with him as
though he had some further and deeper preoccupation of thought.
Indeed when Gilbert, by laying of dates together, became aware that it
was three years to a day since he had seen the vision in the stone, he
was often haunted by the thought of his visit to the Hill. But this
lasted only a few days; and he took comfort at the thought that he had
seen a further vision in the stone which seemed at least to promise
him three more peaceful years of unchanged work, before he need give
way to the heaviness that the third vision had caused him. Yet it lay
like a dark background in his thoughts.
He kept very much to his work after this event, and became graver and
sterner in face, so that his friends thought that his application to
study was harmful. But when they spoke of it to Gilbert, he used to
say laughingly that nothing but work made life worthy, and that he was
making haste; and indeed the great book grew so fast that he was
within sight of the end. He had many wrestles within himself, about
this time, as to the goodness and providence of God. He argued to
himself that he had been led very tenderly beside the waters of
comfort, that he had served God as faithfully as he could--and indeed
he had little to reproach himself with, though he began to blame
himself for living a life that pleased him, and for not going about
more in the world helping weak brethren along the way, as the Lord
Christ had done. Yet again he said to himself that the great doctors
and fathers of the Church had deemed it praiseworthy that a man should
devote all the power of his brain to making the divine oracle clear,
and that the apostle Paul had spoken of a great diversity of gifts
which could be used faithfully in the service of Christ. Still, he
reflected that the truest glimpse into the unknown that he had ever
received--for he doubted no longer of the truth of the vision--had
come to him from one that was, he thought, outside the mercies of God,
an unhallowed soul, shut off by his own will and by his wickedness
from the fold; and this was a sore burden to him.
At last the book was done; and he went with it to a friend he had at
Oxford, a mighty scholar, to talk over some difficult passages. The
opinion of the scholar had been cordial and encouraging; he had said
that the book was a very great and sound work, useful for doctrine and
exhortation, and that many men had given their whole lives to work
without achieving such a result. Gilbert had some of the happiness
which comes to one who has completed a lengthy task; and though the
time drew nigh at which he might expect a further fulfilment of the
vision, he was so filled with gratitude at the thought of the great
work he had done, that there was little fear or expectation in his
mind.
He returned one summer afternoon to Cambridge, and the porter told
him that the Master and several of the Fellows were in the garden, and
would fain see him on his arrival. So Gilbert, carrying a little
bundle which contained his precious book, went out there at once. The
Master had caused to be made a new sundial, which he had affixed in
such a way to the wall that those whose chambers gave on the garden
could read the time of day without waiting to hear the bells.
When Gilbert came out he saw the little group of Fellows standing by
the wall, while the Master with a staff pointed out the legend on the
dial, which said that the only hours it told were the hours of
sunshine. It came upon Gilbert in a moment that this was the second
vision, and though two or three of the group saw him and turned to him
with pleasant greetings, he stood for a moment lost in the strangeness
of the thing. One of them said, "He stands amazed at the novelty of
the design;" and as he said the words, an old gray cat that belonged
to the College, and lodged somewhere in the roofs, sprang from a bush
and ran past him. One of the Fellows said, "Aha, cats do not love
change!" and then Gilbert came forward, and greeted his friends; but
there lay a cold and terrible thought in the background of his mind,
and he could not keep it out of his face; so that one of the Fellows,
drawing him aside, asked if he had a good verdict on the book, for he
seemed as one that was ill-pleased. And the Master, fearing that
Gilbert did not like the dial, came and said to him courteously that
he knew it was a new-fangled thing, but that it was useful, and in
itself not unpleasant, and that it would soon catch a grace of
congruity from the venerable walls around. "But," he added, "if you do
not like it, it shall be put in some other place." Then Gilbert
bestirred himself and said that he liked the dial very well, so that
the Master was content.
But Gilbert, as soon as he was by himself, delivered his mind up to
heavy contemplation; the vision had twice fulfilled itself, and it was
hardly to be hoped that it would fail the third time. He sent his book
to be copied out fair, and when it was gone it was as though he had
lost his companion. The hours passed very slowly and drearily; he
wrote a paper, to fill the time, of his wishes with regard to what
should be done with his books and little property after his death, and
was half minded to tear it up again. And then after a few days of
purposeless and irresolute waiting, he made up his mind that he must
go again to the West, and see his friend the old priest. And though he
did not say it to himself in words, yet a purpose slowly shaped itself
in his mind that he must at all cost go to the Hill, and learn again
what should be, and that thus alone could he break the spell.
He spent a morning in making his farewells; he tried to speak to his
friends as usual, but they noticed long afterwards that he had used a
special tenderness and wistfulness in all he said; he sate long in his
own room, with a great love in his heart for the beautiful and holy
peace of the place, and for all the happiness he had known there; and
then he prayed very long and earnestly in the chapel, kneeling in his
stall; and his heart was somewhat lightened.
Then he set off; but before he mounted his horse he looked very
lovingly at the old front of the College, and his servant saw that his
eyes were full of tears and that his lips moved; and so Gilbert rode
along to the West.
His journey was very different from the same journey taken six years
before; he spoke with none, and rode busily, like one who is anxious
to see some sad errand through. He found the old Vicar still more
infirm and somewhat blind; but the Vicar said that he was very happy
to see him, as he himself was near the end of life, and that he could
hope for but few years,--adding that it was far different for Gilbert,
who, he supposed, would very soon be a Dean with a Cathedral of his
own, and would forget his humble friend the old Vicar. But Gilbert put
the wit aside, and talked earnestly with the Vicar about the end of
life and what might be hereafter. But the old Vicar said solemnly that
he knew not, and indeed cared little. But that he would go into the
dark like a child holding a loving hand, and would have no need to
fear.
That night Gilbert lay in his bed awake, and very strange thoughts
passed through his mind, which he strove to quiet by prayers; and so
fell asleep; till at last in the dim dawn he awoke. Then after a
moment's thought he took a paper and wrote on it, saying that he was
gone out and knew not when he would return; but he prayed the Vicar
that when he should find the paper, he should at once fall to prayer
for him, for there was a sore conflict before him to fight out, both
in soul and body, and what would be the issue he knew not. "And if,"
the end of the writing ran, "I must depart hence, then pray that my
passage may be easy, and that I may find the valley bright." And he
laid the paper upon the table. Then he dressed himself, and went out
alone into the valley, walking swiftly and intently--so intently that
when he passed the farm he marked not that the old farmer was sitting
in an arbour in the garden, who called shrilly to him; but Gilbert
heard not, and the old farmer was too weak to follow; so Gilbert went
down to the Hill of Trouble.
It lay, as it had lain six years before, very still and beautiful in
the breathless sunshine. The water was in the creek, a streak of
sapphire blue; the birds called in the crags, and the bushes and lawns
glistened fresh with dew.
But Gilbert, very pale and with his heart beating fast, came to the
wall and surmounted it, and went swiftly up the Hill, till he found
himself near the stones; then he looked once round upon the hills and
the sea, and then with a word of prayer he stepped within the circle.
This time he had not long to wait. As he entered the circle he saw
the old man enter from the opposite side and come to meet him, with a
strange light of triumph in his eyes. Then Gilbert looked him in the
face with a rising horror, and said, "Sir, I have come again; and I
doubt the truth of your vision no longer; I have done my work, and I
have twice seen the fulfilment--now therefore tell me of my end--that
I may be certified how long I have to live. For the shadow of the
doubt I cannot bear."
And the old man looked at him with something of compassion and said,
"You are young, and you fear the passage hence, knowing not what may
be on the other side of the door; but you need not fear. Even I, who
have small ground of hope, am ashamed that I feared it so much. But
what will you give me if I grant your boon?"
Then Gilbert said, "I have nothing to give."
Then the old man said, "Think once more." Then was there a silence;
and Gilbert said:
"Man, I know not what or who thou art; but I think that thou art a
lost soul; one thing I can give thee.... I will myself intercede for
thee before the Throne."
Then the old man looked at him for a moment, and said, "I have waited
long ... and have received no comfort till now;" and then he said,
"Wilt thou promise?"
And Gilbert said, "In the name of God, Amen."
Then the old man stretched out his hand and said, "Art thou ready? for
the time is come; and thou art called now;" and he touched Gilbert on
the breast.
Gilbert looked into the old man's eyes, and seemed to see there an
unfathomable sadness, such as he had never seen; but at the touch a
pain so fierce and agonising passed through him, that he sank upon the
ground and covered his face with his hands.
Just at this time the old priest found the paper; and he divined the
truth. So he called his servant and bade him saddle his horse in
haste; and then he fell to prayer.
Then he rode down the valley; and though he feared the place, yet he
rode to the Hill of Trouble; and though his sight was dim and his
limbs feeble, it seemed to him that some one walked beside the horse
and guided him; and as he prayed he knew that all was over, and that
Gilbert had peace.
He came soon to the place; and there he found Gilbert lying on the
turf; and his sight was so dim that it seemed to him as though some
one slipped away from Gilbert's side. He put Gilbert on his horse, and
held the poor helpless body thereon, but there was so gentle a smile
on the face of the dead that he could not fear.
The body of Gilbert lies in the little churchyard; his great book
keeps his memory bright; and on the top of the Hill of Trouble stands
a little chapel, built out of the stones of the circle; and on the
wall, painted at the old priest's charge, is a picture of the Lord
Christ, with wounded hands and side, preaching to the disobedient
spirits in prison; and they hear him and are glad.
THE GRAY CAT
The knight Sir James Leigh lived in a remote valley of the Welsh
Hills. The manor house, of rough grey stone, with thick walls and
mullioned windows, stood on a rising ground; at its foot ran a little
river, through great boulders. There were woods all about; but above
the woods, the bare green hills ran smoothly up, so high, that in the
winter the sun only peeped above the ridge for an hour or two; beyond
the house, the valley wound away into the heart of the hills, and at
the end a black peak looked over. The place was very sparsely
inhabited; within a close of ancient yew trees stood a little stone
church, and a small parsonage smothered in ivy, where an old priest, a
cousin of the knight, lived. There were but three farms in the valley,
and a rough track led over the hills, little used, except by drovers.
At the top of the pass stood a stone cross; and from this point you
could see the dark scarred face of the peak to the left, streaked with
snow, which did not melt until the summer was far advanced.
Sir James was a silent sad man, in ill-health; he spoke little and
bore his troubles bitterly; he was much impoverished, through his own
early carelessness, and now so feeble in body that he had small hope
of repairing the fortune he had lost. His wife was a wise and loving
woman, who, though she found it hard to live happily in so lonely a
place with a sickly husband, met her sorrows with a cheerful face,
visited her poorer neighbours, and was like a ray of sunlight in the
gloomy valley. They had one son, a boy Roderick, now about fifteen; he
was a bright and eager child, who was happy enough, taking his life as
he found it--and indeed he had known no other. He was taught a little
by the priest; but he had no other schooling, for Sir James would
spend no money except when he was obliged to do so. Roderick had no
playmates, but he never found the time to be heavy; he was fond of
long solitary rambles on the hills, being light of foot and strong.
One day he had gone out to fish in the stream, but it was bright and
still, and he could catch nothing; so at last he laid his rod aside in
a hollow place beneath the bank, and wandered without any certain aim
along the stream. Higher and higher he went, till he found, looking
about him, that he was as high as the pass; and then it came into his
mind to track the stream to its source. The Manor was now out of
sight, and there was nothing round him but the high green hills, with
here and there a sheep feeding. Once a kite came out and circled
slowly in the sun, pouncing like a plummet far down the glen; and
still Roderick went onwards till he saw that he was at the top of the
lower hills, and that the only thing higher than him was the peak
itself. He saw now that the stream ran out of a still black pool some
way in front of him, that lay under the very shadow of the dark
precipice, and was fed by the snows that melted from the face. It was
surrounded by rocks that lay piled in confusion. But the whole place
wore an air that was more than desolate; the peak itself had a cruel
look, and there was an intent silence, which was only broken, as he
gazed, by the sound of rocks falling loudly from the face of the hill
and thundering down. The sun warned him that he had gone far enough;
and he determined to go homewards, half pleased at his discovery, and
half relieved to quit so lonely and grim a spot.
