THE ARRIVAL AT LEWES
Ralph relented as the month drew on, and was among those who wished
Chris good-bye on the afternoon of the July day on which he was to
present himself at Lewes. The servants were all drawn up at the back of
the terrace against the hall, watching Ralph, even more than his
departing brother, with the fascinated interest that the discreet and
dignified friend of Cromwell always commanded. Ralph was at his best on
such occasions, genial and natural, and showed a pleasing interest in
the girths of the two horses, and the exact strapping of the couple of
bags that Chris was to take with him. His own man, too, Mr. Morris, who
had been with him ever since he had come to London, was to ride with
Chris, at his master’s express wish; stay with him in the guest-house
that night, and return with the two horses and a precise report the next
morning.
“You have the hares for my Lord Prior,” he said impressively, looking at
the game that was hanging head downwards from the servant’s saddle.
“Tell him that they were killed on Tuesday.”
Sir James and his younger son were walking together a few yards away in
deep talk; and Lady Torridon had caused a chair to be set for her at the
top of the terrace steps where she could at once do her duty as a
mother, and be moderately comfortable at the same time. She hardly spoke
at all, but looked gravely with her enigmatic black eyes at the horses’
legs and the luggage, and once held up her hand to silence a small dog
that had begun to yelp with excitement.
“They must be going,” said Ralph, when all was ready; and at the same
moment Chris and his father came up, Sir James’s arm thrown over his
son’s shoulders.
The farewells were very short; it was impossible to indulge in sentiment
in the genial business-atmosphere generated by Ralph, and a minute later
Chris was mounted. Sir James said no more, but stood a little apart
looking at his son. Lady Torridon smiled rather pleasantly and nodded
her head two or three times, and Ralph, with Mr. Carleton, stood on the
gravel below, his hand on Chris’s crupper, smiling up at him.
“Good-bye, Chris,” he said, and added with an unusual piety, “God keep
you!”
As the two horses passed through the gatehouse, Chris turned once again
with swimming eyes, and saw the group a little re-arranged. Sir James
and Ralph were standing together, Ralph’s arm thrust through his
father’s; Mr. Carleton was still on the gravel, and Lady Torridon was
walking very deliberately back to the house.
* * * * *
The distance to Lewes was about fourteen miles, and it was not until
they had travelled some two of them, and had struck off towards Burgess
Hill that Chris turned his head for Mr. Morris to come up.
It was very strange to him to ride through that familiar country, where
he had ridden hundreds of times before, and to know that this was
probably the last time that he would pass along those lanes, at least
under the same circumstances. It had the same effect on him, as a death
in the house would have; the familiar things were the same, but they
wore a new and strange significance. The few men and children he passed
saluted him deferentially as usual, and then turned fifty yards further
on and stared at the young gentleman who, as they knew, was riding off
on such an errand, and with such grave looks.
Mr. Morris came up with an eager respectfulness at Chris’s sign, keeping
a yard or two away lest the swinging luggage on his own horse should
discompose the master, and answered a formal question or two about the
roads and the bags, which Chris put to him as a gambit of conversation.
The servant was clever and well trained, and knew how to modulate his
attitude to the precise degree of deference due to his master and his
master’s relations; he had entered Ralph’s service from Cromwell’s own
eight years before. He liked nothing better than to talk of London and
his experiences there, and selected with considerable skill the topics
that he knew would please in each case. Now he was soon deep on the
subject of Wolsey, pausing respectfully now and again for corroboration,
or to ask a question the answer to which he knew a good deal better than
Chris himself.
“I understand, sir, that the Lord Cardinal had a wonderful deal of
furniture at York House: I saw some of it at Master Cromwell’s; his
grace sent it to him, at least, so I heard. Is that so, sir?”
Chris said he did not know.
“Well, I believe it was so, sir; there was a chair there, set with
agates and pearl, that I think I heard Mr. Ralph say had come from
there. Did you ever see my lord, sir?”
Chris said he had seen him once in a narrow street at Westminster, but
the crowd was so great he could not get near.
