Chapter19: The Preaching Friar.The system of the early Franciscans bore a very remarkable likeness to that devised by John Wesley for his itinerant preachers, if indeed the former did not suggest the latter. They were not to supersede the parochial system, only to supplement it. They were not to administer the sacraments, only to send people to their ordinary parish priest for them, save in the rare cases of friars in full orders, who might exercise their offices, but so as not to interfere with the ordinary jurisdiction. The consent of the bishop of the diocese was at first required, and ordinarily that of the parish priest; but in the not infrequent cases where a slothful vicar would not allow any intrusion on his sinecure, his objections were disregarded. When the parish priest gave consent, the church was used if conveniently situated; otherwise the nearest barn or glade in the woods was utilised for the sermons. Like certain modern religionists, they were free and easy in their modes, frequently addressing passers by with personal questions, and often resorting to eccentric means of attracting attention. But unlike their modern imitators, they acted on very strict subordination to Church authority, and all their influence was used on behalf of the Church; although they strove as their one great aim to infuse personal religion into the dry bones of the existing system, which they fully accepted, while teaching that “the letter without the spirit killeth.”In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset, although it grievously degenerated in after days.Martin’s health was still far from strong. He yet felt the effects of the terrible attack of the black fever or plague the preceding spring; and now he was once more prostrated by a comparatively slight return of the feverish symptoms, the after effects of his illness.But he had found his nurse now. What a delight it was to his mother to take his head, “that dear head,” upon her knee, and to fondle it once more, as if he were a child again. Now she had her reward for all her loving self denial in sending him away and feigning herself dead.In the summer time, especially if the weather were warm and genial, the greenwood was not a bad place for an invalid, and Martin was as well attended as if he had been in the infirmary at Michelham, and with far more loving care. But under such care he rapidly gathered strength, and as he did so used it all in his master’s service. The impression he produced on the followers of his forefathers was profound, but he traversed every corner of the forest, and not an outlying hamlet or village church escaped his ministrations, so that shortly his fame was spread through all the country side.We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne.The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily returned after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies were spent in making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas. He attended him in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of the estate. He looked after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the general retinue of a medieval castle. The days had passed indeed when war and violence were the natural occupation of a baron, and when the men-at-arms were never left idle long together, but they were almost within memory of living men and might return again. So the defences of the castle were never neglected, and the arts of warfare ceased not to be objects of daily study in the Middle Ages.The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert’s version of the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo’s manipulation, assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our readers.Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was so happily discovered. Harengod would content him, and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between Harengod and Walderne.So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert’s visit to Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter, whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations. He had rather they should look hopefully to his return. Poor Hubert!Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles. The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to Acre, in a vessel called theFleur de Lys, near which spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed.He himself, “by the blessing of our Lady,” had escaped all dangers, had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve months.But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came not.The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke again.The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved so well. They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which his lady had founded. There his friends and retainers followed him, with tears, to the grave.And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by those who do not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no pathway to it.Sic transit.Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring character—he had been at Saint Jean d’Acre.Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant silence.“How long ago was it that he had left Acre?”“It might be six months.”“Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts were very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?”“No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard of it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of Saint John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother, waiting upon their guests.”Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.“And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles, called the Fleur de Lys?”“Lady,” he replied, “the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage homeward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool, which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns the abyss again absorbs them.“Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure of the Fleur de Lys.”“And you know no more?”“Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the straits, and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn in, and that every soul perished.”A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her chamber.From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers; she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells, notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest.Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him, she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well, like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before God and brought a Peter.About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was indeed called “The mirror pond;” the upper sky, the branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure void.At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation.Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived—twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate.All at once she heard a voice singing:Love sets my heart on fire,Love of the Crucified:To Him my heart He drew,Whilst hanging on the tree,From whence He said to me,I am thy Shepherd true;I am thy Bridegroom new.The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat.“Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!”What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the “brother” of whom Hubert had spoken.“I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,” she said sadly.“Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?”Quam bonus es petentibusSed quid invenientibus{27}!“How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!”And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added:“Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?”“I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother Hubert?”“Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer brought us,” and she told him the story of Charybdis.“Lady,” he said, “I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving nature.”“What reason hast thou to give?”“Only a conviction borne upon me.”“Wilt thou not return with me?”“I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound.”“But thou wilt come soon?”“On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle.”Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time.It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky.The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o’clock, the hour hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost. The chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after Trinity.