That evening, when he sate with his father and mother at their simple
meal, he began to say where he had been. His father heard him with
little attention, but when Roderick described the dark pool and the
sharp front of the peak he asked him abruptly how near he had gone to
the pool. Roderick said that he had seen it from a distance, and then
Sir James said somewhat sharply that he must not wander so far, and
that he was not to go near that place again. Roderick was surprised at
this, for his father as a rule interfered little with what he did; but
he did not ask his father the reason, for there was something peevish,
even harsh, in his tone. But afterwards, when he went out with his
mother, leaving the knight to his own gloomy thoughts, as his will and
custom was, his mother said with some urgency, "Roderick, promise me
not to go to the pool again; it has an evil name, and is better left
to itself." Roderick was eager to know the story of the place, but his
mother would not tell him--only she would have him promise; so he
promised, but complained that he would rather have had a reason given
for his promise; but his mother, smiling and holding his hand, said
that it should be enough for him to please her by doing her will. So
Roderick gave his promise again, but was not satisfied.
The next day Roderick was walking in the valley and met one of the
farmers, a young good-humoured man, who had always been friendly with
the boy, and had often been to fish with him; Roderick walked beside
him, and told him that he had followed the stream nearly to the pool,
when the young farmer, with some seriousness, asked him how near he
had been to the water. Roderick was surprised at the same question
that his father had asked him being asked again, and told him that he
had but seen it from a hill-top near, adding, "But what is amiss with
the place, for my father and mother have made me promise not to go
there again?"
The young farmer said nothing for a moment, but seemed to reflect;
then he said that there were stories about the place, stories that
perhaps it was foolish to believe, but he went on to say that it was
better to be on the safe side in all things, and that the place had an
evil fame. Then Roderick with childish eagerness asked him what the
stories were; and little by little the farmer told him. He said that
something dwelt near or in the pool, it was not known what, that had
an enmity to the life of man; that twice since he was a boy a strange
thing had happened there; a young shepherd had come by his death at
the pool, and was found lying in the water, strangely battered; that,
he said, was long before Roderick was born; then he added, "You
remember old Richard the shepherd?" "What!" said Roderick, "the old
strange man that used to go about muttering to himself, that the boys
threw stones at?" "Yes," said the farmer, "the very same. Well, he was
not always so--I remember him a strong and cheerful man; but once when
the sheep had got lost in the hills, he would go to the pool because
he thought he heard them calling there, though we prayed him not to
go. He came back, indeed, bringing no sheep, but an altered and broken
man, as he was thenceforth and as you knew him; he had seen something
by the pool, he could not say what, and had had a sore strife to get
away." "But what sort of a thing is this?" said Roderick. "Is it a
beast or a man, or what?"
"Neither," said the farmer very gravely. "You have heard them read in
the church of the evil spirits who dwelt with men, and entered their
bodies, and it was sore work even for the Lord Christ to cast them
forth; I think it is one of these who has wandered thither; they say
he goes not far from the pool, for he cannot abide the cross on the
pass, and the church bell gives him pains." And then the farmer looked
at Roderick and said, "You know that they ring the bell all night on
the feast of All Souls?" "Yes," said Roderick, "I have heard it ring."
"Well, on that night alone," said the farmer, "they say that spirits
have power upon men, and come abroad to do them hurt; and so they ring
the bell, which the spirits cannot listen to--but, young master, it is
ill to talk of these things, and Christian men should not even think
of them; but as I said, though Satan has but little power over the
baptized soul, yet even so, says the priest, he can enter in, if the
soul be willing to admit him,--and so I say, avoid the place! it may
be that these are silly stories to affright folk, but it is ill to
touch pitch; and no good can be got by going to the pool, and perhaps
evil;--and now I think I have told you enough and more than enough."
For Roderick was looking at him pale and with wide open eyes.
Is it strange that from that day the thing that Roderick most desired
was to see the pool and what dwelt there? I think not; when hearts are
young and before trouble has laid its heavy hand upon them, the hard
and cruel things of life, wounds, blows, agonies, terrors, seen only
in the mirrors of another spirit, are but as a curious and lively
spectacle that feeds the mind with wonder. The stories to which
Roderick had listened in church of men that were haunted by demons
seemed to him but as dim and distant experiences on which he would
fain look; and the fainter the thought of his promise grew, the
stronger grew his desire to see for himself.
In the month of June, when the heart is light, and the smell of the
woods is fresh and sharp, Roderick's father and mother were called to
go on a journey, to see an ancient friend who was thought to be dying.
The night before they set off Roderick had a strange dream; it seemed
to him that he wandered over bare hillsides, and came at last to the
pool; the peak rose sharp and clear, and the water was very black and
still; while he gazed upon it, it seemed to be troubled; the water
began to spin round and round, and bubbling waves rose and broke on
the surface. Suddenly a hand emerged from the water, and then a head,
bright and unwetted, as though the water had no power to touch it.
Roderick saw that it was a man of youthful aspect and commanding mien;
he waded out to the shore and stood for a moment looking round him;
then he beckoned Roderick to approach, looking at him kindly, and
spoke to him gently, saying that he had waited for him long. They
walked together to the crag, and then, in some way that Roderick could
not clearly see, the man opened a door into the mountain, and Roderick
saw a glimmering passage within. The air came out laden with a rich
and heavy fragrance, and there was a faint sound of distant music in
the hill. The man turned and looked upon Roderick as though inviting
him to enter; but Roderick shook his head and refused, saying that he
was not ready; at which the man stepped inside with a smile, half of
pity, and the door was shut.
Then Roderick woke with a start and wished that he had been bold
enough to go within the door; the light came in serenely through the
window, and he heard the faint piping of awakening birds in the dewy
trees. He could not sleep, and presently dressed himself and went
down. Soon the household was awake, for the knight was to start
betimes; Roderick sate at the early meal with his father and mother.
His father was cumbered with the thought of the troublesome journey,
and asked many questions about the baggage; so Roderick said little,
but felt his mother's eyes dwell on his face with love. Soon after
they rode away; Roderick stood at the door to see them go, and there
was so eager and bright a look in his face that his mother was somehow
troubled, and almost called him to her to make him repeat his promise,
but she feared that he would feel that she did not trust him, and
therefore put the thought aside; and so they rode away, his mother
waving her hand till they turned the corner by the wood and were out
of sight.
Then Roderick began to consider how he would spend the day, with a
half-formed design in his mind; when suddenly the temptation to visit
the pool came upon him with a force that he had neither strength nor
inclination to resist. So he took his rod, which might seem to be an
excuse, and set off rapidly up the stream. He was surprised to find
how swiftly the hills rose all about him, and how easily he went; very
soon he came to the top; and there lay the pool in front of him,
within the shadow of the peak, that rose behind it very clear and
sharp. He hesitated no longer, but ran lightly down the slope, and
next moment he was on the brink of the pool. It lay before him very
bright and pure, like a jewel of sapphire, the water being of a deep
azure blue; he went all round it. There was no sign of life in the
water; at the end nearest the cliff he found a little cool runnel of
water that bubbled into the pool from the cliffs. No grass grew round
about it, and he could see the stones sloping down and becoming more
beautiful the deeper they lay, from the pure tint of the water.
He looked all around him; the moorland quivered in the bright hot air,
and he could see far away the hills lie like a map, with blue
mountains on the horizon, and small green valleys where men dwelt. He
sate down by the pool, and he had a thought of bathing in the water;
but his courage did not rise to this, because he felt still as though
something sate in the depths that would not show itself, but might
come forth and drag him down; so he sate at last by the pool, and
presently he fell asleep.
When he woke he felt somewhat chilly; the shadow of the peak had come
round, and fell on the water; the place was still as calm as ever, but
looking upon the pool he had an obscure sense as though he were being
watched by an unclosing eye; but he was thirsting with the heat; so he
drew up, in his closed hands, some of the water, which was very cool
and sweet; and his drowsiness came upon him, and again he slept.
When next he woke it was with a sense of delicious ease, and the
thought that some one who loved him was near him stroking his hand. He
looked up, and there close to his side sate very quietly what gave him
a shock of surprise. It was a great gray cat, with soft abundant fur,
which turned its yellow eyes upon him lazily, purred, and licked his
hand; he caressed the cat, which arched its back and seemed pleased to
be with him, and presently leapt upon his knee. The soft warmth of the
fur against his hands, and the welcoming caresses of this fearless
wild creature pleased him greatly; and he sate long in quiet thought,
taking care not to disturb the cat, which, whenever he took his hand
away, rubbed against him as though to show that it was pleased at his
touch. But at last he thought that he must go homewards, for the day
began to turn to the west. So he put the cat off his knee and began to
walk to the top of the pass, as it was quicker to follow the road. For
awhile the cat accompanied him, sometimes rubbing against his leg and
sometimes walking in front, but looking round from time to time as
though to consult his pleasure.
Roderick began to hope that it would accompany him home, but at a
certain place the cat stopped, and would go no farther. Roderick
lifted it up, but it leapt from him as if displeased, and at last he
left it reluctantly. In a moment he came within sight of the cross in
the hilltop, so that he saw the road was near. Often he looked round
and saw the great cat regarding him as though it were sorry to be
left; till at last he could see it no more.
He went home well pleased, his head full of happy thoughts; he had
gone half expecting to see some dreadful thing, but had found instead
a creature who seemed to love him.
The next day he went again; and this time he found the cat sitting by
the pool; as soon as it saw him, it ran to him with a glad and
yearning cry, as though it had feared he would not return; to-day it
seemed brighter and larger to look upon; and he was pleased that when
he returned by the stream it followed him much farther, leaping
lightly from stone to stone; but at a certain place, where the valley
began to turn eastward, just before the little church came in sight,
it sate down as before and took its leave of him.
The third day he began to go up the valley again; but while he rested
in a little wood that came down to the stream, to his surprise and
delight the cat sprang out of a bush, and seemed more than ever glad
of his presence. While he sate fondling it, he heard the sound of
footsteps coming up the path; but the cat heard the sound too, and as
he rose to see who was coming, the cat sprang lightly into a tree
beside him and was hidden from his sight. It was the old priest on his
way to an upland farm, who spoke fondly to Roderick, and asked him of
his father and mother. Roderick told him that they were to return that
night, and said that it was too bright to remain indoors and yet too
bright to fish; the priest agreed, and after a little more talk rose
to go, and as his manner was, holding Roderick by the hand, he blessed
him, saying that he was growing a tall boy. When he was gone--and
Roderick was ashamed to find how eager he was that the priest should
go--he called low to the cat to come back; but the cat came not, and
though Roderick searched the tree into which it had sprung, he could
find no sign of it, and supposed that it had crept into the wood.
That evening the travellers returned, the knight seeming cheerful,
because the vexatious journey was over; but Roderick was half ashamed
to think that his mind had been so full of his new plaything that he
was hardly glad to see his parents return. Presently his mother said,
"You look very bright and happy, dear child," and Roderick, knowing
that he spoke falsely, said that he was glad to see them again; his
mother smiled and asked him what he had been doing, and he said that
he had wandered on the hills, for it was too bright to fish; his
mother looked at him for a moment, and he knew in his heart that she
wondered if he had kept his promise; but he thought of his secret, and
looked at her so straight and full that she asked him no further
questions.
The next day he woke feeling sad, because he knew that there would be
no chance to go to the pool. He went to and fro with his mother, for
she had many little duties to attend to. At last she said, "What are
you thinking of, Roderick? You seem to have little to say to me." She
said it laughingly; and Roderick was ashamed, but said that he was
only thinking; and so bestirred himself to talk. But late in the day
he went a little alone through the wood, and reaching the end of it,
looked up to the hill, kissing his hand towards the pool as a greeting
to his friend; and as he turned, the cat came swiftly and lovingly out
of the wood to him; and he caught it up in his arms and clasped it
close, where it lay as if contented.