“Ah! sir; then you never saw him go in state. I remember once seeing
him, sir, going down to Hampton Court, with his gentlemen bearing the
silver pillars before him, and the two priests with crosses. What might
the pillars mean, sir?”
Again Chris confessed he did not know.
“Ah, sir!” said Morris reflectively, as if he had received a
satisfactory answer. “And there was his saddle, Mr. Christopher, with
silver-gilt stirrups, and red velvet, set on my lord’s mule. And there
was the Red Hat borne in front by another gentleman. At mass, too, he
would be served by none under the rank of an earl; and I heard that he
would have a duke sometimes for his lavabo. I heard Mr. Ralph say that
there was more than a hundred and fifty carts that went with the Lord
Cardinal up to Cawood, and that was after the King’s grace had broken
with him, sir; and he was counted a poor man.”
Chris asked what was in the carts.
“Just his stuff, sir,” said Mr. Morris reverentially.
The servant seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in recounting these
glories, but was most discreet about the political aspects of Wolsey,
although Chris tried hard to get him to speak, and he would neither
praise nor blame the fallen prelate; he was more frank, however, about
Campeggio, who as an Italian, was a less dangerous target.
“He was not a good man, I fear, Mr. Christopher. They told some very
queer tales of him when he was over here. But he could ride, sir, Master
Maxwell’s man told me, near as well as my Lord of Canterbury himself.
You know they say, sir, that the Archbishop can ride horses that none of
his grooms can manage. But I never liked to think that a foreigner was
to be sent over to do our business for us, and more than ever not such
an one as that.”
He proceeded to talk a good deal about Campeggio; his red silk and his
lace, his gout, his servants, his un-English ways; but it began to get a
little tiresome to Chris, and soon after passing through Ditchling, Mr.
Morris, having pointed across the country towards Fatton Hovel, and
having spoken of the ghost of a cow that was seen there with two heads,
one black and one white, fell gradually behind again, and Chris rode
alone.
They were coming up now towards the downs, and the great rounded green
shoulders heaved high against the sky, gashed here and there by white
strips and patches where the chalk glared in the bright afternoon sun.
Ditchling beacon rose to their right, a hundred feet higher than the
surrounding hills, and the high country sloped away from it parallel
with their road, down to Lewes. The shadows were beginning to lie
eastwards and to lengthen in long blue hollows and streaks against the
clear green turf.
Chris wondered when he would see that side of the downs again; his ride
was like a kind of farewell progress, and all that he looked on was
dearer than it had ever been before, but he comforted himself by the
thought of that larger world, so bright with revelation and so
enchanting in its mystery that lay before him. He pleased himself by
picturing this last journey as a ride through an overhung lane,
beautiful indeed, but dusky, towards shining gates beyond which lay
great tracts of country set with palaces alive with wonderful presences,
and watered by the very river of life.
He did not catch sight of Lewes until he was close upon it, and it
suddenly opened out beneath him, with its crowded roofs pricked by a
dozen spires, the Norman castle on its twin mounds towering to his left,
a silver gleam of the Ouse here and there between the plaster and timber
houses as the river wound beneath its bridges, and beyond all the vast
masses of the Priory straight in front of him to the South of the town,
the church in front with its tall central tower, a huddle of convent
roofs behind, all white against the rich meadows that lay beyond the
stream.
Mr. Morris came up as Chris checked his horse here.
“See, Mr. Christopher,” he said, and the other turned to see the town
gallows on the right of the road, not fifty yards away, with a ragged
shape or two hanging there, and a great bird rising heavily and winging
its way into the west. Mr. Morris’s face bore a look of judicial
satisfaction.
“We are making a sweep of them,” he said, and as a terrible figure, all
rags and sores, with blind red eyes and toothless mouth rose croaking
and entreating from the ditch by the road, the servant pointed with
tight lips and solemn eyes to Hangman’s Acre. Chris fumbled in his
purse, threw a couple of groats on to the ground, and rode on down the
hill.
