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diff --git a/789-0.txt b/789-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..351c4c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/789-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3715 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gathering of Brother Hilarius, by Michael +Fairless + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Gathering of Brother Hilarius + + +Author: Michael Fairless + + + +Release Date: November 11, 2014 [eBook #789] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER +HILARIUS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + +FIRST EDITION, _October_ 1901. +Reprinted, _January_ 1902. +Reprinted, _January_ 1903. +Reprinted, _January_ 1905. +Reprinted, _August_ 1908. +Reprinted, _August_ 1910. +POPULAR EDITION, (1/-) _February_ 1912. + + THE GATHERING OF + BROTHER HILARIUS + + + By MICHAEL FAIRLESS + AUTHOR OF “THE ROADMENDER” + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + LONDON + JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET + 1912 + + * * * * * + + A. M. D. G. + + “To those dearworthy ones + to whom I owe all; + I give that which is theirs already.” + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE + + +THROUGH this little book runs the road of life, the common road of men, +the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and +Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart. + +The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of the Black Death +and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but for the author it is a romance of +the Image of God. While the Divine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius +in the masque that shocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and +sin, of death and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying +“little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again the Road mender’s +epilogue to the story of the man of this earth, the man of the common +highway:—“‘Dust and ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there +comes back for answer, ‘_Rex concupiscet decorem tuum_.’” + + + + +CONTENTS + + _PART I_ + THE SEED +CHAP. PAGE + I. BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST 3 + II. THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN 15 + III. THE KING’S SONG-BIRD 22 + _PART II_ + THE FLOWER + I. THE CITY OF PURE GOLD 39 + II. THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW 49 + III. A SENDING FROM THE LORD 55 + IV. BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE 64 + V. THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED 72 + VI. A DARK FINDING 82 + VII. THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE 97 + _PART III_ + THE FRUIT + I. HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! 117 + II. MARY’S LILIES 124 + III. OPEN EYES AT THE GATE 133 + IV. THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN 141 + V. “GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE 147 + VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16. + VI. THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN 154 + VII. THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING 160 + VIII. “BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE” 165 + + + + +_PART I_ +THE SEED + + +CHAPTER I +BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST + + +HILARIUS stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, +well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in the +June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a dust +cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules +laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the good +Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores in the +farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had bespoken +precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these the thoughts of +Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation. + +On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The +Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great trees +peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. Twice had +Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and +silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and the +occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St Benedict’s Day +and Our Lady’s Festivals. Away to the right, within the great enclosure, +stretched the Monastery lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful +field, teeming with glad, unhurried labour. + +At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory +buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing +the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren, +itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, ever unfinished +because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it was a page in +the history of the life of the Order, written in stone, blazoned with +beauty of the world’s treasure; a page on which each generation might +spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and +St Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching out eager hands +for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, +finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an +uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle and +fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money +and time in the service of the House of the Lord. + +The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of insistent +peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons circling the +cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their niches over +the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed the +garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately acquired—on his face was +great peace. It rested everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, +where the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of the Office +bell. + +Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign of +the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior’s lips would take a +thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue; and it was +ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept the fragrance of +Mary’s lilies across to the lad; he turned his dreamy, blue eyes from the +highway to the forest. The scent of the pinewoods rushed to meet his +sudden thought. Should he, dare he, break cloister, and taste the +wondrous delight of an unwalled world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a +newly-made novice, cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered +him; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the +voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, +with bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles. + +At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame in +the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared city of +mystery and wonder. + +It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and a +woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius’ eyes shone as +he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great, +green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her gracious robe +across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty soul in the great +sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting colours, the sense of +his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced it—joy so great that +his heart ached with it. He went on his way, singing _Lauda Syon_, his +eyes following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open +glade, halted in amazement. + +A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced in the wind. Over +the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other in +rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the deep +blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, +lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ eyes travelled +upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet +bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling +lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding +the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not +for untutored novices such as Hilarius. + +His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St +Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured +“_Apage Sataas_!” + +The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind. + +“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing truant, I dare wager. +Come and dance!” + +Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” he said, and his +voice trembled somewhat, “art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this +devil’s guise?” + +The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily. + +“No more devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted, eyeing his +semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can a poor maid not practise her +steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must cry +devil’s guise?” + +As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke into +peal on peal of joyous laughter. “Poor lad, with thy talk of devils; +hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?” + +Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in the +eyes, and now he drops his own. + +“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice men’s +souls to their undoing?” + +“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind sir?” +she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a scolded child. + +“It is wrong to deck the body,” began Hilarius, softening at her +attitude, “because, because—” + +Again the merry laugh rang out. + +“Because, because—nay, Father” (with a mock reverence), “methinks thy +sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and _I_ will catechise. How +old art thou?” She held up her small finger admonishingly. + +“Seventeen,” replied Hilarius, surprised into reply. + +“Art thou a monk?” + +“Nay, a novice only.” + +“Hast thou ever loved?” + +Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on +unconcerned— + +“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writ large for any maid to read. +But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?” + +Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet. + +“There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and the +Saints and the Brethren—” + +“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laugh pealed out. “Poor +sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the Saints +and the Brethren, and it is good—good—good!” She opened her arms wide. +“’Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen the +birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?” + +“It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child. That +is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God and the +Saints!” quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of yesterday’s homily in +the Frater. + +“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?” the dancer +persisted. + +How did he know? + +“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?” he cried triumphantly, +forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and anxious only to +come well out of the wordy war. + +But the unexpected happened. + +“Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?—I _hate_ her;” +and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of weeping. + +Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman’s tears. + +“Maid, maid,” said Hilarius, in deep distress, “indeed I did not mean to +vex thee;” and he came up and laid his hand on her shoulder. + +So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief! + +The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and more +flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up at him +through shining lashes. + +“There, boy, ’tis naught. How could’st thou know? But what of thine own +mother?” + +“I know not.” + +“Nay, what is this? And thy father?” + +“He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I came a +little child to the Monastery, and know no other place.” + +“Ah,”—vindictively,—“then _thy_ mother may have been a light o’ love.” + +“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,” said Hilarius with a +smile. + +The maid looked at him speechless. + +“_Go home_, _Boy_,” she said at last emphatically. + +Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the +undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair. + +“So, Gia!” he said. “We must make haste; the others wait.” + +“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer, “and”—pointing to the bag slung +across the youth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fat hen from thy +Monastery for our meal.” + +Hilarius broke into a cold sweat. + +The Convent’s hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred, and +were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the Monasteries? + +“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly. + +“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. “Hast thou another sermon ready, Sir +Preacher?” + +“Empty bellies make light fingers,” quoth the youth. “Did’st thou ever +hunger, master?” + +“There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat,” said Hilarius. + +“But ever a meal certain once in the day?” queried the girl. + +“Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast.” + +The mischievous apes laughed—how they laughed! + +“So, good Preacher,” said the dancer at last, rising to her feet, “thou +dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger. Thou dost +know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thy mother; but +thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to love. Blind +eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee these things an thou +would’st learn. Farewell, good novice, back to thy Saints and thy +nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger and love—love—love!” + +She seized her brother’s hand and together they danced away like two +bright butterflies among the trees. + +Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with dazed +eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. The train of +mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and explanation; and in the +thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly +conscious of this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned +desolation and doubt, and in his ears rang the dancer’s parting cry, +“Hunger and love—love—love!” + + + +CHAPTER II +THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + +BROTHER BERNARD, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum with +generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast look. + +“Methinks this gold is dull, Brother,” said Hilarius one day, fretfully, +to his old master. + +And again— + +“’Tis very poor vermilion.” + +The Brother looked at him enquiry. + +“Nay, nay, boy; ’tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours.” + +Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius was +setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady. + +“Now may God be good to us!” he cried with uplifted hands. “Since when +did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black hair—curly too, +i’ faith?” + +Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and gold, he +faltered. + +It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him through +chant and psalm. Did he really _love_ the Saints—St Benedict, St +Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left him untouched; but +his lips quivered as he thought of the great love between the holy +brother and sister of his Order. If he had had a sister would they have +loved like that? + +The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the repeated +question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from which tears were +not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. “Light of Love,” the girl +had called his mother; what more beautiful name could he find for the +Queen of Saints herself? So he prayed in his simplicity:—“Great Light of +Love, Mother of my mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful +son!” + +The question came in his daily life. + +Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for Hilarius as +the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him too; Brother +John’s tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard, old, half-blind? +Surely he loved Brother Richard?