ABBOT HILARY
ABBOT HILARY came riding through Thorn Wood when the morning was yet
young. Matters ecclesiastic having taken him from Dieuporte three days
previously, he was now returning to it. Going leisurely enough, conning
his breviary as he rode, he found time to sniff the good morning air,
mark the chequered lights and shadows on the moss and on the tree
trunks.
A portly man this Abbot, shrewd-eyed and kindly. Big-voiced, you heard
his tones quaking an’ they thundered forth reproof: solemn in
absolution, you heard them like a deep-toned bell guiding you to
harbourage from storm. With a heart as big as his voice, he loved
mankind hugely; found excuse for the sinner even while he denounced the
sin. His brain, alert within his massive head, was quick to detect lying
and fraud. This he hated very deeply, as generous men hate such
dealings. He loved the open air and God’s sunshine, his mind as healthy
as his robust body.
Riding now leisurely enough, muttering Latin psalm the while he rode,
his eye roving now and again from the open page of his breviary to the
dappled sunlight around him, he checked his horse on a sudden, bringing
the Latin phrase on his tongue to a like halt.
At the foot of a tree he saw a white-faced boy stretched upon the
ground. His attitude showed exhaustion; the whiteness of his face
faintness possibly akin to death.
Abbot Hilary was off his horse in a trice, despite the somewhat
unwieldiness of his size. Hitching the bridle to a crooked branch of a
tree he made over to the boy, came down on his knees beside him.
Slipping his fingers beneath the doublet he satisfied himself that life
was not extinct, and thereupon fell to chafing the child’s hands. A
crackling in the bushes behind him stayed this business for a moment,
brought his head round to see who was approaching.
From out the trees came a tall man garbed in motley, bearing a broad
leaf carefully in his hands. On seeing the figure by the boy, Peregrine
came quickly forward. Heeding the bearing of the leaf less well the
water it contained trickled from it to the ground.
“Let the child be!” cried Peregrine very sternly.
The Abbot got to his feet, faced him, a big man astounded.
“Truly,” he said on a tone conciliatory, “I meant the boy no ill. Seeing
him lying there fainting and alone, I but sought to restore him to
consciousness.”
“I crave your pardon,” said Peregrine quickly, very apologetic, “I
thought ’twas another knelt beside him: one with whose company we may
very well dispense.” He looked now ruefully at his leaf. “And like a
fool I’ve spilled the water,” he remarked.
“You fetched it from the stream yonder,” said the Abbot, knowing Thorn
Wood well, every inch on it. “Methinks ’twere simpler matter to carry
the child to the stream than bring the stream to the child. In the first
case we can be more lavish with our restorative.”
Peregrine laughed. “You speak very truly,” quoth he.
The Abbot picked up the fainting boy from the ground, lifting him as
though he lifted a mere featherweight, and straightway made off in
strides among the trees, Peregrine following in his wake.
Down by the water,—a narrow silver stream flowing among ferns and
mosses,—they laved the boy’s temples and wrists, got drops between his
lips. Anon he came to himself, sat up somewhat feebly.
“I will come on the instant,” he cried faintly, his mind back at the
place he had left.
“Tut, tut,” spoke Peregrine soothingly, “never trouble yourself, child.
There’s no more coming and going for you at that scoundrel’s bidding.”
“Ah, I forgot,” cried the boy fetching a deep breath of relief. “Who
else is here?” he asked on a sudden.
“Rightly speaking,” said Peregrine smiling at the Abbot, “I know not
myself. But assuredly ’tis one who has befriended you very well.”
The Abbot laughed, big-voiced and hearty. “I am one Hilary at your
service, Abbot of Dieuporte,” said he. “Methinks ’twere well you both
accompanied me thither, that this child may there gain rest from evident
over-fatigue.”
This proposal fell well enough on Peregrine’s ears as far as it
concerned the boy. For his own part he had yet further to travel, though
he was willing enough to accompany them to the place, wherever it might
chance to be. Keeping his own plans silent for the moment, however, he
acceded readily enough to the Abbot’s suggestion. Picking up the boy
again, the Abbot led the way back to his horse.
“Do you mount,” said he to Peregrine, “and take the lad before you.
Methinks you, too, have done walking enough for the present.”
Here Peregrine demurred somewhat, being loth to take such summary
possession of the other’s horse; but the Abbot pressed his point.
Presently mounted they moved on at walking pace among the trees. Lulled
by the movement the boy fell asleep, lying snug in Peregrine’s arms.
“An’ it be not impertinence,” said the Abbot, “might I ask whither you
two were faring when I chanced on you?”
“’Tis no impertinence,” laughed Peregrine, “yet it is a question to
which I can find no answer, since truly I knew not myself.”
“Hmm!” mused the Abbot, drawing down his eyebrows.
Peregrine, seeing the boy sleeping, now began to talk more openly.
“This child,” said he, “has been in the possession of a very evil
scoundrel. It is true that I have been heartily gulled by him myself.
Now I know him in his true colours, which are certainly very black and
filthy. Two nights agone we made our escape from him; since, we have
wandered the woods, eating blackberries to stay our hunger. I can fend
well enough for myself. For the boy it is another matter. Therefore I
see very clearly that Providence sent you in our path.”
“Truly,” said the Abbot, “I see His guidance in all ways.”
“I do not,” returned Peregrine very frankly. “But then it is not
probable that you have followed paths like to those I have traversed.”
The Abbot smiled, humorous, though grave. “I meant I saw His guidance in
the paths He bids us follow. An’ stiff necked we follow those of our own
choosing, methinks ’tis the Devil leads the way.”