His heart was beating fast as he went down Westgate Lane into the High
Street, and it quickened yet further as the great bells in the Priory
church began to jangle; for it was close on vesper time, and
instinctively he shook his reins to hasten his beast, who was picking
his way delicately through the filth and tumbled stones that lay
everywhere, for the melodious roar seemed to be bidding him haste and be
welcome. Mr. Morris was close beside him, and remarked on this and that
as they went, the spire of St. Ann’s away to the right, with St.
Pancras’s Bridge, a swinging sign over an inn with Queen Katharine’s
face erased, but plainly visible under Ann Boleyn’s, the tall mound
beyond the Priory crowned by a Calvary, and the roof of the famous
dove-cote of the Priory, a great cruciform structure with over two
thousand cells. But Christopher knew it all better than the servant,
and paid little attention, and besides, his excitement was running too
high. They came down at last through Antioch Street, Puddingbag Lane,
and across the dry bed of the Winterbourne, and the gateway was before
them.
The bells had ceased by now, after a final stroke. Mr. Morris sprang off
his horse, and drew on the chain that hung by the smaller of the two
doors. There was a sound of footsteps and a face looked out from the
grating. The servant said a word or two; the face disappeared, and a
moment later there was the turning of a key, and one leaf of the
horse-entrance rolled back. Chris touched his beast with his heel,
passed through on to the paved floor, and sat smiling and flushed,
looking down at the old lay-brother, who beamed up at him pleasantly and
told him he was expected.
Chris dismounted at once, telling the servant to take the horses round
to the stables on the right, and himself went across the open court
towards the west end of the church, that rose above him fifty feet into
the clear evening air, faced with marble about the two doors, and
crowned by the western tower and the high central spire beyond where the
bells hung. On the right lay the long low wall of the Cellarer’s
offices, with the kitchen jutting out at the lower end, and the
high-pitched refectory roof above and beyond it. The church was full of
golden light as he entered, darkening to dusk in the chapels on either
side, pricked with lights here and there that burned before the images,
and giving an impression of immense height owing to its narrowness and
its length. The air was full of rolling sound, sonorous and full, that
echoed in the two high vaults on this side and that of the high altar,
was caught in the double transepts, and lost in the chapels that opened
in a corona of carved work at the further end, for the monks were busy
at the _Opus Dei_, and the psalms rocked from side to side, as if the
nave were indeed a great ship ploughing its way to the kingdom of
heaven.
There were a few seats at the western end, and into one of these
Christopher found his way, signing himself first from the stoup at the
door, and inclining before he went in. Then he leaned his chin on his
hands and looked eagerly.
It was difficult to make out details clearly at the further end, for the
church was poorly lighted, and there was no western window; the glare
from the white roads, too, along which he had come still dazzled him,
but little by little, helped by his own knowledge of the place, he began
to see more clearly.
* * * * *
High above him ran the lines of the clerestory, resting on the rounded
Norman arches, broken by the beam that held the mighty rood, with the
figures of St. Mary and St. John on either side; and beyond, yet higher,
on this side of the high altar, rose the lofty air of the vault ninety
feet above the pavement. To left and right opened the two western
transepts, and from where he knelt he could make out the altar of St.
Martin in the further one, with its apse behind. The image of St.
Pancras himself stood against a pillar with the light from the lamp
beneath flickering against his feet. But Christopher’s eyes soon came
back to the centre, beyond the screen, where a row of blackness on
either side in the stalls, marked where the monks rested back, and where
he would soon be resting with them. There were candles lighted at sparse
intervals along the book-rests, that shone up into the faces bent down
over the wide pages beneath; and beyond all rose the altar with two
steady flames crowning it against the shining halpas behind that cut it
off from the four groups of slender carved columns that divided the five
chapels at the extreme east. Half-a-dozen figures sat about the nave,
and Christopher noticed an old man, his white hair falling to his
shoulders, two seats in front, beginning to nod gently with sleep as the
soft heavy waves of melody poured down, lulling him.