Then he thought that he would carry it to the house, and say nothing
as to where he had found it; but hardly had he moved a step when the
cat leapt from him and stood as though angry. And it came into
Roderick's mind that the cat was his secret friend, and that their
friendship must somehow be unknown; but he loved it even the better
for that.
In the weeks that followed, the knight was ill and the lady much at
home; from time to time Roderick saw the cat; he could never tell when
it would visit him; it came and went unexpectedly, and always in some
lonely and secret place. But gradually Roderick began to care for
nothing else; his fishing and his riding were forgotten, and he began
to plan how he might be alone, so that the cat would come to him. He
began to lose his spirits and to be dull without it, and to hate the
hours when he could not see it; and all the time it grew or seemed to
grow stronger and sleeker; his mother soon began to notice that he was
not well; he became thin and listless, but his eyes were large and
bright; she asked him more than once if he were well, but he only
laughed. Once indeed he had a fright; he had been asleep under a
hawthorn in the glen on a hot July day; and waking saw the cat close
to him, watching him intently with yellow eyes, as though it were
about to spring upon him; but seeing him awake, it came wheedling and
fondling him as often before; but he could not forget the look in its
eyes, and felt grave and sad.
Then he began to be troubled with dreams; the man whom he had seen in
his former dream rising from the pool was often with him--sometimes he
led him to pleasant places; but one dream he had, that he was bathing
in the pool, and caught his foot between the rocks and could not draw
it out. Then he heard a rushing sound, and looking round saw that a
great stream of water was plunging heavily into the pool, so that it
rose every moment, and was soon up to his chin. Then he saw in his
dream that the man sate on the edge of the pool and looked at him with
a cold smile, but did not offer to help; till at last when the water
touched his lips, the man rose and held up his hand; and the stream
ceased to run, and presently his foot came out of the rock easily, and
he swam ashore but saw no one.
Then it came to the autumn, and the days grew colder and shorter, and
he could not be so much abroad; he felt, too, less and less disposed
to stir out, and it now began to be on his mind that he had broken his
promise to his mother; and for a week he saw nothing of the cat,
though he longed to see it. But one night, as he went to bed, when he
had put out his light, he saw that the moon was very bright; and he
opened the window and looked out, and saw the gleaming stream and the
grey valley; he was turning away, when he heard a light sound of the
scratching of claws, and presently the cat sprang upon the window-sill
and entered the room. It was now cold and he got into bed, and the cat
sprang upon his pillow; and Roderick was so glad that the cat had
returned that while he caressed it he talked to it in low tones.
Suddenly came a step at the door, and a light beneath it, and his
mother with a candle entered the room. She stood for a moment looking,
and Roderick became aware that the cat was gone. Then his mother came
near, thinking that he was asleep, and he sate up. She said to him,
"Dear child, I heard you speaking, and wondered whether you were in a
dream," and she looked at him with an anxious gaze. And he said, "Was
I speaking, mother? I was asleep and must have spoken in a dream."
Then she said, "Roderick, you are not old enough yet to sleep so
uneasily--is all well, dear child?" and Roderick, hating to deceive
his mother, said, "How should not all be well?" So she kissed him and
went quietly away, but Roderick heard her sighing.
Then it came at last to All Souls' Day; and Roderick, going to his
bed that night, had a strange dizziness and cried out, and found the
room swim round him. Then he got up into his bed, for he thought that
he must be ill, and soon fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed a
dreadful dream. He thought that he lay on the hills beside the pool;
and yet he was out of the body, for he could see himself lying there.
The pool was very dark, and a cold wind ruffled the waves. And again
the water was troubled, and the man stepped out; but behind him came
another man, like a hunchback, very swarthy of face, with long thin
arms, that looked both strong and evil. Then it seemed as if the first
man pointed to Roderick where he lay and said, "You can take him
hence, for he is mine now, and I have need of him," adding, "Who could
have thought it would be so easy?" and then he smiled very bitterly.
And the hunchback went towards himself; and he tried to cry out in
warning, and straining woke; and in the chilly dawn he saw the cat sit
in his room, but very different from what it had been. It was gaunt
and famished, and the fur was all marred; its yellow eyes gleamed
horribly, and Roderick saw that it hated him, he knew not why; and
such fear came upon him that he screamed out, and as he screamed the
cat rose as if furious, twitching its tail and opening its mouth; but
he heard steps without, and screamed again, and his mother came in
haste into the room, and the cat was gone in a moment, and Roderick
held out his hands to his mother, and she soothed and quieted him, and
presently with many sobs he told her all the story.
She did not reproach him, nor say a word of his disobedience, the
fear was too urgent upon her; she tried to think for a little that it
was the sight of some real creature lingering in a mind that was
wrought upon by illness; but those were not the days when men
preferred to call the strange afflictions of body and spirit, the sad
scars that stain the fair works of God, by reasonable names. She did
not doubt that by some dreadful hap her own child had somehow crept
within the circle of darkness, and she only thought of how to help and
rescue him; that he was sorry and that he did not wholly consent was
her hope.
So she merely kissed and quieted him, and then she told him that she
would return anon and he must rest quietly; but he would not let her
leave him, so she stood in the door and called a servant softly. Sir
James was long abed, for he had been in ill-health that day, and she
gave word that some one must be found at once and go to call the
priest, saying that Roderick was ill and she was uneasy. Then she came
back to the bed, and holding Roderick's hand she said, that he must
try to sleep. Roderick said to her, "Mother, say that you forgive me."
To which she only replied, "Dear child, do I not love you better than
all the world? Do not think of me now, only ask help of God." So she
sate with his hand in both of her own, and presently he fell asleep;
but she saw that he was troubled in his dreams, for he groaned and
cried out often; and now through the window she heard the soft tolling
of the bell of the church, and she knew that a contest must be fought
out that night over the child; but after a sore passage of misery, and
a bitter questioning as to why one so young and innocent should thus
be bound with evil bonds, she found strength to leave the matter in
the Father's hands, and to pray with an eager hopefulness.
But the time passed heavily and still the priest did not arrive; and
the ghostly terror was so sore on the child that she could bear it no
longer and awakened him. And he told her in broken words of the
terrible things that had oppressed him; sore fightings and struggles,
and a voice in his ear that it was too late, and that he had yielded
himself to the evil. And at last there came a quiet footfall on the
stair, and the old priest himself entered the room, looking anxious,
yet calm, and seeming to bring a holy peace with him.
Then she bade the priest sit down; and so the two sate by the bedside,
with the solitary lamp burning in the chamber; and she would have had
Roderick tell the tale, but he covered his face with his hands and
could not. So she told the tale herself to the priest, saying,
"Correct me, Roderick, if I am wrong;" and once or twice the boy
corrected her, and added a few words to make the story plain, and then
they sate awhile in silence, while the terrified looks of the mother
and her son dwelt on the old priest's strongly lined face; yet they
found comfort in the smile with which he met them.
At length he said, "Yes, dear lady and dear Roderick, the case is
plain enough--the child has yielded himself to some evil power, but
not too far, I think; and now must we meet the foe with all our might.
I will abide here with the boy; and, dear lady, you were better in
your own chamber, for we know not what will pass; if there were need I
would call you." Then the lady said, "I will do as you direct me,
Father, but I would fain stay." Then he said, "Nay, but there are
things on which a Christian should not look, lest they should daunt
his faith--so go, dear lady, and help us with your prayers." Then she
said, "I will be below; and if you beat your foot thrice upon the
floor, I will come. Roderick, I shall be close at hand; only be
strong, and all shall be well." Then she went softly away.
Then the priest said to Roderick, "And now, dear son, confess your
sin and let me shrive you." So Roderick made confession, and the
priest blessed him: but while he blessed him there came the angry
crying of a cat from somewhere in the room, so that Roderick shuddered
in his bed. Then the priest drew from his robe a little holy book, and
with a reverence laid it under Roderick's hand; and he himself took
his book of prayers and said, "Sleep now, dear son, fear not." So
Roderick closed his eyes, and being very weary slept. And the old
priest in a low whisper said the blessed psalms. And it came near to
midnight; and the place that the priest read was, _Thou shalt not be
afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the sickness that
destroyeth in the noonday_; and suddenly there ran as it were a shiver
through his bones, and he knew that the time was come. He looked at
Roderick, who slept wearily on his bed, and it seemed to him as though
suddenly a small and shadowy thing, like a bird, leapt from the boy's
mouth and on to the bed; it was like a wren, only white, with dusky
spots upon it; and the priest held his breath: for now he knew that
the soul was out of the body, and that unless it could return
uninjured into the limbs of the child, nothing could avail the boy;
and then he said quietly in his heart to God that if He so willed He
should take the boy's life, if only his soul could be saved.
Then the priest was aware of a strange and horrible thing; there
sprang softly on to the bed the form of the great gray cat, very lean
and angry, which stood there, as though ready to spring upon the bird,
which hopped hither and thither, as though careless of what might be.
The priest cast a glance upon the boy, who lay rigid and pale, his
eyes shut, and hardly seeming to breathe, as though dead and prepared
for burial. Then the priest signed the cross and said "_In Nomine_";
and as the holy words fell on the air, the cat looked fiercely at the
bird, but seemed to shrink into itself; and then it slipped away.
Then the priest's fear was that the bird might stray further outside
of his care; and yet he dared not try and wake the boy, for he knew
that this was death, if the soul was thrust apart from the body, and
if he broke the unseen chain that bound them; so he waited and prayed.
And the bird hopped upon the floor; and then presently the priest saw
the cat draw near again, and in a stealthy way; and now the priest
himself was feeling weary of the strain, for he seemed to be wrestling
in spirit with something that was strong and strongly armed. But he
signed the cross again and said faintly "_In Nomine_"; and the cat
again withdrew.
Then a dreadful drowsiness fell upon the priest, and he thought that
he must sleep. Something heavy, leaden-handed, and powerful seemed to
be busy in his brain. Meanwhile the bird hopped upon the window-sill
and stood as if preparing its wings for a flight. Then the priest beat
with his foot upon the floor, for he could no longer battle. In a
moment the lady glided in, and seemed as though scared to find the
scene of so fierce an encounter so still and quiet. She would have
spoken, but the priest signed her to be silent, and pointed to the boy
and to the bird; and then she partly understood. So they stood in
silence, but the priest's brain grew more numb; though he was aware of
a creeping blackness that seemed to overshadow the bird, in the midst
of which glared two bright eyes. So with a sudden effort he signed the
cross, and said "_In Nomine_" again; and at the same moment the lady
held out her hand; and the priest sank down on the floor; but he saw
the bird raise its wings for a flight, and just as the dark thing
rose, and, as it were, struck open-mouthed, the bird sailed softly
through the air, alighted on the lady's hand, and then with a light
flutter of wings on to the bed and to the boy's face, and was seen no
more; at the same moment the bells stopped in the church and left a
sweet silence. The black form shrank and slipped aside, and seemed to
fall on the ground; and outside there was a shrill and bitter cry
which echoed horribly on the air; and the boy opened his eyes, and
smiled; and his mother fell on his neck and kissed him. Then the
priest said, "Give God the glory!" and blessed them, and was gone so
softly that they knew not when he went; for he had other work to do.
Then mother and son had great joy together.
But the priest walked swiftly and sternly through the wood, and to the
church; and he dipped a vessel in the stoup of holy water, turning his
eyes aside, and wrapped it in a veil of linen. Then he took a lantern
in his hand, and with a grave and fixed look on his face he walked
sadly up the valley, putting one foot before another, like a man who
forced himself to go unwilling. There were strange sounds on the
hillside, the crying of sad birds, and the beating of wings, and
sometimes a hollow groaning seemed to come down the stream. But the
priest took no heed, but went on heavily till he reached the stone
cross, where the wind whistled dry in the grass. Then he struck off
across the moorland. Presently he came to a rise in the ground; and
here, though it was dark, he seemed to see a blacker darkness in the
air, where the peak lay.
But beneath the peak he saw a strange sight; for the pool shone with a
faint white light, that showed the rocks about it. The priest never
turned his head, but walked thither, with his head bent, repeating
words to himself, but hardly knowing what he said.