“Ah,” he said, “this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.“Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon God’s beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest, stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How lovely it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves and the cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide, where on the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk, the stoat, and all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims, and nature’s hand is like a claw, red with blood—and on the other, beneath the cottage roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning with painful disease, many children mourn their sires, many widows and orphans feel that the light is withdrawn from the world, so far as they are concerned.“And yet is not God good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes; but sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.“But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with an eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was made perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to tread the road He trod before them.”And so, with an eloquence unsurpassed in the experience of his hearers, he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled, died for them, and bade them see that Passion pictured in the Holy Mysteries, which were about to be celebrated before them, and to give Him their hearts’ oblation in union with the sacrifice.After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be, in a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent of honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays of a full moon shone brightly through an open casement. At first the conversation was confined to the topic of Martin’s discourse, which we here omit, but afterwards the dame said:“My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy countenance?”Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the secret of his relationship.“Tell me,” said she, “doth thy mother yet live?”“She doth.”“And proud must she be of her son.”He was still silent.“Brother Martin,” said she, “I had a sister once, a wilful capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister.”She continued after a long pause:“I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble English blood, she had one child, a son.”Again a long pause:“And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts. Tell me, is it true?”Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.“It is true, aunt,” he said.She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.“Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of Walderne.”“I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert’s return.”“I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne.”“Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return.”“What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep.”“Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir.”“It is wisely thought, and shall be done,” she replied. “And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?”“I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife’s first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well.”What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet.What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.It was a dismal dell—no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind.The reader must imagine the rest.It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference. She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan.At length the old dame said:“Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler places it nightly on the sideboard.”Let us precede Martin by only one minute.Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and casts the shadow—The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.“Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?”“I have repeated your kind words.”“And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may God grant.”“I have.”“And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne.”Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep:Which men call death.Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb. Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.Blessed are they which die in the Lord,for they rest from their labours.He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned—in trust for him.But would he then release his hold?Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lordde factoof Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—only Martin knew this—and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert’s interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again.“We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood.“Friends,” said Drogo. “We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not? Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons—keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken.”
The system of the early Franciscans bore a very remarkable likeness to that devised by John Wesley for his itinerant preachers, if indeed the former did not suggest the latter. They were not to supersede the parochial system, only to supplement it. They were not to administer the sacraments, only to send people to their ordinary parish priest for them, save in the rare cases of friars in full orders, who might exercise their offices, but so as not to interfere with the ordinary jurisdiction. The consent of the bishop of the diocese was at first required, and ordinarily that of the parish priest; but in the not infrequent cases where a slothful vicar would not allow any intrusion on his sinecure, his objections were disregarded. When the parish priest gave consent, the church was used if conveniently situated; otherwise the nearest barn or glade in the woods was utilised for the sermons. Like certain modern religionists, they were free and easy in their modes, frequently addressing passers by with personal questions, and often resorting to eccentric means of attracting attention. But unlike their modern imitators, they acted on very strict subordination to Church authority, and all their influence was used on behalf of the Church; although they strove as their one great aim to infuse personal religion into the dry bones of the existing system, which they fully accepted, while teaching that “the letter without the spirit killeth.”
In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset, although it grievously degenerated in after days.
Martin’s health was still far from strong. He yet felt the effects of the terrible attack of the black fever or plague the preceding spring; and now he was once more prostrated by a comparatively slight return of the feverish symptoms, the after effects of his illness.
But he had found his nurse now. What a delight it was to his mother to take his head, “that dear head,” upon her knee, and to fondle it once more, as if he were a child again. Now she had her reward for all her loving self denial in sending him away and feigning herself dead.
In the summer time, especially if the weather were warm and genial, the greenwood was not a bad place for an invalid, and Martin was as well attended as if he had been in the infirmary at Michelham, and with far more loving care. But under such care he rapidly gathered strength, and as he did so used it all in his master’s service. The impression he produced on the followers of his forefathers was profound, but he traversed every corner of the forest, and not an outlying hamlet or village church escaped his ministrations, so that shortly his fame was spread through all the country side.
We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne.
The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily returned after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies were spent in making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas. He attended him in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of the estate. He looked after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the general retinue of a medieval castle. The days had passed indeed when war and violence were the natural occupation of a baron, and when the men-at-arms were never left idle long together, but they were almost within memory of living men and might return again. So the defences of the castle were never neglected, and the arts of warfare ceased not to be objects of daily study in the Middle Ages.