He began now to catch the words, as his ears grew accustomed to the
sound, and he, too, sat back to listen.
“_Fiat pax in virtute tua: et abundantia in turribus tuis;” “Propter
fratres meos et proximos meos_:” came back the answer, “_loquebar pacem
de te_.” And once more: “_Propter domum Domini Dei nostri: quaesivi bona
tibi_.”
Then there was a soft clattering roar as the monks rose to their feet,
and in double volume from the bent heads sounded out the _Gloria Patri_.
It was overwhelming to the young man to hear the melodious tumult of
praise, and to remember that in less than a week he would be standing
there among the novices and adding his voice. It seemed to him as if he
had already come into the heart of life that he had felt pulsating round
him as he swam in the starlight a month before. It was this that was
reality, and the rest illusion. Here was the end for which man was made,
the direct praise of God; here were living souls eager and alert on the
business of their existence, building up with vibration after vibration
the eternal temple of glory in which God dwelt. Once he began to sing,
and then stopped. He would be silent here until his voice had been
authorized to join in that consecrated offering.
He waited until all was over, and the two lines of black figures had
passed out southwards, and the sacristan was going round putting out
the lights; and then he too rose and went out, thrilled and excited,
into the gathering twilight, as the bell for supper began to sound out
from the refectory tower.
He found Mr. Morris waiting for him at the entrance to the guest-house,
and the two went up the stairs at the porter’s directions into the
parlour that looked out over the irregular court towards the church and
convent.
Christopher sat down in the window seat.
Over the roofs opposite the sky was still tender and luminous, with rosy
light from the west, and a little troop of pigeons were wheeling over
the church in their last flight before returning home to their huge
dwelling down by the stream. The porter had gone a few minutes before,
and Christopher presently saw him returning with Dom Anthony Marks, the
guest-master, whom he had got to know very well on former visits. In a
fit of shyness he drew back from the window, and stood up, nervous and
trembling, and a moment later heard steps on the stairs. Mr. Morris had
slipped out, and now stood in the passage, and Chris saw him bowing with
a nicely calculated mixture of humility and independence. Then a black
figure appeared in the doorway, and came briskly through.
“My dear Chris,” he said warmly, holding out his hands, and Chris took
them, still trembling and excited.
They sat down together in the window-seat, and the monk opened the
casement and threw it open, for the atmosphere was a little heavy, and
then flung his arm out over the sill and crossed his feet, as if he had
an hour at his disposal. Chris had noticed before that extraordinary
appearance of ease and leisure in such monks, and it imperceptibly
soothed him. Neither would Dom Anthony speak on technical matters, but
discoursed pleasantly about the party at Overfield Court and the beauty
of the roads between there and Lewes, as if Chris were only come to pay
a passing visit.
“Your horses are happy enough,” he said. “We had a load of fresh beans
sent in to-day. And you, Chris, are you hungry? Supper will be here
immediately. Brother James told the guest-cook as soon as you came.”
He seemed to want no answer, but talked on genially and restfully about
the commissioners who had come from Cluny to see after their possessions
in England, and their queer French ways.
“Dom Philippe would not touch the muscadel at first, and now he cannot
have too much. He clamoured for claret at first, and we had to give him
some. But he knows better now. But he says mass like a holy angel of
God, and is a very devout man in all ways. But they are going soon.”
Dom Anthony fulfilled to perfection the ideal laid down for a
guest-master in the Custumal. He showed, indeed, the “cheerful
hospitality to guests” by which “the good name of the monastery was
enhanced, friendships multiplied, enmities lessened, God honoured, and
charity increased.” He recognised perfectly well the confused terror in
Christopher’s mind and his anxiety to make a good beginning, and
smoothed down the tendency to awkwardness that would otherwise have
shown itself. He had a happy tranquil face, with wide friendly eyes that
almost disappeared when he laughed, and a row of even white teeth.