—sad, helpless, and lonely, by reason of +his infirmities—or was it only pity he felt for him? + +Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the Prior +his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words of the witch +in the forest? And yet what was it she had said? “For me the wide +world, hunger, and love—love—love!” + +He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its beauties. +Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white lilies at the +farmery door. Did they love? + +He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business and +cheerful bickerings. Did they love? + +_She_ had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wandered +staring, wide-eyed but sightless. + +At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship-wrecked +mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and unhurt above +the devouring waves. + +The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd question. +When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his stern blue eyes grew +tender, and a little smile troubled the firm line of his mouth. + +“My son,” he said at length, “thou art in the wrong school; nursery, was +it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to the hen. Thou art a +limner at heart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous skill with the +brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger and to love as the maid +said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, though alack, men gainsay it.” + +“Father,” said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, “did’st thou +ever love as the maid meant?” + +“Ay, boy—thy mother.” + +There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:— + +“The maid said she might be light of love; ’tis a beautiful thought.” + +The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:— + +“What didst thou tell the maid?” + +“That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who died +ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was light of +love.” + +“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis a weary tale, and sad of telling. +Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, +knew it not for the holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily lusts. +Pray for her soul”—his voice grew stern—“as for one of those upon whom +God, in His great pity, may have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many +years.” + +Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:— + +“She was evil, wicked, my mother?” + +“Ay—a light woman, that was what the maid meant.” + +Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped the +Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a little child. + + * * * * * + +“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for a time thou shalt go out into the +world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a care that thou +art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure shall see God, and +seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set in order thy going; and +send the Chamberlain hither to me.” + +That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, and +then at St Mary Maudlin’s altar he did penance for his dead mother’s sin. + +A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, is +pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors of the +great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; a letter to +a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron; and another +to the Prior’s good friend, the Abbat of St Alban’s. The Convent bade +him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been with them +from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look +his last at the young face he would never see again. + +The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to the +gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, overmastered +by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might stay and learn some +other way, however hard. The Prior shook his head. + +“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master for +this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us—an thou can’st—let +no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are opened and the +great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the +faithful heart of a little child.” + +Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart-strings, +must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and along the highway, +without daring to look back, and so out into the wide, wide world. + + + +CHAPTER III +THE KING’S SONG-BIRD + + +MARTIN THE MINSTREL sat under a wayside oak singing softly to himself as +he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight black +locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smouldered in +hollow cavities. He wore the King’s colours, and broke a manchet of +white bread with his mid-day repast. + +“Heigh-ho!” sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him, +“another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe-leather +already, and not another penny piece in my pocket ’til I win back to good +King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free +to sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead of +palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of a king’s +banquet. Now but another few leagues and the cage again. Money in my +pocket, true; but a song here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of +the Court gentles, not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! ’tis +a poor bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if +Edward did but know it. + +“Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a light +heart from his song; and no ill voice either.” + +It was Hilarius, and he sang the _Alma Redemptoris_ as he sped along the +green grass which bordered the highway. + +When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up at the +sight of the vielle. + +“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeing him with interest. + +“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen,” answered +Hilarius. + +“But thou art no monk!” + +“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to see the +world. It is wondrous fair,” he added sincerely. + +“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” said Martin, and as Hilarius made +sign of assent, “’tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave thee +letters to the Abbat of St Peter’s, I doubt not; thy face is set for +Westminster.” + +“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir John +Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere now but that +two days ago I met strange company. They took my purse and hat and +shoes, and kept me with them all night until the late dawn. Then they +gave me my goods again, and bade me God-speed.’ + +“But kept thy purse?” Martin laughed. + +“Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing strange, and +I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me no wrong, and +set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision, which I lacked.” + +“Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God’s judgments for once,” +muttered Martin; then aloud, “Well, young sir, we shall do well if we win +Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is +the same?” + +Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court and +King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. He +listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard +eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, a man +of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; “and,” added Martin, +“three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, +of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager +one or other will claim thee for page.” + +“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilarius soberly, “but I have never +spoken but to one maid ’til yesterday, when a woman gave me good-morrow.” + +Martin looked at his companion queerly. + +“And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this Prior of +thine is a strange master!” + +“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “then I shall go back to the +Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I have +some small skill with the brush,” he added simply. + +Martin stared. + +“Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now, not +wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and banquet and +revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and little reason, +much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk.” + +Hilarius smiled. + +“Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write for +him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the Court? It +seems a fine thing to be the King’s Minstrel.” + +“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily, “give me the open country and +the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King is a good +master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; ’tis +ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the +Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again.” + +He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the +minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with tears, for he was still +heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing +tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song +itself was sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive +to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; +then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:— + +“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?” + +“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He stopped suddenly, louted low to the +sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. “A fair +mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns +himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, +chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears, then with +boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her buffets. She gives +all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of her hair across a +man’s face only to elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of +all his children; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or she +flouts him.” + +Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant—the “wide +wide world, hunger and love”? + +“Did’st thou ever hunger, good Martin?” + +“Ay, lad,” said the minstrel, surprised, “and ’tis good sauce for the +next meal” + +“Did’st thou ever love?” + +Martin broke into a great laugh. + +“Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here comes one +who knows little enough of hunger or love.” Round the bend of the road +came a man in hermit’s dress carrying a staff and a well-filled wallet. +His carriage seemed suddenly to become less upright, and he leaned +heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from the two travellers. + +Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him. + +“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help to +fill the skin of this lazy rogue; ’tis not the first time we have met. +See here,” and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit’s wallet. + +This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful of +oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung the +bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the road, +while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a cudgel. + +Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing +companion, who answered the unspoken question. + +“A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest of +every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand’s turn and yet +live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff in that +larder of his to make merry with.” + +Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head. + +“I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness,” he said at +last. + +“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tis true enough that +godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit’s robe may cover a +rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and +tongue. See, lad,” as another turn in the road brought them in sight of +Westminster, “there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!” + +He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’s edge, with roof +and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western sky; +in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold. + +Hilarius gave a little cry. + +“’Tis like the New Jerusalem!” he said, and Martin smiled grimly. + +An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and +Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’s side. Around him he +saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, +falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; +it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly +blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, +life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored eyes, wild confusion. +Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of men, drinking, +gossiping, singing, for the day’s work was done. In the courtyard of the +“Black Boar” a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius +crossed himself anxiously—was the devil about to beset him under all +guises at once? He raised a fervent _Ora __pro me_ to St Benedict as he +hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk +flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the +pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the man in him +stayed the indignant tears. “Martin, Martin!” he cried; but the minstrel +was on his own ground now, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, +and news given and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, +his ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by +the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the late salute, took +refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious heart until the +minstrel should have done with the crowd. + +Martin did not forget him. + +“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how they welcome the King’s bird back to his +cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a homing +pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey’s end.” Then, +apprehending for the first time Hilarius’ white face and piteous eyes, +Martin strode across, swept him under the archway into a quiet courtyard +where a fountain rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s +steward, left him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise of +speedy meeting. + +Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed the steward into a +rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy with +preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and dejected, +his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being crying out for +the busied peace and silent orderliness of his cloister home. The +servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly +noticed when the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked +him slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and drank +thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the pages and squires +among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, +something restored by the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the +hall. + +It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far loftier +and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through high lancet +windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which the morrow’s sun +would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork—a man’s thought in every +quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guarding saint. A +raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, and here gaily dressed +pages waited on the master of the house and his honoured guests. +Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of distinguished presence +to be no other than Sir John himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes +wandered carelessly over the rest of the company until they were caught +and held by a woman’s face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight’s +three fair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary +traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land. + +“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had,” he thought, his mind +reverting to his favourite Saint; “she is like the lilies in the garth at +home.” + +It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed in +costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the foolish +French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she looked a nun. +Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when she was +much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an unknown soul; her mouth, +delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; her head drooped slightly on +her long, slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious humility. She +was like a pictured saint: Hilarius’ gaze clung to her, followed her as +she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat apart while the serving +men cleared the lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the +night. He lay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows +the moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do on +bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay sleeping +soundly after the day’s toils; there was none to heed, and he sobbed like +a little homesick child, until his tired youth triumphed, and he fell +asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, the lady at the raised table, +and the pale, sweet lilies in the cloister garth. + + + + +_PART II_ +THE FLOWER + + +CHAPTER I +THE CITY OF PURE GOLD + + +“BLIND eyes, blind eyes!” sang the dancer. + +Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench in the sunny +courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. He sat +rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his hair into a +halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly on her +perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching +its great limbs, came towards him. + +It was four o’clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard was +deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his +household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady +Eleanor, Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John had so +appointed it. + +It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had +seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise; but +he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets full of the +righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the Babylon of Blessed +John’s Vision—with a few holy ones who would surely be caught up ere +judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor. + +A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to his children, +gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God and King Edward; shrewd +withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and because of the love he +bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilarius to attend his eldest daughter, who +seemed to belong as little to this world as the lad himself; and felt +that in so doing he had achieved the best possible for his old friend, +according to his asking. + +Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends the +chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a saint, by +reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he watched her at +banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a revel as to the +Sacrament, and sat at a mummers’ show with eyes fixed on the Unseen. She +moved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and joyous maidens +like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at her coming. + +It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning—brother of that Hugh +de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius—a gentle knight with mild +blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly things. +The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up with +preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, and their +speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to lovers’ vows. +It was small wonder, therefore, that another year saw them both by glad +consent in the cloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine +House of which her aunt was Prioress. + +Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just as he +had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’s Abbey: “With all its +straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks ’tis like the forest at +home” (forgetting that his more intimate knowledge of the forest partook +of the nature of sin). “The Lady Eleanor, my honoured mistress,” he +wrote, “is a most saintly and devout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and +caring nought for the things of this world;” and he added, “’tis +beautiful to see such devotion where for the most part are sinful and +light-minded persons.” + +The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and when Brother +Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, “Nay, Brother, he +still sleeps;” and indeed there seemed no waking him to a world of +men—living, striving, sorely-tried men. + +He dwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour and light and +shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the gorgeous +pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by angels; while +the knights at a tourney in their brave armour pictured St George, St +Michael, or St Martin in his dreams. + +It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress, not a +page attending a great lady to the Court functions. He yearned ever +after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and stores of