The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert’s version of the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo’s manipulation, assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our readers.
Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was so happily discovered. Harengod would content him, and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between Harengod and Walderne.
So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert’s visit to Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter, whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations. He had rather they should look hopefully to his return. Poor Hubert!
Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles. The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to Acre, in a vessel called theFleur de Lys, near which spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed.
He himself, “by the blessing of our Lady,” had escaped all dangers, had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve months.
But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came not.
The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke again.
The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved so well. They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which his lady had founded. There his friends and retainers followed him, with tears, to the grave.
And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by those who do not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no pathway to it.Sic transit.
Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring character—he had been at Saint Jean d’Acre.
Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant silence.
“How long ago was it that he had left Acre?”
“It might be six months.”
“Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts were very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?”
“No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard of it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of Saint John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother, waiting upon their guests.”
Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.
“And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles, called the Fleur de Lys?”
“Lady,” he replied, “the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage homeward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool, which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns the abyss again absorbs them.
“Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure of the Fleur de Lys.”
“And you know no more?”
“Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the straits, and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn in, and that every soul perished.”
A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her chamber.
From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers; she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells, notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest.
Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him, she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well, like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before God and brought a Peter.
About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was indeed called “The mirror pond;” the upper sky, the branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure void.
At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation.
Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived—twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate.
All at once she heard a voice singing:
Love sets my heart on fire,Love of the Crucified:To Him my heart He drew,Whilst hanging on the tree,From whence He said to me,I am thy Shepherd true;I am thy Bridegroom new.
The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.
She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat.
“Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!”
What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the “brother” of whom Hubert had spoken.
“I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,” she said sadly.
“Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?”
Quam bonus es petentibusSed quid invenientibus{27}!
“How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!”
And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added:
“Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?”
“I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother Hubert?”
“Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer brought us,” and she told him the story of Charybdis.
“Lady,” he said, “I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving nature.”
“What reason hast thou to give?”
“Only a conviction borne upon me.”
“Wilt thou not return with me?”
“I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound.”
“But thou wilt come soon?”
“On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle.”
Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time.
It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.
Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky.
The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o’clock, the hour hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost. The chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after Trinity.
“Ah,” he said, “this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.
“Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon God’s beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest, stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How lovely it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves and the cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide, where on the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk, the stoat, and all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims, and nature’s hand is like a claw, red with blood—and on the other, beneath the cottage roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning with painful disease, many children mourn their sires, many widows and orphans feel that the light is withdrawn from the world, so far as they are concerned.
“And yet is not God good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes; but sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.
“But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with an eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was made perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to tread the road He trod before them.”
And so, with an eloquence unsurpassed in the experience of his hearers, he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled, died for them, and bade them see that Passion pictured in the Holy Mysteries, which were about to be celebrated before them, and to give Him their hearts’ oblation in union with the sacrifice.
After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be, in a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent of honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays of a full moon shone brightly through an open casement. At first the conversation was confined to the topic of Martin’s discourse, which we here omit, but afterwards the dame said:
“My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy countenance?”
Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the secret of his relationship.
“Tell me,” said she, “doth thy mother yet live?”
“She doth.”
“And proud must she be of her son.”
He was still silent.
“Brother Martin,” said she, “I had a sister once, a wilful capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister.”
She continued after a long pause:
“I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble English blood, she had one child, a son.”
Again a long pause:
“And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts. Tell me, is it true?”
Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.
“It is true, aunt,” he said.
She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of Walderne.”
“I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert’s return.”
“I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne.”
“Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return.”
“What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep.”
“Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir.”
“It is wisely thought, and shall be done,” she replied. “And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?”
“I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife’s first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well.”
What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet.
What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.
It was a dismal dell—no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.
And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind.
The reader must imagine the rest.
It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference. She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan.
At length the old dame said:
“Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler places it nightly on the sideboard.”
Let us precede Martin by only one minute.
Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and casts the shadow—The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.
Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.
“Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?”
“I have repeated your kind words.”
“And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may God grant.”
“I have.”
“And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne.”
Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep:
Which men call death.
Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb. Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.
Blessed are they which die in the Lord,for they rest from their labours.
He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.
But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned—in trust for him.
But would he then release his hold?
Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lordde factoof Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—only Martin knew this—and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert’s interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again.
“We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood.
“Friends,” said Drogo. “We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not? Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons—keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken.”