As he talked on, Christopher furtively examined his habit, though he
knew every detail of it well enough already. He had, of course, left his
cowl, or ample-sleeved singing gown, in the sacristy on leaving the
church, and was in his black frock girded with the leather belt, and
the scapular over it, hanging to the ground before and behind. His hood,
Christopher noticed, was creased and flat as if he were accustomed to
sit back at his ease. He wore strong black leather boots that just
showed beneath his habit, and a bunch of keys, duplicates of those of
the camerarius and cook, hung on his right side. He was tonsured
according to the Benedictine pattern, and his lips and cheeks were
clean-shaven.
He noticed presently that Christopher was eyeing him, and put his hand
in friendly fashion on the young man’s knee.
“Yes,” he said, smiling, “yours is ready too. Dom Franklin looked it out
to-day, and asked me whether it would be the right size. But of the
boots I am not so sure.”
There was a clink and a footstep outside, and the monk glanced out.
“Supper is here,” he said, and stood up to look at the table--the
polished clothless top laid ready with a couple of wooden plates and
knives, a pewter tankard, salt-cellar and bread. There was a plain chair
with arms drawn up to it. The rest of the room, which Christopher had
scarcely noticed before, was furnished plainly and efficiently, and had
just that touch of ornament that was intended to distinguish it from a
cell. The floor was strewn with clean rushes; a couple of iron
candlesticks stood on the mantelpiece, and the white walls had one or
two religious objects hanging on them--a wooden crucifix opposite the
table, a framed card bearing an “Image of Pity” with an indulgenced
prayer illuminated beneath, a little statue of St. Pancras on a bracket
over the fire, and a clear-written copy of rules for guests hung by the
low oak door.
Dom Anthony nodded approvingly at the table, took up a knife and rubbed
it delicately on the napkin, and turned round.
“We will look here,” he said, and went towards the second door by the
fire. Christopher followed him, and found himself in the bedroom,
furnished with the same simplicity as the other; but with an iron
bedstead in the corner, a kneeling stool beside it, with a little French
silver image of St. Mary over it, and a sprig of dried yew tucked in
behind. A thin leather-bound copy of the Little Office of Our Lady lay
on the sloping desk, with another book or two on the upper slab. Dom
Anthony went to the window and threw that open too.
“Your luggage is unpacked, I see,” he said, nodding to the press beside
which lay the two trunks, emptied now by Mr. Morris’s careful hands.
“There are some hares, too,” said Christopher. “Ralph has sent them to
my Lord Prior.”
“The porter has them,” said the monk, “they look strangely like a
bribe.” And he nodded again with a beaming face, and his eyes grew
little and bright at his own humour.
He examined the bed before he left the room again, turned back the
sheets and pressed them down, and the straw rustled drily beneath;
glanced into the sweating earthenware jug, refolded the coarse towel on
its wooden peg, and then smiled again at the young man.
“Supper,” he said briefly.
Christopher stayed a moment with a word of excuse to wash off the dust
of his ride from his hands and face, and when he came back into the
sitting-room found the candles lighted, the wooden shutters folded over
the windows, and a basin of soup with a roast pigeon steaming on the
table. The monk was standing, waiting for him by the door.
“I must be gone, Chris,” he said, “but I shall be back before compline.
My Lord Prior will see you to-morrow. There is nothing more? Remember
you are at home now.”
And on Christopher’s assurances that he had all he could need, he was
gone, leisurely and cheerfully, and his footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Mr. Morris came up before Chris had finished supper, and as he silently
slipped away his plate and set another for the cheese, Chris remembered
with a nervous exultation that this would be probably the last time that
he would have a servant to wait on him. He was beginning to feel
strangely at home already; the bean soup was strong and savoury, the
beer cool; and he was pleasantly exercised by his ride. Mr. Morris, too,
in answer to his enquiries, said that he had been well looked after in
the servants’ quarters of the guest-house, and had had an entertaining
supper with an agreeable Frenchman who, it seemed, had come with the
Cluniac commissioners. Respect for his master and a sense of the
ludicrous struggled in Mr. Morris’s voice as he described the
foreigner’s pronunciation and his eloquent gestures.