Then he came to the brink; and there he saw a dreadful sight. In the
water writhed large and luminous worms, that came sometimes up to the
surface, as though to breathe, and sank again. The priest knew well
enough that it was a device of Satan's to frighten him; so he delayed
not; but setting the lantern down on the ground, he stood. In a moment
the lantern was obscured as by the rush of bat-like wings. But the
priest took the veil off the vessel; and holding it up in the air, he
let the water fall in the pool, saying softly, "Lord, let them be
bound!"
But when the holy water touched the lake, there was a strange sight;
for the bright worms quivered and fell to the depth of the pool; and a
shiver passed over the surface, and the light went out like a
flickering lamp. Then there came a foul yelling from the stones; and
with a roar like thunder, rocks fell crashing from the face of the
peak; and then all was still.
Then the priest sate down and covered his face with his hands, for he
was sore spent; but he rose at length, and with grievous pain made his
slow way down the valley, and reached the parsonage house at last.
Roderick lay long between life and death; and youth and a quiet mind
prevailed.
Long years have passed since that day; all those that I have spoken
of are dust. But in the window of the old church hangs a picture in
glass which shows Christ standing, with one lying at his feet from
whom he had cast out a devil; and on a scroll are the words, DE
ABYSSIS . TERRAE . ITERUM . REDUXISTI . ME, the which may be written
in English, _Yea, and broughtest me from the deep of the earth again_.
THE RED CAMP
It was a sultry summer evening in the old days, when Walter Wyatt
came to the house of his forefathers. It was in a quiet valley of
Sussex, with the woods standing very steeply on the high hillsides.
Among the woods were pleasant stretches of pasture, and a little
stream ran hidden among hazels beside the road; here and there were
pits in the woods, where the men of ancient times had dug for iron,
pits with small sandstone cliffs, and full to the brim of saplings and
woodland plants. Walter rode slowly along, his heart full of a happy
content. Though it was the home of his family he had never even seen
Restlands--that was the peaceful name of the house. Walter's father
had been a younger son, and for many years the elder brother, a morose
and selfish man, had lived at Restlands, often vowing that none of his
kin should ever set foot in the place, and all out of a native malice
and churlishness, which discharged itself upon those that were nearest
to him. Walter's father was long dead, and Walter had lived a very
quiet homely life with his mother. But one day his uncle had died
suddenly and silently, sitting in his chair; and it was found that he
had left no will. So that Restlands, with its orchards and woods and
its pleasant pasture-lands, fell to Walter; and he had ridden down to
take possession. He was to set the house in order, for it was much
decayed in his uncle's time; and in a few weeks his mother was to
follow him there.
He turned a corner of the road, and saw in a glance a house that he
knew must be his; and a sudden pride and tenderness leapt up within
his heart, to think how fair a place he could call his own.
An avenue of limes led from the road to the house, which was built of
ancient stone, the roof tiled with the same. The front was low and
many-windowed. And Walter, for he was a God-fearing youth, made a
prayer in his heart, half of gratitude and half of hope.
He rode up to the front of the house, and saw at once that it was
sadly neglected; the grass grew among the paving-stones, and several
of the windows were broken. He knocked at the door, and an old
serving-man came out, who made an obeisance. Walter sent his horse to
the stable; his baggage was already come; and his first task was to
visit his new home from room to room. It was a very beautiful solidly
built house, finely panelled in old dry wood, and had an abundance of
solid oak furniture; there were dark pictures here and there; and that
night Walter sate alone at his meat, which was carefully served him by
the old serving-man, his head full of pleasant plans for his new life;
he slept in the great bedroom, and many times woke wondering where he
was; once he crept to the window, and saw the barns, gardens, and
orchards lie beneath, and the shadowy woods beyond, all bathed in a
cold clear moonlight.
In the morning when he had breakfasted, the lawyer who had charge of
his business rode in from the little town hard by to see him; and when
Walter's happiness was a little dashed; for though the estate brought
in a fair sum, yet it was crippled by a mortgage which lay upon it;
and Walter saw that he would have to live sparely for some years
before he could have his estate unembarrassed; but this troubled him
little, for he was used to a simple life. The lawyer indeed had
advised him to sell a little of the land; but Walter was very proud of
the old estate, and of the memory that he was the tenth Wyatt that had
dwelt there, and he said that before he did that he would wait awhile
and see if he could not arrange otherwise. When the lawyer was gone
there came in the bailiff, and Walter went with him all over the
estate. The garden was greatly overgrown with weeds, and the yew
hedges were sprawling all uncut; they went through the byre, where the
cattle stood in the straw; they visited the stable and the barn, the
granary and the dovecote; and Walter spoke pleasantly with the men
that served him; then he went to the ploughland and the pastures, the
orchard and the woodland; and it pleased Walter to walk in the
woodpaths, among the copse and under great branching oaks, and to feel
that it was all his own.
At last they came out on the brow of the hill, and saw Restlands lie
beneath them, with the smoke of a chimney going up into the quiet air,
and the doves wheeling about the cote. The whole valley was full of
westering sunshine, and the country sounds came pleasantly up through
the still air.
They stood in a wide open pasture, but in the centre of it rose a
small, dark, and thickly grown square holt of wood, surrounded by a
high green bank of turf, and Walter asked what that was. The old
bailiff looked at him a moment without speaking and then said, "That
is the Red Camp, sir." Walter said pleasantly, "And whose camp is it?"
but it came suddenly into his head that long ago his father had told
him a curious tale about the place, but he could not remember what the
tale was. The old man answering his question said, "Ah, sir, who can
say? perhaps it was the old Romans who made it, or perhaps older men
still; but there was a sore battle hereabouts." And then he went on in
a slow and serious way to tell him an old tale of how a few warriors
had held the place against an army, and that they had all been put to
the sword there; he said that in former days strange rusted weapons
and bones had been ploughed up in the field, and then he added that
the Camp had ever since been left desolate and that no one cared to
set foot within it; yet for all that it was said that a great treasure
lay buried within it, for that was what the men were guarding, though
those that took the place and slew them could never find it; "and that
was all long ago," he said.
Walter, as the old man spoke, walked softly to the wood and peered at
it over the mound; it was all grown up within, close and thick, an
evil tangle of plants and briars. It was dark and even cold looking
within the wood, though the air lay warm all about it. The mound was
about breast high, and there was a grass-grown trench all round out of
which the earth had been thrown up. It came into Walter's head that
the place had seen strange things. He thought of it as all rough and
newly made, with a palisade round the mound, with spears and helmets
showing over, and a fierce wild multitude of warriors surging all
round; the Romans, if they had been Romans, within, grave and anxious,
waiting for help that never came. All this came into his mind with a
pleasant sense of security, as a man who is at ease looks on a picture
of old and sad things, and finds it minister to his content. Yet the
place kept a secret of its own, Walter felt sure of that. And the
treasure, was that there all the time? buried in some corner of the
wood, money lying idle that might do good things if it could but get
forth? So he mused, tapping the bank with his stick. And presently
they went on together. Walter said as they turned away, "I should like
to cut the trees down, and throw the place into the pasture," but the
old bailiff said, "Nay, it is better left alone."
The weeks passed very pleasantly at first; the neighbours came to see
him, and he found that an old name wins friends easily; he spent much
of the day abroad, and he liked to go up to the Red Camp and see it
stand so solitary and dark, with the pleasant valley beneath it. His
mother soon came, and they found that with her small jointure they
could indeed live at the place, but that they would have to live very
sparely at first; there must be no horses in the stable, nor coach to
drive abroad; there must be no company at Restlands for many a year,
and Walter saw too that he must not think awhile of marriage, but that
he must give all his savings to feed the estate.
After awhile, when the first happy sense of possession had gone off,
and then life had settled down into common and familiar ways, this
began to be very irksome to Walter; and what made him feel even more
keenly his fortune was that he made acquaintance with a squire that
lived hard by, who had a daughter Marjory, who seemed to Walter the
fairest and sweetest maiden he had ever seen; and he began to carry
her image about with him; and his heart beat very sharply in his
breast if he set eyes on her unexpectedly; and she too, seemed to have
delight in seeing Walter, and to understand even the thoughts that lay
beneath his lightest word. But the squire was a poor man, and Walter
felt bound to crush the thought of love and marriage down in his
heart, until he began to grow silent and moody; and his mother saw all
that was in his heart and pitied him, but knew not what to do; and
Walter began even to talk of going into the world to seek his fortune;
but it was little more than talk, for he already loved Restlands very
deeply.
Now one day when Walter had been dining with the Vicar of the parish,
he met at his table an old and fond man, full of curious wisdom, who
took great delight in all that showed the history of the old races
that had inhabited the land; and he told Walter a long tale of the
digging open of a great barrow or mound upon the downs, which it
seemed had been the grave of a great prince, and in which they had
found a great treasure of gold, cups and plates and pitchers all of
gold, with bars of the same, and many other curious things. He said
that a third of such things by rights belonged to the King; but that
the King's Grace had been contented to take a rich cup or two, and had
left the rest in the hands of him whose land it was. Then the old
scholar asked Walter if it were not true that he had in his own land
an ancient fort or stronghold, and Walter told him of the Red Camp and
the story, and the old man heard him with great attention saying, "Ay,
ay," and "Ay, so it would be," and at the last he said that the story
of the treasure was most likely a true one, for he did not see how it
could have grown up otherwise; and that he did not doubt that it was a
great Roman treasure, perhaps a tribute, gathered in from the people
of the land, who would doubtless have been enraged to lose so much and
would have striven to recover it. "Ay, it is there, sure enough," he
said.
Walter offered to go with him to the place; but the old Vicar, seeing
Walter's bright eye, and knowing something of the difficulties, said
that the legend was that it would be ill to disturb a thing that had
cost so many warriors their lives; and that a curse would rest upon
one that did disturb it. The old scholar laughed and said that the
curses of the dead, and especially of the heathen dead, would break no
bones--and he went on to say that doubtless there was a whole
hen-roost of curses hidden away in the mound upon the downs; but that
they had hurt not his friend who had opened it; for he lived very
delicately and plentifully off the treasure of the old prince, who
seemed to bear him no grudge for it. "Nay, doubtless," he said, "if we
but knew the truth, I dare say that the old heathen man, pining in
some dark room in hell, is glad enough that his treasure should be
richly spent by a good Christian gentleman."
They walked together to the place; and the old gentleman talked very
learnedly and showed him where the gates and towers of the fort had
been--adding to Walter, "And if I were you, Mr. Wyatt, I would have
the place cleared and trenched, and would dig the gold out; for it is
there as sure as I am a Christian man and a lover of the old days."
Then Walter told his mother of all that had been said; and she had
heard of the old tales, and shook her head; indeed when Walter spoke
to the old bailiff of his wish to open the place, the old man almost
wept; and then, seeing that he prevailed nothing, said suddenly that
neither he nor any of the men that dwelt in the village would put out
a hand to help for all the gold of England. So Walter rested for
awhile; and still his impatience and his hunger grew.
Walter did not decide at once; he turned the matter over in his mind
for a week. He spoke no more to the bailiff, who thought he had
changed his mind; but all the week the desire grew; and at last it
completely overmastered him. He sent for the bailiff and told him he
had determined to dig out the Camp; the bailiff looked at him without
speaking. Then Walter said laughing that he meant to deal very fairly;
that no one should bear a hand in the work who did not do so
willingly; but that he should add a little to the wages of every man
who worked for him at the Camp while the work was going on. The
bailiff shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. Walter went and
spoke to each of his men and told them his offer. "I know," he said,
"that there is a story about the place, and that you do not wish to
touch it; but I will offer a larger wage to every man who works there
for me; and I will force no man to do it; but done it shall be; and if
my own men will not do it, then I will get strangers to help me." The
end of it was that three of his men offered to do the work, and the
next day a start was made.
The copse and undergrowth was first cleared, and then the big trees
were felled and dragged off the place; then the roots were stubbed up.