colour and +gold. It lay but a stone’s throw away behind the jealous Monastery +walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that the lad should go +straight from one cloister to another. + +To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor’s +tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and followed +her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a gallery hung with +wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower where Eleanor sat with two +of her women busied with their needle. + +Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He louted low, +and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her. + +“I am weary,” she said; “this life is weariness. Tell me of the +Monastery and the forest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem that +Brother Ambrose saw and limned.” + +Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee, and +chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out of the +window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles. + +“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever a saintly man, approved of God +and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, save that of late +his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay a-bed in the +dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: “Come, and I will show thee +the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and was carried +to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision of Blessed John. +’Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a +radiant path in the heavens; and lo! the stars gathered themselves +together on either side until they stood as walls of light, and the four +winds lapped him about as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous +gleaming roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof +and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly +limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of +Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, and a +face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding radiance. + +“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great +longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between the +walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but heard only a +sound as of a great multitude crying, ‘Alleluia’; and suddenly the winds +came about him again, and lo! he found himself in bed in the dormitory, +and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and he rose and +went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left the choir, Brother +Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and seeing nothing because of +the Vision of God; and at Lauds they found him and told the Prior. + +“He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the +Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the +Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours he +asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair city of +gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and +green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame with +the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he set the +rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; +and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding great longing he +had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but our Prior bade him thank +God and remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey +cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight.” + +There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veined hands +under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing. + +“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick,” she said, +at length. + +Hilarius nodded: + +“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and often he +would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the Office +bell.” + +“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that Holy +City.” + +“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surely thou hast had a vision even +as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like unto his.” + +Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadow of her +eyes. + +“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though my desire is +great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reason I would get me +to a cloister where I might fast and pray unhindered.” + +Hilarius looked at her with great compassion. + +“Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thou art +already as one of His saints.” + +“Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world,” she answered. “Sing to me, +Hilarius.” + +And he sang her the _Salve Regina_, and when it was ended she bade him +go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon her primer. + +“Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!” he said, and left +her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of her tender childlike +heart. + + + +CHAPTER II +THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW + + +HILARIUS went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. He leant +against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fell with +monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The cloudless sky +smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed, and the +glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him strangely. He too had a vision +which he longed to limn; but it was of earth, not Heaven, like that +vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; and yet none the less precious, for was it +not the Monastery at home which so haunted him, the grey, familiar walls +with their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling forest which bowed +and swayed at the will of the whispering wind? + +“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love in +this light-minded, deceitful city,” Hilarius said to himself a little +bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and learnt the +full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company and +diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. +A prentice lad’s homely brawl set him shivering; a woman’s jest painted +his cheeks ’til they rivalled a young maid’s at her first wooing. He +plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank +or juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would +push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose +mother, like his own, was light o’ love: a strange link truly to bind +Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity. + +Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a gay +young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. He reined +up by Hilarius: + +“Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?” + +“That will I, Hal, an it be in my power.” + +“Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. ’Tis +Luke Langland’s reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head +was full of feast and tourney, and ’tis yet undelivered. Mine host will +not let the serving men and the two horses go ’til he hath seen Luke’s +money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me.” + +Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a good +comrade, clattered back through the gateway. + +The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery of +Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors dicing, +gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to shut eyes +and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only +to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than the +reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet +by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less +frequented way. + +The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly +traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place +of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard +over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. +Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors +silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket +gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither +laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from +this dismal sordid place. + +Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:— + +“How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?” + +He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, +the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm. + +“Sanctuary,” stammered Hilarius, “nay, good sir, I—” + +The other laughed. + +“Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could’st stray into these +precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may +flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of +treason, seditious talk, or slander—a strange place in which to see such +a face as thine.” + +“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning,” said Hilarius; +“in sooth, ’tis a fearful place.” + +“Ay, boy, ’tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety—even +the King’s arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but from +himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say +’tis a place of darkness and despair.” + +The unspoken question shone in Hilarius’ eyes, and the other answered it. + +“Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. ’Twas good advice I gave, +well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools +and the foolishness of wisdom.” + +“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter of +Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed. + +“Most surely he knows; but what would’st thou have? It hath ever been +the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest they +repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should +he set foot in the city without, he is the law’s, and no man may gainsay +it.” + +“Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance,” said Hilarius. + +“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the other cheerfully, “but then ’tis not +for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man’s law may fail to reach, +but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner.” + +Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with the +North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty. + +“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody +hands.” + +“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many of them are kindly folk, and many +have slain in anger without thought. ’Tis a sad place, though, and thy +young face is like a sunbeam on a winter’s day. Come, I will show thee +thy road.” + +He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on the +edge of the city’s stir and hum. + +“I can no further,” he said. “Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee! +An old man’s blessing ne’er harmed any one.” + +Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets +crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang out +above the shouts and din. + +“’Tis an evil, evil world,” quoth young Hilarius. + + + +CHAPTER III +A SENDING FROM THE LORD + + +OCTOBER and November came and sped, and Hilarius’ longing to be a limner +waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he met Martin, of +whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel followed the Court. + +“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, as he stood with +Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; “ay, and I love +one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away to my +mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my heart break.” + +“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said Hilarius sadly; “I too would +fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is barred, and I +may not open it from within.” + +Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder. + +“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this Martinmas, +say you? In truth ’tis a great age, but still leaves time and to spare. +‘_All things come to a waiting man_,’ saith the proverb.” + +A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the south +wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, and suited +the Minstrel’s mood. + +He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius had +once more cried his longing, he said gravely:— + +“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad—and yet +earn no welcome.” + +Hilarius looked at him questioningly. + +“Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?” + +“Nay, good Martin.” + +“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the Plague +once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out with a clean +skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in the south, and +creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere the winter +is out, and such as God keep thee from.” + +Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and +turned to speak of other things. + +Martin looked at him gloomily. + +“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad.” + +“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for the +Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set me +free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, +“for I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks there are few +folk to love in this wicked city.” + +Martin laughed and then grew grave again. + +“Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain find thee +a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban’s an it be +possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior +Stephen may say.” + +And he went off singing— + + “Three felons hung from a roadside tree, + One black and one white and one grey; + And the ravens plucked their eyes away + From one and two and three, + That honest men might see + And thievish knaves should pay; + Lest these might be + As blind as they. + Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day! + One—two—three! On the gallows-tree hung they.” + +Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin’s voice had +died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the dancer and the +Prior. + +Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say: + +“I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger—I hunger, and +I love.” + +He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again the shrill +quavering voice called: + +“Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, pray for me! +Blessed Michael, defend me!” + +Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixty years +had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of the cloister. +He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, and wondrous wise; +the King himself had sought his counsel, and the Convent held him in high +esteem. + +Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window of the +cell—it was too high above him. An overpowering desire came upon him to +ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he caught at the window’s +upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sun behind +him, gazing into the cell. + +On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted locks +upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle. The skin +of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-set eyes glowed +strangely in their hollow cavities. + +Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him. + +The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its +aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!” he cried, +gaining strength from the vision. + +“What would’st thou, Father!” said Hilarius, afraid. + +“Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet—” the old man’s +voice grew weaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in peace.” + +He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore +perplexed. + +“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?” + +The Ankret looked troubled. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmured entreatingly. + +Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man saw some +wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain time to speech of him. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered the old, tired voice. + +Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast and +braced himself against the wall. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—The appeal in the half-dead face was +awful. + +Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from the +unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no counsel +from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man—ay, even when he was +visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring a +blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to him. There was +no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry from the tired old saint. +Hilarius doffed his cap again and his fresh young voice rose clear and +sweet through the thin still air:— + + “_Iesu_, _dulcis memoria_, + _Dans vera cordis gaudia_; + _Sed super mel et omnia_ + _Dulcis ejus praesentia_.” + +At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the Ankret +crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly like a +little child. + +Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of what had +befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub-Prior gave him +the last sacraments. + +Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy man +before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought his +message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that the +Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his own counsel. + +He told Lady Eleanor of Martin’s words. + +“God save the King!” she said, and went into her oratory to pray: and +there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel’s foreboding was no idle one. +Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King, undeterred, +came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not in his train. +Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason of the terror they would not recognise. +Banquet and revel, allegory and miracle play; pageant of beautiful women +and brave men; junketing, ay, and rioting—thus they flung a defiance at +the enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bells sounded +the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem. + +Eleanor, knowing Hilarius’ ardent longing for school and master, prayed +her father to set him on the way to St Alban’s instead of keeping him +with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight, feeling one page +more or less mattered little when Death was so ready to serve, and +anxious for the lad’s safety and well-being, assented gladly enough. So +it came to pass that on the Feast of the Three Kings Hilarius found +himself on the Watling Street Way, a well-filled purse in his pocket, but +a fearful heart under his jerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed +large, a great king, and by all accounts a most mighty hunter. + + + +CHAPTER IV +BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE + + +It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face of +Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, in the +field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door wide for +the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass that while the +stricken poor agonised in the grip of unknown horror, bishop and +merchant, prince and chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses +with their train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and west, from +the pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much traffic. One +procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its way to London. + +It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or snow, +and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and stricken +skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey sky. Suddenly +the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still air, music and words +alike strange. The singers came slowly up the roadway, men of foreign +aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding +their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. They were stripped to +the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried each a bloody +scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third step they signed +the sign of the Cross with their prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus +in blood and penitence they went towards London. + +Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it. These +strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back with the +rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off jerkin +and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob. + +“I left wife and children to perish alone,” he cried, “and fled to save +my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for I go back. +Smite, and smite hard, brother!” and he stepped in front of the first +flagellant. + +At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many fell on +their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with groanings +and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned and fled +blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the blood drumming +in his ears, a great horror at his heels—a horror that could drive a man +from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the +wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to save that which most +men count dearer than either. + +At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming +towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way in the +hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was a small, +mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and staff; his face +upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he came up with Hilarius, +and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire burnt in the dead ashes. + +“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord +promised me?” + +Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar laid +one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against his +shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with the light and practised touch of +the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while. + +“Son, thou wilt come with me?” + +“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban’s.” + +“Whence, my son?” + +“From Westminster, good Father.” + +“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery but +now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from the +pestilent cities. What would’st thou with the Abbat?” + +Hilarius told him. + +The friar flung up his hands. + +“_Laus Deo_! _Laus Deo_!” he cried, “now I know thou art in very truth +the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice +has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me carried away, +struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and Hell is near at +hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many hideous devils; yet the +place is little Bungay, where my mother hath a cot by the river. When +first the dream came I lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh +quaked and my hair stood up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; +then as I mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might +wrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was ever inclined to +evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught save gain. + +“Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague at my +heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach its coming in +every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as I tarried on the +seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because I had preached its +coming, the people rose in wrath, and, falling upon me, roughly handled +me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing my +eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat. + +“Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darkness and +light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flames of hell +burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because of my mother’s +soul.” + +“And then, and then?” tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of pure pity in +his eyes. + +“Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas, and +sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. The shipmen were +kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by a great wind, and at +last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have come south thus far by the aid +of Christian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here to guide +me.” + +“But, my Father,” said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier in the +way of his desires, “’tis a limner I would be; and I am from Westminster, +not London, and then there is Prior Stephen’s letter—” + +The friar held up his hand: + +“Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me. Last +night the vision came again, and a voice cried: ‘Speed, for a son of +Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,’ and lo! thou art here, +waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, an thou wilt come +thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham—’tis a cell of this Abbey—for +there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hath wondrous skill with the +brush; he will teach thee, for thou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus +sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; +but first thou shalt set me in that village of Bungay, where my mother +dwelleth.” + +Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that vainly +questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, in +this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was even as one of the blessed +martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner! How should he, Hilarius, +gainsay one with a vision from the Lord? + +“I obey, my Father,” he cried joyously, taking the friar’s hand; and they +two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east. + + + +CHAPTER V +THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED + + +IT was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes’ Eve; the snow fell heavily, +caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius and the +Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the full +force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the darkness +more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten, exhausted and +lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the other across his +bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the wind. + +Suddenly he stood fast. + +“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snow is as a wall; there is naught +to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way.” His voice was +very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support. + +“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He opened +the eyes of the prophet’s servant in the besieged city; so shalt thou see +a host of angels encompassing us, for we are about the Lord’s business.” + +“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “I see no angels, and I perish.” +He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms. +A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away his +staff and lifted him to his shoulder. + +With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a white +figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once the wind +dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, +spoke:— + +“Is it thou, my Father?” + +“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to guide. +The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?” + +He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars alight! + +The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion’s darkness, pointed to +the left where lay a snow-clad village. + +“A miracle, a miracle, my Father!” + +“A miracle, i’ faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to the blind +as He promised. Let us go down.” + +They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full of awe +and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on a poor friar. + +At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment and +several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and Hilarius +made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a morsel of bread. + +A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright black +eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with despatches from +the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful tales to tell of the +Plague; how in London they piled the dead in trenches, while many who +escaped the pest died of want and cold; it was a city of the dead rather +than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste from Westminster, +had been found by his servants to have the disorder, and they fled, +leaving him by the wayside to perish. + +Hilarius heard horror-struck. + +“’Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master,” he said. + +“Nay, lad,” said a chapman in the corner, “but a man loves his own skin +best.” + +“Ay, ay,” said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm on his +way to a neighbouring village, “a man’s own skin before all. Fill your +belly first and your neighbour’s afterwards. Live and let live.” + +“Ay, let live,” chimed in mine host, bustling in with a stoop of cider +for the chapman, “but, by the Rood, ’tis cruel work when two lone women +are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon and a lump of bread; for I’se +warrant ’tis a long day sin’ they had more than that at best.” + +The chapman took his cider. + +“Where was this work done?” he said. + +“Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found Wednesday +se’n-night by the herd as he went folding. They lay on the floor in +their blood.” + +Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had been +spared the sight of violent death—ay, or of death in any form—and had +seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sight he had +thanked Heaven piously. + +“’Tis the fault of the rich,” said a voice, and Hilarius saw, to his +surprise, that there was a second friar in the room; a tall, +bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented with a scanty +fringe of black hair. + +“The rich grow fat, and the poor starve,” he went on, “’tis hunger makes +a man kill his brother for a mouthful of mouldy bacon.” + +“Nay,” said the miller, “there was no need to kill, Father. A man could +have taken the meat from two lone women and left them their lives.” + +“Why take from folk as poor as themselves?” said mine host. “Let them +rob the rich an they must rob.” + +“Ay,” said the friar, “rob the rich, say you, take their own, say I. God +did not make this world that one man should be over full and another go +empty; nor is it religion that the monks’ should live on the fat o’ the +land and grind the faces of the poor. How many manors, think you, has +the Abbat of St Edmund’s, and how many on his land lack bread?” + +Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathful defence +pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraining hand on his +sleeve. + +Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching was seditious, and +made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but it tickled the ears of the +common folk and ’twas ill to quarrel with the Mendicants. Help came to +him in his perplexity: a loud knocking on the barred door made the guests +within start. + +“’Tis eight o’ the clock,” said the miller, affrighted, for he had a +heavy purse on him. + +“Let them knock and cool their hot heads,” said the seditious friar +composedly. + +The rest nodded approval. + +Then a man’s voice threatened without. + +“What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man without? Open, +open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it.” + +Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; he moved +slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout wooden bar. +As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst in, at sight of whom +mine host turned yet paler. + +“Food and drink,” said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on a bench +by the fire. + +Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hair was +close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very small and near +together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up showed two rat-like +teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the chapman who had been +searching amongst his goods for something wherewith to pay his +hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, looking up, +caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares. +He plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tender liquid +notes—a thrush’s roundelay. Then a blackbird called and his mate +answered; a cuckoo cried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting +cadence; a nightingale poured forth her deathless love. + +Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the man +threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to ravenously on the +victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly amid dead silence; then +he looked up and cursed at them for their sorry mood. + +“What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? Damn you all +for dull dogs!” + +The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man’s dreadful +face. + +“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” he said, and at his voice the man leapt to +his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. “Piping Hugh of +Mildenhall,” said the Friar again, “I have a message for thee from the +Lord God. I cried thee damned in my own name once, when thou did’st take +my little sister to shame and death; now I cry thee thrice damned in the +name of the Lord, for the cup of thine iniquity is full and thy hands red +with blood. Man hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and +all men shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but it +shall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt live on +with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou shalt herd; thou +shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men shall hunt thee from their +doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought and found it not, +because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy +speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; +thou art given over to the Evil One, and he shall torment thee with +remembrance.” + +There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore open +the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the +whiteness of the night. + +The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, +full of pride at his Friar’s powers, stepped forward to close the door. +He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the sound of doom. +The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the company began in +silence to make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, +Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad’s voice and touch. +Then he crossed to where the others stood apart eyeing him fearfully. + +He laid his hand on the miller’s breast and said in a clear, low voice: +“Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on the messenger’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on the chapman’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on mine host’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his face +dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: “Thou wilt +live, my brother—and repent.” + + + +CHAPTER VI +A DARK FINDING + + +IT is a far cry from St Alban’s to Bungay—which village of the good ford +lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant—and the journey +is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the +road, for January’s turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and +early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, +light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul +jest were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the +wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to +repent and be saved, for Death’s shadow was already upon them. Folk +wondered and gaped—the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of +London—but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some +heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had +come with the same message half a man’s lifetime before, and that no evil +had followed his preaching. + +At last St Matthias’ Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund’s Abbey. +There were many guests for the Convent’s hospitality that night, and as +Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house—a brother had charged +himself with the care of the Friar—he heard the sound of the vielle, and +a rich voice which sang in good round English against the fashion of the +day. + +“Martin, Martin!” he cried. + +The vielle was instantly silent. + +“Holà, lad!” cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught +Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily. + +“Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the Plague +would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed farther +afield.” Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the song was +not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his +vielle. “Be still now, lad, ’til I have finished my ditty for this +worshipful company; then, an’t please thee to tell it, I will hear thy +tale.” + +The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed +their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:— + + “The fair maid came to the old oak tree + (Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), + The throstle he sang merrily—merrily—merrily, + But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, + Her sweet knight—Oh! where was he? + + He lay dead in the cold, cold ground + (Moon and stars and rain on the hill), + In his side and breast were bloody wounds. + Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, + The poor knight—Ah! cold was he. + + The maiden sat her down to die + (Cold, cold earth on her lover’s breast), + And the little birds rang mournfully, + And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, + And the stars looked down right pityingly + On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight. + Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!” + +This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and the +company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught sight of the +seditious friar making short work of the Convent’s victuals, and +marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given so evil a name. + +Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently to his +tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar he companied +with preached in each village that men should repent ere the scourge of +God fell upon them; “but there is naught of it as yet,” said the lad. + +“Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and then +the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a bruit of +London that it was but a heap of graves—nay, one grave rather, for they +flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do otherwise: +Black Death is swift with his stroke.” + +Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar’s death-words to the +guests. + +Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh. + +“Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on +Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black deed +to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet there was +never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never heard tell that +he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?” + +When he had heard the story of the Friar’s twice-repeated vision and +quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head sunk on +his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly. + +“Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay with +thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. Also I like +not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end of it.” + +That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried: “Haste, +haste, ere it be too late.” And so Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, +the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own. None of the three ever +saw St Edmund’s Abbey again, for in one short month the minster with its +sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while the dead lay in +heaps, silently waiting to summon to their ghastly company the living +that sought to make them a bed. + +Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low +vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar +strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and +Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his +companions. + +“What is that?” he said shrilly. + +A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself +fearfully. + +“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when they told him; and so at full +pace they came to Bungay town. + +The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the roar +and hum of an angry crowd. + +“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his face was very grave, “no +doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the common. +Prithee, where is thy mother’s dwelling, good Father, and I will go and +ask news of her?” + +“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate; Goody +Wooten thou shalt ask for.” + +Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar +followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood +fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to +make his ears do a double service. + +Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar’s business as +the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full +of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him +throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he +fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to catch +what was said. + +“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was saying vehemently; “yon holy friar +hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, +and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his +mother’s soul—and now, and now—” + +The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman lay +on the ground by the river’s edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged rags +crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth +and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied +to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in +their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her. + +Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful crowd: + +“By Christ’s Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought,” he said. + +“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. +For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this place, ay, +and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her means. Near +two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and +never seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us for +meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and swear she +knew naught of the misbegotten brat.” + +“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” said Martin. “I hate these rough-cast +witch-findings—’tis not a matter for man’s judgment, unless ’tis sworn +and proven in court before the Justiciary.” + +“Nay,” joined in an old man, “what need of a Justice when God speaks? We +did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or swim. The +witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing +that, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies, and say whether +the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?” + +Martin wrung his hands. + +“For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no word +of this to yon holy man.” + +Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied +themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and +bore her to her wretched bed. + +The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of the +miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor place and +its dead dishonoured mistress. + +Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius and the +Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. March +mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled +dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started +nervously when Martin spoke. + +“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too +late to speed thy mother’s soul; she passed to-day, and lies even now +awaiting burial at thy faithful hands.” + +The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a +look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads abashed +in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing. + +They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin. + +“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people feared +her?” + +“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, and muttered, “now God forgive +me!” under his breath. + +As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through the +lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It lighted each +vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face, and +betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid fear. + +Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death? The +Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him. + +“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst read +in thy dream.” + +The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was heard +the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth floor. +The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look +up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he +knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry. It was +answered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child that is found. + + * * * * * + +The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to the +cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the +down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned his blind, +anguished face to the setting sun. + +“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel but +not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon them; +Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them no more. Let them +bare their backs to the scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit +them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain. + +“O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged falsely +withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even according to your +measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh swiftly and maketh no long +tarrying. It shall come; it shall snatch men’s souls away, even as ye +have torn away my mother’s soul, leaving no space for repentance.” + +He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the little +town. + +“Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps. Ye +shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none; for the +arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the wickedness of the +earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people! Woe, woe, +woe, a people hating righteousness and loving iniquity! The Lord shall +straightway destroy them from off the face of the earth.” + +He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then +another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling, +growling, but afraid. + +Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched den; and +the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the else unhallowed +grave, and Martin prayed beside him. + +Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; for what +availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had met her due, damned +alike by God and man? + +Martin came up to him. + +“She was his mother,” he said, as if making excuse. + +Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evil liver; and +the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending her to her own +place. He crossed himself piously at the thought of the near +neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul. + +Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar clung to +him like a little child, for the strength of his vision was spent. They +lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only one slept, and that one +Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet-smelling hay, and dreamt of +Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrous +pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine forest at home +swept across his quiet sleep. + +On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all aglow +for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar at least as +far as Norwich. + +“As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another’s bidding,” he +said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never to meet +again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to Yarmouth, not +Norwich, and there they perished among the first when the east wind swept +the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. And Hilarius—once +again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path of his desires. + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE + + +HILARIUS fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in good +weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!—that was a time to commend +oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, picking his way +in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which was all that +remained to show where the piety of the past once kept a road. The low +land to his left was submerged, a desolate tract giving back a sullen +grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a +sunken ship broke the waste of waters. + +The sight brought Hilarius’ thoughts sharply back to the events of the +evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of God! A +witch—plainly proved to be such—had been struck dead in the midst of her +sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap of +graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the justice of the +Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, there to learn to be a +cunning limner; and having so learnt would joyfully hie him back to Prior +Stephen and his own monastery. + +Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a small +hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp-set, for the +shepherd’s fare had been meagre; and so turned aside in the hope of an +ale-house. There was no side road visible, and he struck across the +dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude track which led to the +group of cottages. The place struck him as strangely quiet; no smoke +rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously at a +stranger’s advent. The first hovel he passed was empty, the open door +showed a fireless hearth. At the second he knocked and heard a sound of +scuffling within. As no one answered his repeated summons he pushed the +door open; the low room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him +from a corner,—’twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his +heart, and passed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence. + +Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat larger +cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the door: it was the +ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he would find some one. As he +came up he heard a child crying, and lo! on the doorstep sat a dirty +little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear life. + +Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the grimy +tears. + +The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill cry of +joy, she held out her thin arms. + +At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a woman +still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a little babe. +She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to her in the doorway, +waved him away. + +“Stand off, fool!—’tis the Plague.” + +Hilarius shrank back. + +“And thy neighbours?” he asked. + +“Nay, they were light-footed eno’ when they saw what was to do, and left +us three to die like rats in a hole.” Then eagerly: “Hast thou any +bread?” + +He shook his head. + +“Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?” + +She threw out her hands. + +“’Tis two days sin’ I had bite or sup.” + +“Where lies the nearest village? and how far?” + +“A matter of an hour, over yonder.” + +“See, goodwife,” said Hilarius, “I will go buy thee food and come again.” + +She looked at him doubtfully. + +“So said another, and he never came back.” + +“Nay, but perchance some evil befell him,” said gentle Hilarius. + +“Well, I will trust thee.” She went in and returned with a few small +coins. “’Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, else they will +hunt thee from their doors.” + +Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in the +direction of the village. + +The woman watched him. + +“Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?” she muttered, as she sat +down to wait. + +It was love. + +Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little money he +had to the woman’s scanty store, bought bread, a flask of wine, flour and +beans, and a jug of milk. + +“’Tis for a sick child,” he said when he asked for it, and the woman +pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed. + +The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of his +precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a snare, lay a +fine coney. + +“Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!” cried +Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store. + +When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke into +loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving up the +struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with her +fast-failing babe in her arms. + +Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine—not for nothing had he +served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe for some +weak Brother—and then turned his attention to the little maid who sat +patient, eyeing the food. + +For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking the +child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. At last +the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen head against +her nurse’s shoulder, and fell fast asleep. + +Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to her, +thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little sister, the child +he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had guided him to her, and her +great Mother-love would shield this little one from a foul and horrid +death. In that dirty, neglected room, the child warm against his breast, +Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his life. + +Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little pale +cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed eyes, and laid +his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother. + +The woman was half-asleep, but started awake. + +“Art thou going?” she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes. + +“Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together,” he said soothingly. “I +would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter.” + +Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth. The +poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and +stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her tale. + +“’Twas Gammer Harden’s son who first heard tell of a strange new sickness +at Caxton’s; and then Jocell had speech with a herd from those parts, who +was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill he had done. Next day +Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out of boils, +and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden fell sick and died +likewise. Then one cried ’twas the Plague, and the wrath of God; and +they fled—the women to the nuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or +shelter on the Manor; but us they left, for I was with child.” + +“And thy husband?’ said Hilarius. + +“Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his and mine. +Some hold ’tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of it this evil +hath fallen upon me.” + +She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and shrunk +with the stress of its short life. + +Hilarius spoke gently:— + +“It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to live together +out of holy wedlock, and perchance ’tis true that for this very thing +thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. But since thou +didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent me to serve thee in thy +sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady herself showed me where the +coney lay snared. Let us pray God by His dear Mother to forgive us our +sins and to have mercy on these little ones.” + +And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father for his +new-found family. + +Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. Hilarius +dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at last the pinch +came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the babe scarce in +life—there could be no thought of flight—and the little maid grew white, +and wan and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that he would once again +beg food in the village where he had sought help before. + +He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the better +fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he found his +errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming from many parts, +and each man feared for his own skin. At every house they questioned +him: “Art thou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?” and when he +answered “Yea,” the door was shut. + +Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. He +gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the Saviour and His +holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and her mother. Let them +set it in the street, he would take it and cross no man’s threshold. +Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child die of want? + +“Nay, ’tis better they die, so are we safe,” cried a voice; then they +fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with blows and +curses. + +Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; +breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge. + +A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius +shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed for +food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of +those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance a +coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were not his nestlings +agape? + +Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape and +gaily painted. + +He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in his +awful need. + +The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse +took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart to ask +an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If he begged +and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the sack and +the hen had changed owners—but not unobserved; a clear voice called a +halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: +and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway—a thief. + +“Seize the knave!” cried the girl sharply. + +Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she knew +him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him. + +“What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, ’tis a rare +jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?” + +But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and hunger, +sudden darkness fell upon him. + +When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; the +waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother stood +watching him. + +“Fetch bread and wine,” said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to +speak, “Peace, ’til thou hast eaten.” + +Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:— + +“Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints and +thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?” + +Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of his +little maid, and his were not the only tears. + +The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken from her +store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder. + +“But, Gia,” grumbled her brother, “there will be naught for us to-night.” + +“Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry,” she retorted, and filled a +small sack with the victuals. + +Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to him: +“Now up and off to thy little maid.” + +Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took +both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed them. + +“Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the forest? +God help me for a poor, blind fool!” + +“Nay,” she answered, “there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast +learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here +again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little maid. +Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old +grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her.” + +Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet +greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God. + +When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened to +make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely eat. +Then he went out to find the woman. + +He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried to +him to keep back. + +“My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the houses +seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden’s; and I must die. As for thee, thou +shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; so maybe God will spare +the innocent.” + +Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to bring +her food, but she would not. + +“Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone that I +may die the sooner.” + +Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the little +maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept +heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child awake. + +He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings of the +poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of the hovel +in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he searched the +fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of +garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead +babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the +silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was peace. + +Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and +covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his +fatherless, motherless maid. + +She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; but +each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not even sit, +but lay white and silent in Hilarius’ tender arms; and he fought with +death for his little maid. + +Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny morsels +in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the long hours, +his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The darkness came, +and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke +and the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he might +see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came to pass that +when the light kissed her little white face she opened her eyes and +smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died. + +The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew near +the place of Hilarius’ first and last theft: he was standing by the +wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer +looked but once on his face and asked no question. + + + + +_PART III_ +THE FRUIT + + +CHAPTER I +HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! + + +THE Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great +event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to +be more than a terrible name. + +True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by +the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub-Prior. For lo! the +Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved +harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had +fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his +hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, +and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the +Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the +Brethren that when he began to sing the _Verba mea_ on leaving the +chapter, the Convent—yea, even the novices—were silent, to show their +displeasure. + +When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only +he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, +and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a +gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the +Convent was at peace. + +Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped +through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; +Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; +and Brother Thomas the Cellarer—but of him let us say little and think +with charity; for ’tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and +is come to judgment. + +Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent +fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming +their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was +very pleasant to them. + +“Since Brother Thomas died—” began Brother Paul. + +“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Brother Anselm. + +“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paul again—a little +impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough—“methinks the +provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother.” + +“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. “Methinks our Cellarer draws +the half of it from the Convent’s well.” + +They shook their heads sadly. + +“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a short silence, “our Cellarer is +most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of his office—while +Brother Thomas, alack—” + +“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties,” said +Brother Paul. “The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of these things. +On Sunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in the +refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he ate the meat +in great content, and seemingly with appetite.” + +“He is but young, he is but young—sixty come Michaelmas—sixty, and +twenty-two years Prior—’tis a long term,” and Brother Anselm nodded his +head. + +“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” said Brother Paul, “whereas +thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas—God +rest his soul!—was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder +Brethren.” + +“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” said Brother Anselm, +fingering his toothless gums. “Think you ’twould be well to speak of +this matter to the Prior?” + +“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is ever against any store being set on +the things of this world—‘’tis well for the greater discipline of the +flesh,’ so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to +us elder Brethren.” + +“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died,” said +Brother Anselm ruefully. + +“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him—maybe he will +hear a word in season,” and the two old monks moved slowly away to the +Cellarer’s office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk. + +He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government +sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the +lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full +six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas +after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St +Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another +well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set +blind-eyed without the gate? + +He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that +Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with +the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the +resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk’s dying speech had +been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see. + +Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary’s flowers +came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his +hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was +all passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle +breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows +where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. +Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty +as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for +the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own +helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for the boy whose +mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand. + +Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this world +to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself +in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait. + +The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air +calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place. + +“_Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent_,” chanted the deep +voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in +the Psalmody. + +“_Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua_. _Venientes autem +venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos_.” + +He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting +was not yet. + + + +CHAPTER II +MARY’S LILIES + + +IT came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se’nnight later, that Prior +Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him. + +It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the noon +repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of the bees +busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air +overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice he +knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, for it was +the voice of God. He arose in haste and went out into the garth, and lo! +under the lilies Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great +wonder, his heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little +piece of grass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door. + +As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly +from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and +marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave +scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. He +strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were as lead. + +The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to arouse +him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as the calling +of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then, +in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay; +and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and cried +out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior +Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the woman’s side: there was +but one lily left. He laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was +still far from him: and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with +a cry of fear—and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he +was sore troubled. + +“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his mother, +on whom God have mercy!” And sighing heavily he took his way to the +great Rood and made supplication for his son. + + * * * * * + +Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of Florence, +there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched hands, whose +many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under +threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling upper lip. Great, +alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving favour. +Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every ruddy strand that hung a +shimmering mantle to her knee. Her beauty—nay, men had slain themselves +gladly to escape the torment of her look. She stood in the curtained +doorway, a heavy purple hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her +paled as he saw her vengeful face. + +It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender height, +and bowed. + +Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued marble +floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies caught in her +draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and +faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause the Angelus sounded +from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the +stillness fled before a woman’s scornful laugh. + +“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly, “is ours to be a war of signs +and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with judgment, +though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all that is said of +thee be true, I will e’en have thee whipped at the gibbet for thy gibes! +Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; ’tis a last asking. Wilt +thou paint this face of mine that is, it seems, so little to thy liking? +Strain not my patience over much—’tis a slender cord at best, and +somewhat tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?” + +Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruised and scattered on +the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and clear:— + +“‘It is nay.’” + +She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was a +stain where her teeth had been busy. + +“‘It is nay,’” she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him. “May a +poor Princess ask the Signor’s reason?” + +Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies. + +“It lies there.” + +For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her cheek; +then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered in her +wrath:— + +“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to my face—to me, who stooped to +ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched beauty; I, who hold +the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men +kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such +a behest as mine? ’Tis small wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish +dress; of a truth the tale they brought savoured of little else. Hear +me, thou prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this +face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of +forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my +serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou +art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield +the rod and lace thy shoulders.” + +She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peacocks +on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog +to which she had likened him, for he had no word. + +There was silence a while. + +Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting of a +lash:— + +“Bring me yon flowers.” + +He obeyed. + +“Set them at my feet.” + +He bent his knee and did so, wondering. + +A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the air, +as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed lad at +the Monastery gate. + +One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble was yellow +with stolen gold. + +Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some living +thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet. + +It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows. + +“So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will soil thy brush to +limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the Queen of Love—but thy lips, +say they, burnt with another name! Bethink thee, faint heart, there is +not a man in all this city but would count death a small price to pay for +my favours; and I ask of thee one little service, and thou shalt name +thine own reward. Surely ’tis churlish to gainsay!” + +Her voice was suddenly sweet. + +Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, fingering +the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. She glanced up at +Hilarius through her lashes’ net. “Maybe I was over hasty,” she said +softly, and a sob swelled the round of her wonderful throat—“and yet how +couldst thou call me wanton?” Her mouth drooped a little—she was very +fair. + +“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against the roses +in love’s garden? For I love thee,” she added, and then suddenly she was +still. + +Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over-mastering +beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in the heart of every +man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as he had never before +desired aught in all the world, and he knew, to his shame, that she was +his for the asking. The blood thudded and rang in his veins; he feasted +his eyes on the curve of her neck and the radiance of her sun-swept hair. +He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised a white, +terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder. + +“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, “who touched +me?” And she sprang to her feet. + +There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they stared into each +other’s eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrank back and covered +his face with his hands. Clear and distinct he heard the Prior’s voice: +“_A light woman—a light woman_.” + +Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” and without word or look +Hilarius went. + + * * * * * + +The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with the devil +for his son’s soul, and knew that he had prevailed. + + + +CHAPTER III +OPEN EYES AT THE GATE + + +ANOTHER year wrote its record on forest and field. The weeks passed; +summer sped to autumn, the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. The Convent’s +lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; and the Prior, watching +the last great wain piled high with wealth of golden treasure, saw the +porter coming to him. + +Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty spirit; and the +Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his hurried gait and wrathful +countenance. + +“Domine,” he gasped, “Domine, there is a ragged man at the gate, a +vagabond by his own showing, and he craves speech of thee. I bade him go +to the guest-house, but he will not budge, and hath waited already an +hour despite my—” + +The porter stayed, staring; he spoke to the wind; the Prior was already +halfway to the gate. + +“This my son was dead and is alive again,” sang his heart. The porter, +afraid, hasted after him with the keys, and had scarce time to do his +office ere the sunburnt vagabond was clasped in the Prior’s arms. It was +a harvesting indeed. + +That night Hilarius went across to the Prior’s house to tell the tale of +his journeyings. He found him seated in a great oak chair by the open +window; the sky was ablaze with stars, and the flame of the oil lamp +jarred like a splash of yellow paint on the moonlight which flooded the +room; the Prior’s eyes smiled measureless content, and the murmured +“_Laus Deo_” of his lips voiced the gladness of his heart. Thus, in the +shelter of peace and a great love, Hilarius told his tale, while the +forest waved a welcome to him over the Monastery wall, and the late +lilies burned white in the garth below. + +The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the lad’s +face, pale against the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told of his +journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath been recorded in this +chronicle; and the Prior’s eyes were wet as he heard of the little maid. + +“And then, my son?” said the Prior. + +“Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as far as the +sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in the train of my lord +Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was hasting to Rome. He knew thee, +my Father, and bade his people supply my needs.” + +“Ay, he knows me,” said the Prior briefly. “The Lord reward him +according to his works, but show him mercy forasmuch as he had compassion +on my son!” + +“Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous city full of +treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I did not see, being let. +Methinks life in that country is as one long pageant; but I marked that +great holiness and an evil life, much riches and much penury, dwelt there +side by side, and men reeked little of death but much of pleasure. Then +one bade me go to Florence an I would be a limner; therefore I hasted +thither, and gave my last coin for bread as I entered the city.” + +The Prior’s brows contracted; the lad had seen some schooling. + +“But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?” + +“Ay, my Father, in God’s time: at first I must herd goats and sell melons +in the market-place for a lump of bread. Day by day I strove to gain +enough to buy colours, but could not, for the Lord sent me ever a +neighbour poorer than myself. Nevertheless I was of good courage, +knowing the Lord’s ways are not as ours; and mindful how Brother Ambrose +held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laid with fair colours ’twere +no sin to deem that a man may limn perfect pictures there, for the gift +is from the Lord.” + +“My son, ’tis a great lesson thou hast learnt,” said the Prior, “for the +Word was made Flesh; and as Blessed John hath it, a man cannot love God +unseen, if he love not the brother whom He hath given him. What next, +dear lad?” + +“My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to me. One day a great +limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, whom men call d’Orcagna, stayed by me +where I stood with my melons in the shadow of the Shepherd’s Tower, and +bade me follow him to his house, for he would fain use me for an angel’s +head in the great Altar-piece he was e’en then concerned with for the +Church of the White Friars. Later he heard my story; and when he found I +had some small skill with the brush, he kept me with him, and taught me +as only such an one can teach: him I served five years. And many times +Satan desired my soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but the +Lord was with me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I will +speak anon, at my shriving, as is meet.” + +The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and Hilarius took up +his tale. + +“Then one day my master cried there was an end to teaching; nevertheless +he would have me bide with him in honour for the work. But my heart was +full of longing for home and the scent of the forest; and, above all, for +thee, my Father; therefore I set my face north, that I might bring back +my gift to St Benedict and our Church; and should have been here long ere +this, but I was let by the way.” + +The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at the +question in his face. + +“’Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow of the great mountains +beyond Florence; and I was taken by robbers, who bore me and others of +our company to their fastness in the hills: there I lay in a little cave +many days; but what befell the rest I know not. The robbers brought me +forth to serve them, and by God’s mercy handled me kindly, though they +thought little of bloodshedding. + +“Then one of them was troubled in his spirit, and minded to forsake this +evil manner of life. Therefore one night he fled, carrying me with him, +when the others had gone forth; and we made good our way to Mantua. +There Pietro, for so was the robber called, left me that he might give +himself to the service of God and men, inasmuch as he had formerly abused +them. Never saw I man so changed, my Father; his speech, formerly +profane, was all of God and the Saints; he did penance and confessed his +sins publicly; ay, by the Justice’s order he received one hundred lashes +in the market-place, and at every lash he cried with upturned face, ‘_Deo +Gratias_!’ And I was there, because he besought of me to stand in the +crowd and pray for him that his courage failed not. But it came to pass +that even the people marvelled at his joyful endurance; and indeed ’twas +more like a scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor sinful +robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, for such was his +desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved his blessing.” + +“The Lord fulfil all his mind!” said the Prior with clasped hands. + +“Amen,” said Hilarius. + +“Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my son?” + +“Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and kindly men by the +way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but at Genoa I took service +with a merchant then beginning his journey, and travelled with him +through Flanders, a strange, flat country with many canals and tall +poplar trees; and so we came to Bruges in safety, after a most prosperous +course. There he commended me to a good friend of his, a wool merchant +travelling to Salisbury; and at first all things went well with us; but +later the winds proved contrary, and we were driven hither and thither in +great peril of our lives, but at last made the Bristol Channel, and so +came safe into port. Thence I have come hither afoot begging my bread.” + +When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms and blessed +him for his dear son; praising God that the lad had come back a child at +heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed. + +Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank the wine of +the “wayfaring man,” his heart merry for the joy of his home-coming. +When the Lady-Mass was ended he knelt on in her Chapel. + +“Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine from thy poor son,” +sang his heart; and then he prayed for his little maid. + + + +CHAPTER IV +THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + +THE Convent welcomed Hilarius gladly, and on the Feast of St Michael he +made his profession, for the Prior deemed that he had served his +noviciate and been found faithful; and the Brethren assented eagerly, for +they were fain to keep this wondrous limner for the service of their own +Church. + +Then, by the Prior’s command, Hilarius set himself to limn a great +picture for the High Altar. It was a Crucifixion, and all his heart and +all his love were in it. When the Brethren first saw the fair proportion +and fine colours that Hilarius brought to the work, they rejoiced in that +their Church should be glorified above other Churches of the Order; but +when the picture was near completing, and they gazed up into the wondrous +face of the Great King who looked down from the throne of His triumphant +suffering, with a world of hunger and love in His eyes for those who had +so enthroned Him, they hung their heads for shame because of the +emulation in their hearts; and lo! the Cellarer, for very love, was +careful for the needs of the elder Brethren; and the monks, for very +love, laid hold gladly of suffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and +lived together in unity. + +In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a grey-eyed girl, +a woman with a babe at the breast, and clinging to her skirts, a little +flaxen-headed maid. None but the Prior knew the meaning of these three, +and their names, with that of a poor light-o’-love, were ever on his lips +when he offered the Holy Sacrifice. + +Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of all his +world. The years sped, and he became in turn Almoner, Novice-master, and +Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for he reckoned himself ever as least +of all and servant of all. + +Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Convent wisely and +well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, his call coming as it +might be straight from the mouth of the Lord. + +On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and said as +always: “_The souls of the deceased brethren and believers rest in +peace_!” to which the Convent replied, “_Amen_.” Then with his hands +raised to bless he cried, “_Benedicite_,” and again with loud and joyful +voice “_Domine_,” and again, “_Domine_!” as of one who answers to his +name—and so passed to his place in the Kingdom of Christ. + +The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, which election the +Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace. + +Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of the exceeding +beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom he taught, set fair +pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof with the blue of heaven and +gold of the wakeful stars. In the span over the High Altar he set +Blessed Benedict himself with the face of Prior Stephen, and round him +the angel virtues; even as one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had limned them in +the Church of the Little Brothers. + +Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our Lady above the +Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with ever-increasing fervour and +much fasting that this boon might be vouchsafed him for her glory and the +Convent’s greater good. And one day—’twas her Nativity—he set his hand +to the work, for it seemed to him that she would have it so; and he was +greatly humbled that such heavenly kindness should attend so vile a +sinner. Day by day he set apart some hours for this service; and he +limned a face so fair and radiant, with woman’s love and light of heaven, +that it was whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely +been blessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother in +so wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well give credence to +such a story, for the joy that shone in the Prior’s eyes and might not be +hid. + +Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but softly, for he +would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours vouchsafed him. + +When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him crooning their +peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the meadows ceased browsing +when he passed, and needs must company with him a little way. + +Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy sickness by +reason of the sun’s great heat; and Satan strove with him for his +undoing, so that the poor soul foamed at the mouth and roared out +blasphemy; yea, verily, and must be held with cords also, lest he do +himself or his fellows some grievous hurt. But when the Prior laid his +hand between the man’s troubled eyes sweet sleep came upon him, and his +madness forsook him. + +The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, even if the +Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the villages round had aught +against his neighbour he would come to the Prior for a just hearing. + +Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent’s peace began to be +troubled. Men sought the Monastery for its famous name, caring but +little for religion; there were many young novices within its walls, and +the strong hand of Prior Stephen was lacking. Hilarius was of gentler +build; he would speak ever in love, thinking no evil, whereas it is not +given to all men to understand that tongue. So it came to pass that the +younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and the elder Brethren murmured. + + + +CHAPTER V +“GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16. + + +ONE day the Novice-master, Brother Adam, a most worthy man, came in sore +trouble to the Prior and would resign his office. + +“Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find shelter in a +monastery!” he cried. “They grow fat, idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never +at peace among themselves; never a Pater or an Ave too many, or a task +fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. I would that the time of +blood-letting were here that their high stomachs might be brought low. I +am no longer young, my Father, and this burden tries me sorely. Prithee, +let it be shifted to another and a stronger back.” + +The Prior listened with many an inward _mea culpa_. “’Tis a sad hearing, +Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybe this ill mood +will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle and decorous? He hath a +most beauteous voice.” + +The Novice-master threw up his hands. + +“Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, but methinks his +body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will sing an it please him—or +when thou art by, my Father,—but, an it please him not, he is silent; ay, +even under grievous stripes. The Precentor giveth him as negligent and +ill-conditioned; and in choir, when he looketh most like to one of God’s +Saints, he is but plotting mischief for the day.” + +The Prior heard him sadly. + +“And Hubert?” he said. “Hubert methinks hath a great love of colour and +a fine hand with the brush.” + +Brother Adam was almost speechless. + +“Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even this very Hubert but +yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into Brother Edmund’s mess, +whereby he was like to break his teeth or take some more grievous hurt. +And indeed the peace of the Brethren is much troubled, wherefore they +complain bitterly.” + +“Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity evil,” said the Prior. +Then, seeing the Novice-master’s aggrieved face, he bade him have +patience yet a little, for he himself would speak to the novices; and +with this Brother Adam must fain be content. + + * * * * * + +The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke. + +It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made curious by +it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may be, long after. +Even thus it happened on this day in the Chapter; and when Prior Hilarius +was gathered to his rest the Brethren remembered how they had marked and +marvelled at the strange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one who +sees the face of the Lord. + +“My children,” he cried—“for my children ye are, though I see among you +many it were more fitting I should hail as father, but that the ruling of +the Lord cannot be gainsaid—my children, I am minded to think that I have +this day a message on my lips that is not mine own. + +“Last night a vision came to me as I slept. Blessed Benedict, our +Father, stood at my side, and his face was troubled. + +“‘Arise, my son,’ he cried, ‘arise, for the Lord is at hand and hath need +of thee.’ + +“And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang up in shame and +fear that the Master should find me sleeping. + +“Then cried Blessed Benedict again:— + +“‘If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He hath called thee these +many times,’ and so saying passed from my sight. + +“Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made haste to the Church +lest peradventure I should find Him; but the lamps burnt dim and all was +silent. Then I turned aside and went out into the night, and it was very +dark, with no sound but the wind in the forest trees. + +“My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in cloister and garth; and as I +hasted to the gate I cried aloud, even as she cried who sought Him in a +garden—‘They have taken away my Lord.’ + +“At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a sign; and lo, in +the darkness one came and led me by the hand away from the gate, across +the garth and up the dormitory stair, nor loosed me until I passed within +where the Brethren lay sleeping, and the chamber was bright with +exceeding radiance. + +“I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his face was wet +with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder the mark of many +stripes. + +“Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another of our Brethren, +and on every face lay the shadow of a great need, but in every face there +was somewhat of the Christ; and the lesson burnt in my heart. + +“Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy Robert; but I +fled, for I might not see Him; and I awoke sore troubled—ay, and the +trouble is on me still. + +“My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to me. Great is the +rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it stripes, grievous and many as our +sins, have their rightful place; but mayhap we forget that love, and love +alone, should strike. Ay, and I mind me how Prior Stephen, my Father, +said that to be monk a man must learn before all things to hunger and to +love. Love should draw the water and build the fire, till the field and +attend the sanctuary; and hunger we should cherish in our hearts, hunger +for righteousness and for the souls of our brethren, for this is the +hunger of God. + +“Men come over lightly to the Lord’s work; and lo! pride and emulation, +jealousy and discontent, spring up and thrive, and the end is shame and +confusion. + +“I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the Lord is at hand: +let us see that we love while there is yet time.” + +Then he turned to the novices and stretched out his hands to where they +stood amazed, and it may be ashamed—not after this manner was Brother +Adam wont to rebuke them. + +“And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, give heed to your +ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this service. Better far go +forth, yea, even to death, than mock the Lord with froward feet and a +heart that is full of vanity. Remember the sacrifice which Cain offered +and the Lord rejected, for he gainsayed the voice of the Lord and +disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the wrath of God fell upon him. + +“I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, and let fear +befriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a thief in the night, and +lo! stripes bitter and many await that servant whom the Master finds +sleeping.” + +Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his hand to bless, +and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in his place, for they knew +that the Lord had spoken and were afraid. + + + +CHAPTER VI +THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN + + +JUNE was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges were white, +the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from the trees as at +autumn’s touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and twisted on the +bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud. + +Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrap of +mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog from some +neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill-hook beside +him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gone contrary with him. + +His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leaving six +hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing had befallen +him; his gold was gone—his gold to which he had no right, for ’twas +blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and something beside; but +Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world—above Heaven and his own +soul—and it was gone. + +A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which he had +deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i’ faith ’twas easy +carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon minded how he had changed +his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back at the fair. Maybe it was +Thomas the charcoal burner had served him this ill turn; or William +Crookleg, the miller’s man; he was a sly, prying fellow, and there had +been ill blood between them. + +He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the forest, and +crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might say ’twas ill-got +gain and well rid of. + +Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill-fed, +unkempt. The day’s work was done, and on the village green he found men +and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, standing about in +groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house door, thin and +peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for any man in those +parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressed them. + +A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry horse by +the bridle, was talking eagerly. + +“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw I this very day on the +churchyard wall—it bodes ill to some of us.” + +“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have it thine own way. Methinks the +ill hath outrun the omen, for there will be naught for man or beast +shortly—but fine pickings for thy three crows.” + +The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up. + +“What’s to do?” he said curtly. + +“Nay,” said mine host, “Robin will have it that some further evil is upon +us—tho’ methinks we have got our fill and to spare with this drought—ay, +and ’twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw the corpse-light.” + +“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to fill them,” +said Dickon surlily. “Whither away, Robin? ’Tis not far this beast will +travel.” + +“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with the +carcass,” answered the little man; “give me my reckoning, friend John. I +must needs haste if I would see the Forester’s ere nightfall.” + +He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon saw it his +eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the piece in his cheek. + +“Hard-earned money—’tis blood out of a stone to draw wages from my +master. Better it should light in my belly than in a rogue’s pocket. +’Tis as well for me that John o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at the +cross-roads. Godden, my masters!” And leading his weary beast, he took +the road that skirted the forest. + +The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely way before +him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise. + +“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robin angrily, tugging in vain at the +creature on whom death had taken pity. “I must e’en leave him by the +wayside and tell Richard what hath befallen.” + +He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a man slipped +from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. There was a thud, +a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across the horse’s neck—a pace beyond +him in the moonlight shone the gleam of gold. + +Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other five followed with scant +time between the buryings. Another had fathered them and filled the +gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it was the Black Death +that they had deemed far from them. + +Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come of +Robin—he was dead when they found him—but no man gave heed. Death was in +the air, death held them safe in walls they might not scale. The heavens +were brass, food failed for man and beast, God and man alike had forsaken +them. The forest lay one side, the river, now but a shallow sluggish +stream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick and the springe tightened. + +No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest and murmured, +cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house. + +“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there is liquor +enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded to go dry throat to +Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e’en swill a bucket to the +devil’s health, and so to hell.” + +Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who strove to bar +the door. Some of the women fell on their knees and clamoured in half +delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed to their pestilent homes. + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING + + +MEANWHILE, news came to the Monastery of the ill case of the village, for +it lay scarce a league away across the forest; but the pine-trees stood +as guardian angels in between. + +The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling of Blessed +Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told the tidings. + +Then he went on to give reason for their assembling. + +“My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave these poor, +stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; moreover, in their fear +and desolation, they may flee to other villages, and so the terror and +pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch as Charity is +greater than Faith or Hope, so it is greater than obedience also. +Wherefore I purpose to set aside the Rule of our Order in the letter that +I may hold to it in the spirit, and go forth to serve these perishing +brethren; and I will take with me whosoever hears the call of God in this +visitation.” + +When he had made an end, there was silence in the Chapter. Break +cloister, the Prior himself urging them thereto? The Convent might +scarce credit its ears. + +Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on his white +face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have its triumph. + +Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven novices sprang +also to their feet. + +“Nay, Brother Walter,” said Hilarius, turning to the Sub-Prior, “this +flock must have its shepherd also; thy place is here. But I will take +with me Brother Simon and Brother Leo, who will doubtless suffice at +first for the ministry, and—” smiling at the novices—“all these dear lads +to tend the sick and bury the dead.” + +The Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance. + +“Good Father, it is not fitting that thou should’st go on such an errand; +send me in thy stead, for my life is a small thing as compared with +thine. Moreover these novices, ’tis but the other day the Master gave +them as lazy and ill-conditioned, and—” + +The Prior held up his hand. + +“Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for me; but my call has +come. As for these—” he stretched out his hand towards the waiting +novices—“maybe they are in the wrong school, and the Lord hath even +opened the door that they may serve Him, perchance die for Him, +elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser than Prior Stephen, who set me +without the gate to learn my lesson? Let us go in peace, my children, +for we are about the Lord’s business.” + + * * * * * + +Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the little band +embraced their brethren and set out, laden with food and wine and herbs +from the farmery; and the Prior appointed a place to which the Convent +should send daily all things needed. + +The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, breathless sunshine, +and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, pungent, rose at each +footfall from the silent path. The Brethren chanted the Gradual Psalms +as they paced two and two through the sun-lit aisles, full of the Prior’s +memories; and he looked up again to see Our Lady’s robe across the +tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalm broke, and Brother Simon, who was +leading, stayed suddenly. + +Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthy rags; his +hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyes sunk, his lips drawn +apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made haste to kneel beside him, and +lo! sudden remembrance lighted the fast-glazing eyes, but his own +answered not. + +“My son, my son,” said the Prior, and his voice was very pitiful, “thou +art indeed in evil case; let me shrive thee ere it be too late.” + +He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy head upon his +shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the parched lips. + +At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached him. + +“The Convent’s hens!” + +The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured voice— + +“Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?” + +Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were wiped away. + +“Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry plight! But see, stay +not thy shriving, for the time is short, and the Lord ever ready to +pardon.” + +The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite clearly: “I +hunger,” and so saying died. + +The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in prayer, while +the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, and lo! before +him lay the open glade where his schooling had begun, and he had seen a +flower incarnate dance in the wind. + +He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the glade under +fallen branches until they could return and give him burial. Then, as +they went on their way, he told the tale of his little maid; and when the +telling was ended, the village they had come to succour was in sight, and +lo! they saw it through a mist. + + + +CHAPTER VIII +“BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE” + + +THE Prior’s heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed up the +village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his little maid led +him by the hand. + +Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speak comfort +and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury the dead; for +three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. Hilarius made +straight for the ale-house. + +As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled blindly down +the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, and suddenly sobered, +dropped on his knees, while the topers and roysterers staring from the +open doorway fell into silence. + +Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorching sun +of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was very weary. + +“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, lest ye go +down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, for the arms of His +love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and the very hairs of your +head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confess each one of you his +sins, that I may prepare him for the work of the Lord; and take comfort +also, for they that are with us are mighty.” + +One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, confessed and +were shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon was not among +them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as he should direct; and he +set a watch that no man should flee the village; and all obeyed him. + +Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band of +workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying the pestilent +dwellings. + +Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered it like a +soldier at his post. + +As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade him come +quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon. + +The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to the hovel +where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear his muttered +words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, for a gold +piece lay on the man’s tongue. The Prior drew back dismayed, and behold, +the Lord’s hand struck swiftly, and Dickon died with a barren shriving—on +whom may Christ take pity! + +Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and at even +came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of the novices, +who lay a-dying in the Prioir’s arms, heard it as he passed, and fell +back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on his young face. + +“‘_Esurientes implevit bonis_,’” said the Prior, as he laid him down, +blessing God. + +A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was no +need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was stayed. +Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season; rarely such a +blessed one. + +The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior was +minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, for his +work was done. + +Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings +reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the +cloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had given +their lives for their brethren. + +The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed the pines +in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because of the face +of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue dome, and earth +shone with pale reflection of his glory. + +The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch the +signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the word came that +voices were heard in the distance; and monks and novices hastened two and +two to the gate. On the wind was borne the sound of a chant. + +“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” said Brother Anselm; and crossing +themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorous response: + + “_Et lux perpetua luceat eis_.” + +As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for came +slowly down the forest pathway. + +Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a rude +bier of pine-branches. + +This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs for his +last bed; Mary’s lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censer of the forest +swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face of the Lord. + +He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, and having +kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, for his time +had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. Prior Hilarius +lay and watched for the light, and as dawn parted night’s veil with the +long foregleam of the coming day, he shut his eyes like a tired child and +went home. + +It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior cried through +his tears:— + +“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son.” + +They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on his +forest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the tender +smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, “The Prior hath +found his little maid.” And the Convent made Hilarius a wondrous fair +tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved him lying thereon with +Mary’s lilies across his breast. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS*** + + +******* This file should be named 789-0.txt or 789-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/8/789 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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