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 the _Fleur 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 petentibus
Sed 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 lord _de
facto_ of 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.”