It was a difficult task, and longer than Walter had thought; and he
could not disguise from himself that a strange kind of ill-luck hung
about the whole affair. One of his men disabled himself by a cut from
an axe; another fell ill; the third, after these two mishaps, came and
begged off. Walter replaced them with other workers; and the work
proceeded slowly, in spite of Walter's great impatience and haste. He
himself was there early and late; the men had it in their minds that
they were searching for treasure and were well-nigh as excited as
himself; and Walter was for ever afraid that in his absence some rich
and valuable thing might be turned up, and perhaps concealed or
conveyed away secretly by the finder. But the weeks passed and nothing
was found; and it was now a bare and ugly place with miry pools of
dirt, great holes where the trees had been; there were cart tracks all
over the field in which it lay, the great trunks lay outside the
mound, and the undergrowth was piled in stacks. The mound and ditch
had all been unturfed; and the mound was daily dug down to the level,
every spadeful being shaken loose; and now they came upon some few
traces of human use. In the mound was found a short and dinted sword
of bronze, of antique shape. A mass of rusted metal was found in a
corner, that looked as if it had been armour. In another corner were
found some large upright and calcined stones, with abundance of
wood-ashes below, that seemed to have been a rude fireplace. And in
one part, in a place where there seemed to have been a pit, was a
quantity of rotting stuff, that seemed like the remains of bones.
Walter himself grew worn and weary, partly with the toil and still
more with the deferred hope. And the men too became sullen and
ill-affected. It surprised Walter too that more than one of his
neighbours spoke with disfavour of what he was doing, as of a thing
that was foolish or even wrong. But still he worked on savagely, slept
little, and cared not what he ate or drank.
At last the work was nearly over; the place had been all trenched
across, and they had come in most places to the hard sandstone, which
lay very near the surface. In the afternoon had fallen a heavy
drenching shower, so that the men had gone home early, wet and
dispirited; and Walter stood, all splashed and stained with mud, sick
at heart and heavy, on the edge of the place, and looked very gloomily
at the trenches, which lay like an ugly scar on the green hilltop. The
sky was full of ragged inky clouds, with fierce lights on the horizon.
As he paced about and looked at the trenches, he saw in one place
that it seemed as if the earth was of a different colour at the side
of the trench; he stepped inside to look at this, and saw that the
digging had laid bare the side of a place like a pit, that seemed to
have been dug down through the ground; he bent to examine it, and then
saw at the bottom of the trench, washed clear by the rain, something
that looked like a stick or a root, that projected a little into the
trench; he put his hand down to it, and found it cold and hard and
heavy, and in a moment saw that it was a rod of metal that ran into
the bank. He took up a spade, and threw the earth away in haste; and
presently uncovered the rod. It was a bar, he saw, and very heavy; but
examining it closely he saw that there was a stamp of some sort upon
it; and then in a moment looking upon a place where the spade had
scratched it, he saw that it was a bright yellow metal. It came over
him all at once, with a shock that made him faint, that he had
stumbled upon some part of the treasure; he put the bar aside, and
then, first looking all round to see that none observed him, he dug
into the bank. In a moment his spade struck something hard; and he
presently uncovered a row of bars that lay close together. He dragged
them up one by one, and underneath he found another row, laid
crosswise; and another row, and another, till he had uncovered seven
rows, making fifty bars in all. Beneath the lowest row his spade
slipped on something round and smooth; he uncovered the earth, and
presently drew out a brown and sodden skull, which thus lay beneath
the treasure. Below that was a mass of softer earth, but out of it
came the two thigh-bones of a man.
The sky was now beginning to grow dark; but he dug out the whole of
the pit, working into the bank; and he saw that a round hole had been
dug straight down from the top, to the sandstone. The bones lay upon
the sandstone; but he found other bones at the sides of where the gold
had lain; so that it seemed to him as though the gold must have been
placed among dead bodies, and have rested among corruption. This was a
dim thought that lurked in an ugly way in his mind. But he had now dug
out the whole pit, and found nothing else, except a few large blurred
copper coins which lay among the bodies. He stood awhile looking at
the treasure; but together with the exultation at his discovery there
mingled a dark and gloomy oppression of spirit, which he could not
explain, which clouded his mind. But presently he came to himself
again, and gathering the bones together, he threw them down to the
bottom of the pit, as he was minded to conceal his digging from the
men. While he did so, it seemed to him that, as he was bending to the
pit, something came suddenly behind him and stood at his back, close
to him, as though looking over his shoulder. For a moment the horror
was so great that he felt the hair of his head prickle and his heart
thump within his breast; but he overcame it and turned, and saw
nothing but the trenches, and above them the ragged sky; yet he had
the thought that something had slipped away. But he set himself
doggedly to finish his task; he threw earth into the holes, working in
a kind of fury; and twice as he did so, the same feeling came again
that there was some one at his back; and twice turning he saw nothing;
but the third time, from the West came a sharp thunder-peal; and he
had hardly finished his work when the rain fell in a sheet, and
splashed in the trenches.
Then he turned to the treasure which lay beside him. He found that he
could not carry more than a few of the bars at a time; and he dared
not leave the rest uncovered. So he covered them with earth and went
stealthily down to the house; and there he got, with much precaution,
a barrow from the garden. But the fear of discovery came upon him; and
he determined to go into the house and sup as usual, and late at night
convey the treasure to the house. For the time, his trove gave him no
joy; he could not have believed it would have so weighed on him--he
felt more like one who had some guilty secret to conceal, than a man
to whom had befallen a great joy.
He went to the house, changed his wet clothes, and came to supper with
his mother. To her accustomed questions as to what they had found, he
took out the coins and showed them her, saying nothing of the gold,
but with a jesting word that these would hardly repay him for his
trouble. He could scarcely speak at supper for thinking of what he had
found; and every now and then there came upon him a dreadful fear that
he had been observed digging, and that even now some thief had stolen
back there and was uncovering his hoard. His mother looked at him
often, and at last said that he looked very weary; to which he replied
with some sharpness, so that she said no more.
Then all at once, near the end of the meal, he had the same dreadful
fear that he had felt by the pit. It seemed to him as though some one
came near him and stood close behind him, bending over his shoulder;
and a kind of icy coldness fell on him. He started and looked quickly
round. His mother looked anxiously at him, and said, "What is it, dear
Walter?" He made some excuse; but presently feeling that he must be
alone, he excused himself and went to his room, where he sate, making
pretence to read, till the house should be silent.
Then when all were abed, at an hour after midnight, he forced himself
to rise and put on his rough clothes, though a terror lay very sore
upon him, and go out to the garden, creeping like a thief. He had with
him a lantern; and he carried the barrow on his shoulders for fear
that the creaking of the wheel should awake some one; and then
stumbling and sweating, and in a great weariness, he went by woodpaths
to the hilltop. He came to the place, and having lit his lantern he
uncovered the bars, and laid them on the barrow; they were as he had
left them. When he had loaded them, the same fear struck him suddenly
cold again, of something near him; and he thought for a moment he
would have swooned; but sitting down on the barrow in the cool air he
presently came to himself. Then he essayed to wheel the barrow in the
dark. But he stumbled often, and once upset the barrow and spilled his
load. Thus, though fearing discovery, he was forced to light the
lantern and set it upon the barrow, and so at last he came to the
house; where he disposed the bars at the bottom of a chest of which he
had the key, covering them with papers, and then went to bed in a kind
of fever, his teeth chattering, till he fell into a wretched sleep
which lasted till dawn.
In his sleep he dreamed a fearful dream; he seemed to be sitting on
the ground by the Camp, holding the gold in his arms; the Camp, in his
dream was as it was before he had cleared it, all grown up with trees.
Suddenly out from among the trees there came a man in rusty tarnished
armour, with a pale wild face and a little beard, which seemed all
clotted with moisture; he held in his hand a pike or spear, and he
came swiftly and furiously upon Walter as though he would smite him.
But it seemed as though his purpose changed; for standing aside he
watched Walter with evil and piercing eyes, so that it seemed to
Walter that he would sooner have been smitten. And then he woke, but
in anguish, for the man still seemed to stand beside him; until he
made a light and saw no one.
He arose feeling broken and ill; but he met his mother with a smile,
and told her that he had determined to do what would please her, and
work no more at the Camp. And he told the men that he would dig no
more, but that they were to level the place and so leave it. And so
they did, murmuring sore.
The next week was a very miserable one for Walter; he could not have
believed that a man's heart should be so heavy. It seemed to him that
he lay, like the poor bones that he had found beneath the treasure,
crushed and broken and stifled under the weight of it. He was tempted
to do wild things with the gold; to bury it again in the Camp, to drop
it into the mud of the pool that lay near the house. In fevered dreams
he seemed to row himself in a boat upon a dark sea, and to throw the
bars one by one into the water; the reason of this was not only his
fear for the treasure itself, but the dreadful sense that he had of
being followed by some one, who dogged his footsteps wherever he went.
If ever he sate alone, the thing would draw near him and bend above
him; he often felt that if he could but look round swiftly enough he
would catch a glimpse of the thing, and that nothing that he could see
would be so fearful as that which was unseen; and so it came to pass
that, as he sate with his mother, though he bore the presence long
that he might not startle her, yet after a time of patient agony he
could bear it no more, but looked swiftly behind him; he grew pale and
ill, and even the men of the place noticed how often he turned round
as he walked; till at last he would not even walk abroad, except early
and late when there would be few to see him.
He had sent away his labourers; but once or twice he noticed, as he
went by the Camp, that some one had been digging and grubbing in the
mire. Sometimes for an hour or two his terrors would leave him, till
he thought that he was wholly cured; but it was like a cat with a
mouse, for he suffered the worse for his respite, till at last he fell
so low that he used to think of stories of men that had destroyed
themselves, and though he knew it to be a terrible sin to dally with
such thoughts, he could not wholly put them from him, but used to plan
in his mind how he could do the deed best, that it might appear to be
an accident. Sometimes he bore his trouble heavily, but at others he
would rage to think that he had been so happy so short a while ago;
and even the love that he bore to Marjory was darkened and destroyed
by the evil thing, and he met her timid and friendly glances sullenly;
his mother was nearly as miserable as himself, for she knew that
something was very grievously amiss, but could not divine what it was.
Indeed, she could do nothing but wish it were otherwise, and pray for
her son, for she knew not where the trouble lay, but thought that he
was ill or even bewitched.
At last, after a day of dreadful gloom, Walter made up his mind that
he would ride to London and see to the disposing of the treasure. He
had a thought often in his mind that if he replaced it in the Camp, he
would cease to be troubled; but he could not bring himself to that; he
seemed to himself like a man who had won a hard victory, and was asked
to surrender what he had won.
His intention was to go to an old and wise friend of his father's, who
was a Canon of a Collegiate Church in London, and was much about the
court. So he hid the treasure in a strong cellar and padlocked the
door; but he took one bar with him to show to his friend.
It was a doleful journey; his horse seemed as dispirited as himself;
and his terrors came often upon him, till he was fearful that he might
be thought mad; and indeed what with the load at his heart and the
short and troubled nights he spent, he believed himself that he was
not very far from it.
It was with a feeling of relief and safety, like a ship coming into
port, that he stayed his horse at the door of the college, which stood
in a quiet street of the city. He carried a valise of clothes in which
the bar was secured. He had a very friendly greeting from the old
Canon, who received him in a little studious parlour full of books.
The court was full of pleasant sunshine, and the city outside seemed
to make a pleasant and wholesome stir in the air.
But the Canon was very much amazed at Walter's looks; he was used to
read the hearts of men in their faces like a wise priest, and he saw
in Walter's face a certain desperate look such as he had seen, he said
to himself, in the faces of those who had a deadly sin to confess. But
it was not his way to make inquisition, and so he talked courteously
and easily, and when he found that Walter was inclined to be silent,
he filled the silence himself with little talk of the news of the
town.
After the meal, which they took in the Canon's room--for Walter said
that he would prefer that to dining in the Hall, when the Canon gave
him the choice--Walter said that he had a strange story to tell him.
The Canon felt no surprise, and being used to strange stories,
addressed himself to listen carefully; for he thought that in the most
difficult and sad tales of sin the words of the sufferer most often
supplied the advice and the way out, if one but listened warily.