Peregrine rubbed his chin. “There I am with you very freely. But how
about this child? He found himself in paths where truly I can see none
of God’s guidance, and would hesitate to say I saw the Devil’s leading,
since assuredly the path was no choice of the boy’s.”
Abbot Hilary mused, looking down among the trees. “God has His Own
methods,” he said presently. “At times He leads by strange paths, which,
were they of our own choosing, would soil us sadly; but, since for some
hidden purpose of His Own He takes us by them, He leads us through the
mire undefiled.”
Peregrine nodded quick assent. “Here you have given clear tongue to the
matter. The child that lies in my arms has been present with evil, yet
he is not evil. Unwittingly he has taken part in the worst sacrilege,
yet he is no sacrilegist. Thus much I have learned from him. How he came
to such straights he knows not. He has no memory for aught but the place
from which I brought him. An’ you can gain full speech from him as he
gave it to me, and cleanse his mind from memory of past foulness, ’twill
be well for his soul.”
For a few moments the Abbot made no answer. Then he said quietly, “What
do you propose for the boy?”
“That he remain with you,” returned Peregrine on the instant. “In the
first place, I am no fit company for him; in the second place, he is
blind and needs safe harbourage; in the third place, he should learn
forgetfulness of the past, which you can teach him.”
“And how for yourself?” replied the Abbot smiling.
Peregrine’s face fell to rigid lines.
“For myself, I have a quest before me; perchance a goal to reach. Twice
I have been deluded, put off the track. It may be death will overtake me
e’er the quest be fulfilled. That must be as will be. I only know I must
pursue it.”
The Abbot was silent a while, his eyes bent upon the ground. Methinks,
by the movement of his lips, he uttered some inward prayer. Anon he
spoke kindly.
“You spoke of a goal perchance to be reached. How know you that same
goal lies not at Dieuporte? For my part I have a very fair inkling that
it is so.”
Peregrine shook his head. “You may be right, but I do not think it is.
Yet, an’ you will take the boy, you will be doing a goodly deed.”
“That I will do readily enough,” replied the Abbot gravely.
Here a silence fell. And so they pursued their way among the trees.
Great beech trees they were; the trunks grey and purple, flecked with
green and silver; the leaves russet and brown, toned by the touch of
autumn. Long shaded glades stretched on either hand. Now and again a
rabbit scuttled down one of them. Small stirrings among the undergrowth
bespoke the presence of dormice, squirrels, and other woodland
creatures. The silence was occasionally broken by the harsh note of a
pheasant.
Anon ascending somewhat, and the trees thinning, they had glimpse
between them of a valley beyond lying in autumn sunlight. Here there
were more woods, blue in the hazy distance. Coming from among the trees,
Peregrine had sight of grey towers in the valley; judged, and rightly,
it was Dieuporte lying in its peaceful shelter. Now they began to
descend. The way led adown a lane bordered on either hand by blackberry
bushes laden with dark luscious fruit. At the bottom a stream crossed
it, stepping stones affording traverse for foot passengers. Now the road
widened, lying between sedgy meadows, where cows stood in the shadow of
the willows. After a mile or so it turned leftwards, and here Dieuporte
lay straight before them.
The sight of its grey towers stirred Peregrine strangely. For a moment
he found himself ready to believe the Abbot’s words, to see his goal
within the quiet place. Now I know not precisely why he put the thought
aside; but, methinks that being twice deluded by the words of men, he
had no mind to find himself deluded a third time; thought rather to
trust to his own self in the matter. Yet, for all that, the sight of the
place moved him strangely, as I have said. He felt like a man travelling
in very barbarous lands come within sight of a home. And further, felt
that within that home dwelt one long desired, long needed, yet never
attained. Some mighty power seemed to draw him to it even while his
spirit rebelled.
Telling himself imagination and illusion were present with him, he set
himself to combat it. Had not bitterness from past disappointment been
present with him, perchance he might have read some omen in the still
hush of the autumn air, have found in it a tenseness as of expectant
waiting. The red-dyed leaves hung motionless on the trees above him as
he rode, rusty, stained as though with blood. The combat within his soul
was sharp and fierce. His own will gained the mastery. He strangled the
thought, flung it aside as rank sentiment. A little breeze passed around
him, stirring the leaves on the trees. It came like a breath of regret.
Perchance Abbot Hilary recognized it unwittingly, for he sighed.
The boy moved in Peregrine’s arms, yawned, and presently awakened.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“At a place where you will be in safety and well tended,” returned
Peregrine.
“You will be with me?” asked the child very anxious. And the Abbot
waited for the answer.
“Nay,” responded Peregrine. “I have further to travel. But you need have
no fear. An’ I were not assured of your welfare I would not leave you.
You will bide here.”
There was finality in the words which the child did not gainsay. Too
long had command been known to him for him to be unwitting of its tone.
Peregrine felt him tremble in his arms, but no word came from his lips.
The Abbot knocked upon the Mercy Door. It opened, showing a lay brother
standing within.
“Take the horse,” said the Abbot to him after a word of greeting.
The brother departed with it, the Abbot turned to Peregrine.
“You are determined to continue your journey?”
“I am determined,” replied Peregrine briefly.
“Ah, well,” returned the Abbot cheerfully, “God’s times are not always
as ours. You will at least wait till I send food to you here. You have
fasted long enough, methinks. Blackberries make but poor sustenance. You
may rest assured of the boy’s welfare. You did good service when you
rescued him. Farewell, my son, and God speed you on your quest.” He
paused a moment, looked at him very searchingly. “An’ I were to
prophesy,” he said smiling, “I should tell of your coming to your goal
e’er long. Fare you well.” He passed across the courtyard, his hand on
the child’s shoulder.
Anon, with a well-filled wallet, Peregrine turned his back on Dieuporte,
made his way adown the valley.
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