“He’s not like a man, sir,” he said, and shook with reminiscent
laughter.
* * * * *
It was half an hour before Dom Anthony returned, and after hospitable
enquiries, sat down by Chris again in the wide window-seat and began to
talk.
He told him that guests were not expected to attend the night-offices,
and that indeed he strongly recommended Chris doing nothing of the kind
at any rate that night; that masses were said at all hours from five
o’clock onwards; that prime was said at seven, and was followed by the
_Missa familiaris_ for the servants and work-people of the house.
Breakfast would be ready in the guest-house at eight; the chapter-mass
would be said at the half-hour and after the daily chapter which
followed it had taken place, the Prior wished to see Christopher. The
high mass was sung at ten, and dinner would be served at eleven. He
directed his attention, too, to the card that hung by the door on which
these hours were notified.
Christopher already knew that for the first three or four days he would
have to remain in the guest-house before any formal step was taken with
regard to him, but he said a word to Father Anthony about this.
“Yes,” said the monk, “my Lord Prior will tell you about that. But you
will be here as a guest until Sunday, and on that day you will come to
the morning chapter to beg for admission. You will do that for three
days, and then, please God, you will be clothed as a novice.”
And once more he looked at him with deep smiling eyes.
Chris asked him a few more questions, and Dom Anthony told him what he
wished to know, though protesting with monastic etiquette that it was
not his province.
“Dom James Berkely is the novice-master,” he said, “you will find him
very holy and careful. The first matter you will have to learn is how to
wear the habit, carry your hands, and to walk with gravity. Then you
will learn how to bow, with the hands crossed on the knees, so--” and he
illustrated it by a gesture--“if it is a profound inclination; and when
and where the inclinations are to be made. Then you will learn of the
custody of the eyes. It is these little things that help the soul at
first, as you will find, like--like--the bindings of a peach-tree, that
it may learn how to grow and bear its fruit. And the Rule will be given
you, and what a monk must have by rote, and how to sing. You will not be
idle, Chris.”
It was no surprise to Christopher to hear how much of the lessons at
first were concerned with external behaviour. In his visits to Lewes
before, as well as from the books that Mr. Carleton had lent him, he had
learnt that the perfection of the Religious Life depended to a
considerable extent upon minutiæ that were both aids to, and the result
of, a tranquil and recollected mind, the acquirement of which was part
of the object of the monk’s ambition. The ideal, he knew, was the
perfect direction of every part of his being, of hands and eyes, as well
as of the great powers of the soul; what God had joined together man
must not put asunder, and the man who had every physical movement under
control, and never erred through forgetfulness or impulse in these
little matters, presumably also was master of his will, and retained
internal as well as external equanimity.
The great bell began to toll presently for compline, and the
guest-master rose in the midst of his explanations.
“My Lord Prior bade me thank you for the hares,” he said. “Perhaps your
servant will take the message back to Mr. Ralph to-morrow. Come.”
They went down the stairs together and out into the summer twilight, the
great strokes sounding overhead in the gloom as they walked. Over the
high wall to the left shone a light or two from Lewes town, and beyond
rose up the shadowy masses of the downs over which Christopher had
ridden that afternoon. Over those hills, too, he knew, lay his old home.
As they walked together in silence up the paved walk to the west end of
the church, a vivid picture rose before the young man’s eyes of the
little parlour where he had sat last night--of his silent mother in her
black satin; his father in the tall chair, Ralph in an unwontedly easy
and genial mood lounging on the other side and telling stories of town,
of the chaplain with his homely, pleasant face, slipping silently out at
the door. That was the last time that all that was his,--that he had a
right and a place there. If he ever saw it again it would be as a guest
who had become the son of another home, with new rights and relations,
and at the thought a pang of uncontrollable shrinking pricked at his
heart.
But at the door of the church the monk drew his arm within his own for a
moment and held it, and Chris saw the shadowed eyes under his brows rest
on him tenderly.
“God bless you, Chris!” he said.