He did not interrupt Walter except to ask him a few questions to make
the story clear, but his face grew very grave; and at the end he sate
some time in silence. Then he said very gently that it was a heavy
judgment, but that he must ask Walter one question. "I do not ask you
to tell me," he said very courteously, "what it may be; but is there
no other thing in which you have displeased God? For these grievous
thoughts and fears are sometimes sent as a punishment for sin, and to
turn men back to the light."
Then Walter said that he knew of no such sin by which he could have
vexed God so exceedingly. "Careless," he said, "I am and have been;
and, father, I would tell you anything that was in my heart; I would
have no secrets from you--but though I am a sinner, and do not serve
God as well as I would, yet I desire to serve Him, and have no sin
that is set like a wall between Him and me." He said this so honestly
and bravely, looking so full at the priest, that he did not doubt him,
and said, "Then, my son, we must look elsewhere for the cause; and
though I speak in haste, and without weighing my words, it seems to me
that, to speak in parables, you are like a man who has come by chance
to a den and carried off for his pleasure the cubs of some forest
beast, who returns and finds them gone, and tracks the robber out. The
souls of these poor warriors are in some mansion of God, we know not
where; if they did faithfully in life they are beaten, as the
Scripture says, with few stripes; but they may not enjoy His blessed
rest, nor the sweet sleep of the faithful souls who lie beneath the
altar and wait for His coming. And now though they cannot slay you,
they can do you grievous hurt. The Holy Church hath power indeed over
the spirits of evil, the devils that enter into men. But I have not
heard that she hath power over the spirits of the dead, and least of
all over those that lived and died outside the fold. It seems to me,
though I but grope in darkness, that these poor spirits grudge the
treasure that they fought and died for to the hands of a man who hath
not fought for it. We may think that it is a poor and childish thing
to grudge that which one cannot use; but no discourse will make a
child think so; and I reckon that these poor souls are as children
yet. And it seems to me, speaking foolishly, as though they would not
be appeased until you either restored it to them, or used it for their
undoubted benefit; but of one thing I am certain, that it must not be
used to enrich yourself. But I must ponder over the story, for it is a
strange one, and not such as has ever yet come before me."
Then Walter found fresh courage at these wary and wise words, and
told him of his impoverished estate and the love he had to Marjory;
and the priest smiled, and said that love was the best thing to win in
the world. And then he said that as it was now late, they must sleep;
and that the night often brought counsel; and so he took Walter to his
chamber, a little precise place with a window on the court; and there
he left him; but he first knelt down and prayed, and then laid his
hand on Walter's head, and blessed him, and commended him to the
merciful keeping of God; and Walter slept sweetly, and was scared that
night by no dismal dreams; and in the morning the priest took him to
the church, and Walter knelt in a little chapel while the old man said
his mass, commending therein the burden of Walter's suffering into the
merciful hands of God; so that Walter's heart was greatly lightened.
Then after the mass the priest asked Walter of his health, and whether
he had suffered any visitation of evil that night; he said "no," and
the priest then said that he had pondered long over the story, which
was strange and very dark. But he had little doubt now as to what
Walter should do. He did not think that the treasure should be
replaced now that it was got up, because it was only flying before the
evil and not meeting it, but leaving the sad inheritance for some
other man. The poor spirit must be laid to rest, and the treasure used
for God's glory. "And therefore," he said, "I think that a church must
be built, and dedicated to All Souls; and thus your net will be wide
enough to catch the sad spirit. And you must buy a little estate for
the support of the chaplain thereof, and so shall all be content."
"All but one," said Walter sadly, "for there goes my dream of setting
up my own house that tumbles down."
"My son," said the old priest very gravely, "you must not murmur; it
will be enough for you if God take away the sore chastening of your
spirit; and for the rest, He will provide."
"But there is more behind," he said after a pause. "If you, with an
impoverished estate, build a church and endow a priest, there will be
questions asked; it will needs be known that you have found a
treasure, and it will come, perhaps, to the ears of the King's Grace,
and inquisition will be made; so I shall go this morning to a Lord of
the Court, an ancient friend of mine, a discreet man; and I will lay
the story before him, if you give me leave; and he will advise."
Walter saw that the priest's advice was good; and so he gave him
leave; and the priest departed to the Court; but while he was away, as
Walter sate sadly over a book, his terrors came upon him with fresh
force; the thing drew near him and stood at his shoulder, and he could
not dislodge it; it seemed to Walter that it was more malign than
ever, and was set upon driving him to some desperate deed; so he rose
and paced in the court; but it seemed to move behind him, till he
thought he would have gone distraught; but finding the church doors
open, he went inside and, in a corner, knelt and prayed, and got some
kind of peace; yet he felt all the while as though the presence waited
for him at the door, but could not hurt him in the holy shrine; and
there Walter made a vow and vowed his life into the hands of God; for
he had found the world a harder place than he had thought, and it
seemed to him as though he walked among unseen foes. Presently he saw
the old priest come into the church, peering about; so Walter rose and
came to him; the priest had a contented air, but seemed big with news,
and he told Walter that he must go with him at once to the Court. For
he had seen the Lord Poynings, that was his friend, who had taken him
at once to the king; and the king had heard the story very curiously,
and would see Walter himself that day. So Walter fetched the bar of
gold and they went at once together; and Walter was full of awe and
fear, and asked the priest how he should bear himself; to which the
priest said smiling, "As a man, in the presence of a man." And as they
went Walter told him that he had been visited by the terror again, but
had found peace in the church; and the priest said, "Ay, there is
peace to be had there."
They came down to the palace, and were at once admitted; the priest
and he were led into a little room, full of books, where a man was
writing, a venerable man in a furred gown, with a comely face; this
was the Lord Poynings, who greeted Walter very gently but with a
secret attention; Walter shewed him the bar of gold, and he looked at
it long, and presently there came a page who said that the king was at
leisure, and would see Mr. Wyatt.
Walter had hoped that the priest, or at least the Lord Poynings, would
accompany him; but the message was for himself alone; so he was led
along a high corridor with tall stands of arms. The king had been a
great warrior in his manhood, and had won many trophies. They came to
a great doorway, where the page knocked; a voice cried within, and the
page told Walter he must enter alone.
Walter would fain have asked the page how he should make his
obeisance; but there was no time now, for the page opened the door,
and Walter went in.
He found himself in a small room, hung with green arras. The king was
sitting in a great chair, by a table spread out with parchments.
Walter first bowed low and then knelt down; the king motioned him to
rise, and then said in a quiet and serene voice, "So, sir, you are the
gentleman that has found a treasure and would fain be rid of it
again." At these gentle words Walter felt his terrors leave him; the
king looked at him with a serious attention; he was a man just passing
into age; his head was nearly hairless, and he had a thin face with a
long nose, and small lips drawn together. On his head was a loose
velvet cap, and he wore his gown furred; round his neck was a jewel,
and he had great rings on his forefingers and thumbs.
The king, hardly pausing for an answer, said, "You look ill, Master
Wyatt, and little wonder; sit here in a chair and tell me the tale in
a few words."
Walter told his story as shortly as he could with the king's kind eye
upon him; the king once or twice interrupted him; he took the bar from
Walter's hands, and looked upon it, weighing it in his fingers, and
saying, "Ay, it is a mighty treasure." Once or twice he made him
repeat a few sentences, and heard the story of the thing that stood
near him with a visible awe.
At last he said with a smile, "You have told your story well, sir,
and plainly; are you a soldier?" When Walter said "no," he said, "It
is a noble trade, nevertheless." Then he said, "Well, sir, the
treasure is yours, to use as I understand you will use it for the
glory of God and for the peace of the poor spirit, which I doubt not
is that of a great knight. But I have no desire to be visited of him,"
and here he crossed himself. "So let it be thus bestowed--and I will
cause a quittance to be made out for you from the Crown, which will
take no part in the trove. How many bars did you say?" And when Walter
said "fifty," the king said, "It is great wealth; and I wish for your
sake, sir, that it were not so sad an inheritance." Then he added,
"Well, sir, that is the matter; but I would hear the end of this, for
I never knew the like; when your church is built and all things are in
order, and let it be done speedily, you shall come and visit me
again." And then the king said, with a kindly smile, "And as for the
maiden of whom I have heard, be not discouraged; for yours is an
ancient house, and it must not be extinguished--and so farewell; and
remember that your king wishes you happiness;" and he made a sign that
Walter should withdraw. So Walter knelt again and kissed the king's
ring, and left the chamber.
When Walter came out he seemed to tread on air; the king's gracious
kindness moved him very greatly, and loyalty filled his heart to the
brim. He found the priest and the Lord Poynings waiting for him; and
presently the two left the palace together, and Walter told the priest
what the king had said.
The next day he rode back into Sussex; but he was very sorely beset
as he rode, and reached home in great misery. But he wasted no time,
but rather went to his new task with great eagerness; the foundations
of the church were laid, and soon the walls began to rise. Meanwhile
Walter had the gold conveyed to the king's Mint; and a message came to
him that it would make near upon twenty thousand pounds of gold, a
fortune for an earl. So the church was built very massive and great,
and a rich estate was bought which would support a college of priests.
But Walter's heart was very heavy; for his terrors still came over him
from day to day; and he was no nearer settling his own affairs.
Then there began to come to him a sore temptation; he could build his
church, and endow his college with lands, and yet he could save
something of the treasure to set him free from his own poverty; and
day by day this wrought more and more in his mind.
At last one day when he was wandering through the wood, he found
himself face to face in the path with Marjory herself; and there was
so tender a look in her face that he could no longer resist, so he
turned and walked with her, and told her all that was in his heart.
"It was all for the love of you," he said, "that I have thus been
punished, and now I am no nearer the end;" and then, for he saw that
she wept, and that she loved him well, he opened to her his heart, and
said that he would keep back part of the treasure, and would save his
house, and that they would be wed; and so he kissed her on the lips.
But Marjory was a true-hearted and wise maiden, and loved Walter
better than he knew; and she said to him, all trembling for pity,
"Dear Walter, it cannot be; this must be given faithfully, because you
are the king's servant, and because you must give the spirit back his
own, and because you are he that I love the best; and we will wait;
for God tells me that it must be so; and He is truer even than love."
So Walter was ashamed; and he threw unworthy thoughts away; and with
the last of the money he caused a fair screen to be made, and windows
of rich glass; and the money was thus laid out.
Now while the church was in building--and they made all the haste
they could--Walter had days when he was very grievously troubled; but
it seemed to him a different sort of trouble. In the first place he
looked forward confidently to the day when the dark presence would be
withdrawn; and a man who can look forward to a certain ending to his
pain can stay himself on that; but, besides that, it seemed to him
that he was not now beset by a foe, but guarded as it were by a
sentinel. There were days when the horror was very great, and when the
thing was always near him whether he sate or walked, whether he was
alone or in company; and on those days he withdrew himself from men,
and there was a dark shadow on his brow. So that there grew up a kind
of mystery about him; but, besides that, he learnt things in those
bitter hours that are not taught in any school. He learnt to suffer
with all the great company of those who bear heavy and unseen burdens,
who move in the grip of fears and stumble under the load of dark
necessities. He grew more tender and more strong. He found in his hand
the key to many hearts. Before this he had cared little about the
thoughts of other men; but now he found himself for ever wondering
what the inner thoughts of the hearts of others were, and ready if
need were to help to lift their load; he had lived before in careless
fellowship with light-hearted persons, but now he was rather drawn to
the old and wise and sad; and there fell on him some touch of the holy
priesthood that falls on all whose sadness is a fruitful sadness, and
who instead of yielding to bitter repining would try to make others
happier. If he heard of a sorrow or a distress, his thought was no
longer how to put it out of his mind as soon as he might, but of how
he might lighten it. So his heart grew wider day by day.
And at last the day came when the church was done; it stood, a fair
white shrine with a seemly tower, on the hill-top, and a little way
from it was the college for the priests. The Bishop came to consecrate
it, and the old Canon came from London, and there was a little
gathering of neighbours to see the holy work accomplished.
