Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 4

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 compa.s.sion.

"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 s.h.i.+vering; 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 c.o.c.k 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. .h.i.ther; 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 h.e.l.l-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 h.e.l.l here, to live with robbers and men with b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d keep thee! An old man's blessing ne'er harmed any one."

Hilarius gave him G.o.dden, 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."