The Bishop blessed the church very tenderly; he was an old infirm man,
but he bore his weakness lightly and serenely. He made Walter the
night before tell him the story of the treasure, and found much to
wonder at in it.
There was no part of the church or its furniture that he did not
solemnly bless; and Walter from his place felt a grave joy to see all
so fair and seemly. The priests moved from end to end with the Bishop,
in their stiff embroidered robes, and there was a holy smell of
incense which strove with the sharp scent of the newly-chiselled wood.
The Bishop made them a little sermon and spoke much of the gathering
into the fold of spirits that had done their work bravely, even if
they had not known the Lord Christ on earth.
After all was over, and the guests were departed, the old Canon said
that he must return on the morrow to London, and that he had a message
for Walter from the king,--who had not failed to ask him how the work
went on,--that Walter was to return with him and tell the king of the
fulfilment of the design.
That night Walter had a strange dream; he seemed to stand in a dark
place all vaulted over, like a cave that stretched far into the earth;
he himself stood in the shadow of a rock, and he was aware of some one
passing by him. He looked at him, and saw that he was the warrior that
he had seen before in his dream, a small pale man, with a short beard,
with rusty armour much dinted; he held a spear in his hand, and walked
restlessly like a man little content. But while Walter watched him,
there seemed to be another person drawing near in the opposite
direction. This was a tall man, all in white, who brought with him as
he came a strange freshness in the dark place, as of air and light,
and the scent of flowers; this one came along in a different fashion,
with an assured and yet tender air, as though he was making search for
some one to whom his coming would be welcome; so the two met and words
passed between them; the warrior stood with his hands clasped upon his
spear seeming to drink in what was said--he could not hear the words
at first, for they were spoken softly, but the last words he heard
were, "And you too are of the number." Then the warrior kneeled down
and laid his spear aside, and the other seemed to stoop and bless him,
and then went on his way; and the warrior knelt and watched him going
with a look in his face as though he had heard wonderful and beautiful
news, and could hardly yet believe it; and so holy was the look that
Walter felt as though he intruded upon some deep mystery, and moved
further into the shadow of the rock; but the warrior rose and came to
him where he stood, and looked at him with a half-doubting look, as
though he asked pardon, stretching out his hands; and Walter smiled at
him, and the other smiled; and at the moment Walter woke in the dawn
with a strange joy in his heart, and rising in haste, drew the window
curtain aside, and saw the fresh dawn beginning to come in over the
woods, and he knew that the burden was lifted from him and that he was
free.
In the morning as the old Canon and Walter rode to London, Walter
told him the dream; and when he had done, he saw that the old priest
was smiling at him with his eyes full of tears, and that he could not
speak; so they rode together in that sweet silence which is worth more
than many words.
The next day Walter came to see the king: he carried with him a paper
to show the king how all had been expended; but he went with no fear,
but as though to see a true friend.
The king received him very gladly, and bade Walter tell him all that
had been done; so Walter told him, and then speaking very softly told
the king the dream; the king mused over the story, and then said, "So
he has his heart's desire."
Then there was a silence; and then the king, as though breaking out of
a pleasant thought, drew from the table a parchment, and said to
Walter that he had done well and wisely, and therefore for the trust
that he had in him he made him his Sheriff for the County of Sussex,
to which was added a large revenue; and there was more to come, for
the king bade Walter unhook a sword from the wall, his own sword that
he had borne in battle; and therewith he dubbed him knight, and said
to him, "Rise up, Sir Walter Wyatt." Then before he dismissed him, he
said to him that he would see him every year at the Court; and then
with a smile he added, "And when you next come, I charge you to bring
with you my Lady Wyatt."
And Walter promised this, and kept his word.
THE LIGHT OF THE BODY
It was high noon in the little town of Parbridge; the streets were
bright and silent, and the walls of the houses were hot to the touch.
The limes in the narrow avenue leading to the west door of the great
church of St. Mary stood breathless and still. The ancient church
itself looked as if it pondered gravely on what had been and what was
to be; and the tall windows of the belfry, with their wooden louvres,
seemed to be solemn half-shut eyes. At the south side of the church,
connected with it by a wooden cloister, stood a tall house of grey
stone. In a room looking out upon the graveyard sate two men. The room
had an austere air; its plain whitened walls bore a single picture, so
old and dark that it was difficult to see what was represented in it.
On some shelves stood a few volumes; near the window was a tall black
crucifix of plain wood, the figure white. There was an oak table with
writing materials. The floor was paved with squares of wood.
The two men sate close together. One was an old and weather-worn man
in a secular dress of dark material; the other a young priest in a
cassock, whose pale face, large eyes and wasted hands betokened
illness, or the strain of some overmastering thought. It seemed as
though they had been holding a grave conversation of strange or sad
import, and had fallen into a momentary silence.
The priest was the first to speak. "Well, beloved physician," he said,
in a slow and languid voice, though with a half-smile, "I have told
you my trouble; and I would have your most frank opinion."
"I hardly know what to say," said the Doctor. "I have prescribed for
many years and do not know that I ever heard the like; I must tell you
plainly that such things are not written in our medical books."
The priest said nothing, but looked sadly out of the window; presently
the Doctor said, "Let me hear the tale from the first beginning, dear
Herbert;--it is well to have the whole complete. I would consult with
a learned friend of mine about this dark matter, a physician who is
more skilled than I am in maladies of the mind--for I think that more
ails the mind than the body."
"Well," said the priest a little wearily, "I will tell it you.
"Almost a year ago, on one of the hottest days of the early summer, I
went abroad as usual, about noon, to visit Mistress Dennis who was
ill. I do not think I felt myself to be unwell, and was full to the
brim of little joyous businesses; I stood for a time at the porch to
speak with Master Dennis himself, who came in just as I left the
house, and I stood uncovered at the door; suddenly the sun stabbed and
struck me, as with a scythe, and I saw a whirling blackness before my
eyes and staggered. Master Dennis was alarmed, and would have had me
go within; but I would not, for I had other work to do; so he led me
home; that afternoon I sate over my book; but I could neither read nor
think; I was in pain, I remember, and felt that some strange thing had
happened to me; I recall, too, rising from my chair, and I am told I
fainted and fell.
"Then I remember nothing more but fierce and wild dreams of pain.
Sometimes I heard my own voice crying out; at last the pain died away,
and left me very weak and sad; but I was still pent up, it seemed to
me, in some dark dungeon of the mind, and the view of the room I lay
in and the sight of those who visited me only came to me in short
glimpses. I am told I babbled strangely; then one morning I came out
suddenly, like a man rising from a dive in a pool, and knew that I was
myself again; that day was a day of quiet joy; I was weak and silent,
but it seemed good to be alive. It was not till the next day that I
noticed the thing that I have tried to tell you, that haunts me
yet--and I can hardly put it into words.
"It seemed to me that I noticed round about those who came to me a
thin veil, as it were of vapour, but it was not dense like smoke or
mist; I could see them as well through it as before; it was more like
a light that played about them, and it was brightest over the heart
and above the brow; at first I thought it was some effect of my weak
state, but as I grew stronger I saw it still more clearly.
"And then comes the strangest part of all; the light changed
according to the thoughts that were passing in the mind of the person
on whom my eyes were set--the thought that it was so came suddenly
into my mind and bewildered me; but in a little I was sure of it. I
need not give long instances--but I saw, or thought I saw, that when
the mind of the man or woman was pure and pitiful, the light was pure
and clear, but that when the thoughts were selfish, or covetous, or
angry, or unclean, there came a darkness into the light, as when you
drop a little ink into clear water. Few came to see me; and I suppose
that they were full of pity and perhaps a little love for me in my
helpless state, so that the light about them was pure and even; but
one day the good dame Ann, who tended me, in stooping to give me
drink, thrust a dish off the table, which broke, and spilled its
contents, and a dark flush came into the light that was round her for
a moment.
"Then too as I got better, and was able to see and speak with my
people, there came to me several in trouble of different kinds, and
the light was sullen and wavering; one, whose name I will not tell
you, came to me with a sin upon his mind, and the vapour was all dark
and stained; and so it has been till now; and these last weeks it has
been even stranger; because by a kind of practice I have been led to
infer what the thoughts in the mind of each person are, at first
seeing them. It is true that they have not always told me in words
what the light would seem to suggest; but I have good reason to
believe that the thoughts are there behind.
"Now," he went on, "this is a sad and dreadful gift, and I do not
desire it. It is horrible that the thoughts of men should be made
manifest to a man, the thoughts that should be read only by God; and I
go to and fro in the world with this cruel horror upon me, and so I am
in evil case."
He ceased, as if tired of speaking, and the old Doctor mused, looking
on the floor--then he shook his head and said, "My dear friend, I am
powerless at present; such a thing has never come to me before--you
are as it were in a chamber of life that I have never visited, and I
can but stand on the threshold and listen at a closed door." Then he
was silent for a little, but presently he said, "This light that you
speak of--does it envelop every one?--do you see it about _me_ as I
speak with you?" "Yes," said Herbert, turning his eyes upon the
Doctor, "it is round you, very pure and clean; you are giving all your
heart to my story; and it is a good and tender heart. You have not
many sorrows except the sorrows of others," and then suddenly Herbert
broke off with a vague gesture of the hand and looked at the Doctor
with a bewildered look. "Finish what you were saying," said the Doctor
with a grave look. "Nay, nay," said Herbert with a sad air, "you have
sorrows indeed--the light changes and darkens--but they are not all
for yourself."
"This is a strange thing," said the Doctor very seriously--"tell me
what you mean."
"Then you must keep from thoughts on your trouble, whatever it is,"
said Herbert. "I would read no man's secrets; but let this prove to
you that I am not speaking of a mere sick fancy--turn not your
thoughts on me." Then there was a pause and then Herbert said slowly,
"As far as I can read the light, you did a wrong once, long ago, in
your youth, and bear the burden of it yet; and you have striven to
amend it; and now it is not a selfish fear;"--the priest mused a
moment--"How, if the deed has borne fruit in another, for whom you
sorrow, for you think that your wrongdoing was the seed of his?"
The Doctor grew pale to the lips, and said in a low voice, "This is a
very fearful gift, dear friend. You have indeed laid your finger on
the sore spot--it is a thing I have never spoken of to any but God."
Then there was a silence again; and then Herbert said, "But there is
another thing of which I have not told you; it is this; you know what
I was before my illness--simple, I think, and humble, and with a heart
that for all its faults was tender and faithful. Well, with this gift,
that has all departed from me; I seem to care neither for man nor God;
I see the trouble in another heart, and it moves me not. I feel as if
I would not put out a finger to heal another's grief, except that
habit has made it hard for me to do otherwise." And then with a sudden
burst of passion, "Oh, my heart of stone!" he said.
The Doctor looked at him very sadly and lovingly, and then he rose.
"I must be gone," he said, "but by your leave I will consult, without
any mention of name, an old friend of mine, the wise physician of whom
I spoke; and meanwhile, dear friend, rest and be still. God has sent
you a very strange and terrible gift, but He sends not His gifts in
vain; and you must see how you may use it for His service."
"Yes, yes, I doubt not," said Herbert wearily--"but the will to serve
is gone from me--I would I were sleeping quietly out yonder--the world
is poisoned for me, and yet I loved it once."
Then the old physician went away, lost in thought, and Herbert made
attempt to address himself to his book, but he could not; he looked
back over his life, and saw himself a simple child, very innocent and
loving; he saw his eager and clean boyhood, and how the thought had
come into his mind to be a priest--it was not for a noble reason,
Herbert thought; he had loved the beauty of the dark rich church, the
slow and delicate music of the organ, the singing of the choir, the
faint sweetness of the incense smoke, the solemn figures of the
priests as they moved about the altar--it had been but a love of
beauty and solemnity; no desire to save others, and very little love
to the Father, though a strange uplifted desire of heart toward the
Lord Christ; but as he thought of it now, sitting in the afternoon
sunshine, it seemed to him as though he had loved the Saviour more for
the beauty of worship which surrounded Him, throned as it were so
piteously upon the awful Cross, lifted up, the desire of the world, in
all His stainless strength and adorable suffering, to draw souls to
Him.
Then he had gone to Oxford, and he thought of his time there, his
small bare rooms, the punctual vivid life, so repressed, yet so full
of human movement. Herbert had won friends very easily there, and the
good fathers had loved him; but all this love, looking back, seemed to
him to have been called out not by the lovingness of his own heart,
but by a certain unconscious charm, a sweet humility of manner, a
readiness to please and be pleased, a desire to do what should win his
companion, whoever it might chance to be.
Then he went for a time as a young priest to the cathedral, as a
vicar, and there again life had been easy for him; he had gained fame
for a sort of easy and pathetic eloquence, that allowed him to make
what he spoke of seem beautiful to those who heard it, but now Herbert
thought sadly that he had not done this for love of the thoughts of
which he spoke, but for the pleasure of arraying them so that they
moved and pleased others; and yet he had won some power over souls
too, he had himself been so courteous, so gentle, so seeming tender,
that others spoke easily to him of their troubles and seemed to find
help in his words; then had come the day when the Bishop had sent him
to St. Mary's, and there too everything had been as easy to him as
before. Yes, that had been the fault all through! he had won by a
certain grace what ought to have been won by deep purity and eager
desire and great striving.
And this too had at last begun to come home to him; and then he had
half despaired of changing himself. He had been like a shallow
rippling brook, yet seemed to others like a swift and patient river;
and he had prayed very earnestly to God to change his heart; to deepen
and widen it, to make it strong and sincere and faithful. And was
this, thought Herbert, the terrible answer? was he who had loved ease
and beauty on all sides, had loved the surface and the seeming of
things, to be thrust violently into the deep places of the human
heart, to be shown by a dreadful clearness of vision the stain, the
horror, the shadow of the world?
But what was to him the most despairing thought of all was this--and
thinking quietly over it, it seemed to him that if this clearness of
vision had quickened his zeal to serve, if it had shown him how true
and fierce was the battle to be waged in life, and how few men walked
in the peace that was so near them that they could have taken it by
stretching out their hand--if it had taught him this, had nerved his
heart, had sent him speeding into the throng to heal the secret
sorrows that his quickened sight could see, then the reason of the
gift would have been plain to him; but with the clearer vision had
come this deadly apathy, this strange and bitter loathing for a world
where all seemed so sweet outwardly and was so heavy-hearted within.
And Herbert thought of how once as a child he had seen a beautiful
rose-bush just bursting into bloom; and he had gone near to draw the
sweet scent into his nostrils, and had recognised a dreadful heavy
odour below and behind the delicate scent of the roses, and there,
when he put the bush aside, was the swollen body of a dog that had
crept into the very heart of the bush to die, and tainted all the air
with the horror of death. He had hated roses long after, and now it
seemed to him that all the world was like that.
He came suddenly out of his sad reverie with a start; the bell of the
church began to toll for vespers, and he rose up wearily enough to go.
His work, he hardly dared confess to himself, was a heavy burden to
him; of old he had found great peace, day by day, in the quiet
evensong in the dark cool church, the few worshippers, the gracious
pleading of the ancient psalms, so sweet in themselves, and so
fragrant with the incense of immemorial prayer; and he thought that,
besides the actual worshippers, there were round him a great company
of faithful souls, unseen yet none the less present--all this had been
to him a deep refreshment, a draught of the waters of comfort; but now
there was never a gathering when the dark trouble of thought in other
souls was not visibly revealed to him.
He went slowly across the little garden in front of the house; there
by the road grew a few flowers--for Herbert loved to have all things
trim and bright about him. A boy was leaning over the rail looking at
the flowers; and Herbert saw, in the secret light that hung round the
child, the darkening flush that told of the presence of some
conscience-stricken wish. The child got hurriedly down from the rail
at the sight of Herbert, who stopped and called him. "Little one," he
said, "come hither." The child stood a moment absorbed, finger on lip,
and presently came up to Herbert, who gathered a few of the flowers
and put them into the child's hands. "Here is a posy for you," he
said, "but, dear one, remember this--the flowers were mine, and you
did desire them. God sends us gifts sometimes and sometimes not; when
He sends them, it is well to take them gratefully, thus--but if He
gives them not, and the voice within says, 'Then will I take them,' we
must fly from temptation. Do you understand that, little one?" The
child stood considering a moment, and then shyly gave the flowers
back. "Ay, that is right," said Herbert, "but you may take them
now--God gives them to you!" and he stooped and kissed the child on
the forehead.
A few days after the old physician came again to see Herbert,
evidently troubled. He told Herbert that he had consulted his friend,
who could make nothing of the case. "He said--" he added, and then
stopped short. "Nay, I will tell you," he went on, "for in such a
matter we may not hesitate. He said that it was a delusion of the
mind, not of the eye--and that it was more a case for a priest than
for a doctor." "He is right," said Herbert. "I had even thought of
that--and I will do what I ought to have done before. I will take my
story to my lord the Bishop and I will ask his advice; he is my
friend, and he has been a true father to my spirit--and he is a good
and holy man as well."
So Herbert wrote to the Bishop, and the Bishop appointed a day to see
him. The cathedral city was but a few miles from Parbridge, and
Herbert went thither by boat because he was not strong enough to walk.
The river ran through a flat country, with distant hills on a far
horizon; the clear flowing of the water, the cool weedy bowers and
gravelled spaces seen beneath, and the green and glistening rushes
that stood up so fresh and strong out of the ripple pleased Herbert's
tired mind; he tried much to think what he would say to the Bishop;
but he could frame no arguments and thought it best to leave it, and
to say what God might put in his mouth to say.
He found the Bishop writing in a little panelled room that gave on a
garden. He was in his purple cassock; he rose at Herbert's entrance,
and greeted him very kindly. The Bishop's face was smooth and
fresh-coloured and lit with a pleasant light of benevolence. He was an
active man, and loved little businesses, which he did with all his
might. He, like all that knew Herbert, loved him and found pleasure in
his company. So Herbert took what courage he might--though he saw
somewhat that he was both grieved and surprised to see--and told his
story, though his heart was heavy, and he thought somehow that the
Bishop would not understand him. While he spoke the Bishop's face grew
very grave, for he did not love things out of the common; but he asked
him questions from time to time--and when Herbert said that the
trouble had come upon him after a stroke of the sun, the Bishop's face
lightened a little, and he said that the sun at its hottest had great
power.
When Herbert had quite finished, the Bishop said courteously that he
thought it was a case for a physician, and Herbert said that he had
himself thought so, but that the doctors could do nothing, but had
sent him back to the priests. Then the Bishop made as though he would
speak, and cleared his throat, but spake nothing. At last he said,
"Dear son, this is a strange and heavy affliction; but I think it will
give way to rest and quiet--and prayer," he added a little
shamefacedly. "These bodies of ours are delicate instruments, and if
we work them too hard--as methinks you have done--they get
overstrained in the place in which we drive them; and just as a
scholar who has been disordered dreams of books, and as a doctor thus
afflicted would have grievous fancies of diseases, so you, my dear
son, who have been a very faithful priest, are thus sadly concerned
with the souls of the flock of Christ--and so my advice is that you go
and rest; and if you will, I will send you a little priest to help you
for awhile--or you may travel abroad for a time, and see fresh things;
and, dear son, if there be any narrowness of means, I will myself
supply your necessities, and deem the money well lent to the Lord--and
so be comforted!"--and he put out his hand to bless him.
Herbert was moved by the Bishop's kindness; but he felt that the
Bishop did not see the matter aright, but thought it all a sad
delusion; and he made up his mind to speak. So he said, "Dear father
and my lord, forgive me if I speak yet further--for I am greatly moved
by your kindness, but in this case there is need of great frankness.
It is not indeed as your goodness thinks; indeed there is no delusion,
but a real and yet grievous power of sight--which I pray God would
remove from me--and that as He took the scales off the eyes of the
blessed Paul, so I pray that He would put them back on mine. For I see
the things I would not, and to me is revealed what ought to be
hidden."
Then the Bishop looked a little angered by Herbert's insistence, and
said, "Dear son, if this were a gift of God to you, it would be more
than He gave even to the blessed Apostles, for we read of no such gift
being given to man. Some He made apostles, and some evangelists, but
we hear not that He made any to see the very secrets of the soul--such
sight is given to God alone--and indeed, dear son, for I will use the
same frankness as yourself, it seems to me but a chastening from God.
He delivers even those He loves (like the blessed Paul himself, and
Austin, and others whom I need not name) to Satan to be buffeted; and
though I have myself no fault to find with your ministration, it is
plain to me that God is not satisfied, and by His chastening would
lead you higher yet."
"But come, for I will ask you a question. This light that you speak
of, that plays about the heads (is it so?) of other men, is it always
there? Has it, to ask an instance, appeared to you with _me_? I charge
you to speak to me with entire freedom in this matter." So Herbert
raised his eyes, and looked the Bishop in the face, and said very
gravely, "Yes, dear father, it doth appear."
Then the Bishop's face changed a little, and Herbert saw that he was
moved; then the Bishop said with a kind of smile, as though he forced
himself, "And what is it like?" And Herbert said, looking shamefacedly
upon the ground, "Must I answer the question truly?" And the Bishop
said, "Yes, upon your vows." Then Herbert said, "Dear father, it is
strangely dark and angry." Then the Bishop, knitting his brows, said,
"Does it seem so? And how is this a true light? My son, I speak to you
plainly; I am a sinner indeed--we are all such--but my whole life is
spent in labour for God's Church, and I can truly say that from hour
to hour I think not of carnal things, but all my desire is to feed and
keep the flock. How dost thou interpret that?" And Herbert, very low,
said, "My lord, must I speak?" And the Bishop said, "Yes, upon your
vows." Then Herbert said very slowly and sadly, "My lord, I know
indeed that your heart is with the work of the Lord, and that you
labour abundantly. But can it be--I speak as a faithful son, and sore
unwilling--that you have your pleasure in this work, and think of
yourself as a profitable servant?"
Then the Bishop looked very blackly upon him and said, "You take too
much upon yourself, my son. This is indeed the messenger of Satan that
hath you in his grip; but I will pray for you if the Lord will heal
you--it may be that there is some dark sin upon your mind; and if so
pluck it out of the heart. But we will talk no more; I will only tell
you to rest and pray, and think not of these lights and flashes, which
are never told of in Holy Church, except in the case of those who are
held of evil." And he rose and made a gesture that Herbert should go;
so Herbert kissed the Bishop's hand and went very sadly out, for it
seemed as though his burden was too great for him to bear.
There followed very sad and weary days when Herbert hardly knew how
he could bear the sorrow that pressed upon him. But he preached
diligently, and went in and out among his people. And in that time he
helped many sad souls and set struggling feet upon the right road,
though he knew it not and even cared not.
One day he was walking in the street, and came past a little mean
house that lay on the outskirts of the town. There was a small and
pitiful garden, sadly disordered, that lay in front of the house. Here
there dwelt a wretched man named John, who had done an evil deed in
his youth. He had robbed his mother, it was said, a poor and crippled
woman, of her little savings; she had struggled hard for her all, but
he had beaten her off, and done her violence, and she, between grief
and disease, had died. In her last hour she had told the tale; her son
had been driven from his employment, and the hearts of all had turned
against him. He had left the place, but a few years after he had
returned, a man old before his time, with a sore disease upon him, in
which all readily saw the wise judgment of God.
He had settled in the little house which had been his mother's before
him, and had stood vacant. But none would admit him to their houses or
give him work. Occasionally, when labour was short, he had a task
given him; but he was slow and feeble, and those that worked with him
mocked and derided him. He bore all mockeries patiently and silently,
with a kind of hunted look; but none pitied him, and the very children
of the street would point at him, call him murderer, and throw stones
at him. He would seek at times to do a kindness to the poor and
sorrowful by stealth, but his help was often refused even with anger.
Herbert had seen a little sight a few days before that stuck in his
mind. He had been passing along the road that led into the country,
and had seen some way ahead of him a little child, a girl, with a
heavy burden. She had put it down by the wood to rest, when John came
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