A DALE ABBEY HERMIT.
Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age, a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from man, with God he passed his days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
PARNELL.
Sir George's first care upon his arrival at Haddon was to send off a
number of his retainers to capture, if possible, the gang which had
entrapped him; but after searching for nearly a couple of days they
were obliged to return and communicate their failure to their lord.
The villains had all made off and left not a clue behind them.
His next care was to calm the overwrought feelings of Lady Maude and
his daughters, to whom the suspense of the last few hours had been
painful in the extreme; and then after he had refreshed his inner man,
he retired to seek that repose for which he was so well prepared.
Time sped on; the days soon passed into weeks, and the lovely spring
had merged into a still more lovely summer. John Manners' visit had
come to a close, and he was longing for an invitation for another
visit and seeking to find some decent excuse for becoming a
self-invited guest.
At last, much to his relief, he received the long-wished-for
invitation. He and Crowleigh were invited together to one of the
numerous feasts of Haddon's hospitable Hall, and De la Zouch, whose
wounds were now fast healing, was wishful that a reconciliation should
take place between them, and professed himself even anxious to make
some advances towards his late adversary.
Without loss of time the two guests sped on their way at the appointed
time, and were amongst the very first of the visitors. Disappointment,
however, awaited them. Father Philip was dying. The Derby leech
had done his best to restore the injured man, and although he had
succeeded in prolonging the patient's life for a little while, all
his efforts to save the unfortunate confessor failed, and seeing the
father suddenly begin to sink, he had, the night before John Manners
arrived, given up all hope of saving his life, and announced that the
end was nigh at hand.
Under these circumstances mounted messengers were at once despatched
to inform the invited guests that it had been found necessary to
postpone the feast, and asking them to defer their visit until they
should hear again from Haddon. This, in almost every other instance,
had succeeded in staying the visitors; but Manners and Crowleigh had
started at the break of day, and were well on their way before the
messenger had found his way to stop them.
A little manoeuvring on Dorothy's part gained, to Margaret's qualified
delight, an invitation for them to stay from no less a personage than
the dying man himself. Father Philip had taken kindly to Crowleigh
from the first, and was grateful to him for the skill and patience he
had bestowed upon him on his previous visit, and he was ready enough
to accede to any request, whatever it might be, that his Dorothy, his
beloved Dorothy, thought well to ask.
Not a brother of the cloth could be found to take the father's place,
and this loss proved exceedingly awkward to all at Haddon at this
juncture.
The Reformation had come in with so much vigour; the enactments
against the Roman Catholics were so stringent, that not even another
priest could be found to shrive him. The pendulum of fortune had
indeed swung back again with a vengeance. From one extreme the
religious laws had gone to the other; and so it befell that the
father, to his exceeding great regret, found himself dying with never
a minister of his own persuasion near at hand.
Crowleigh again came to his relief. He had a friend, a staunch
Catholic who had been expelled from Oxford University soon after
Elizabeth's accession on account of his strong religious views. He had
turned monk, and, during the recent pitiless times, it had frequently
fallen to Sir Everard's lot to befriend him. He was at this time in
hiding at no great distance from Crowleigh's estate, and the latter
had sufficient confidence in his friend's willingness to come to
promise Sir George Vernon that he would fetch him.
The offer was gladly accepted. Without any delay the two best horses
in the stable were saddled, and within a very short space of time
both horses and rider were well started on their way towards the
south-western boundary of the shire.
Nicholas Bury had for two years lived the life of a hermit. In his
seclusion he had become happy, and though the reverence was denied him
which the early hermits had accustomed themselves to receive, yet he
was at least unmolested, and thanks to Sir Everard, who ever assisted
him in time of need, he was never left to want for the few necessaries
of life that he required.
Sir Everard Crowleigh rode hard all the morning, and stopping on his
errand but once--to partake of a light meal--he arrived at the abode
of his friend as the twilight put forth its gentle mask of gloom.
Deepdale was an attractive spot, but it was not the natural beauty of
the scene which had first attracted the eyes of Nicholas Bury so much
as the facilities it offered for his purpose. Centuries before a
pious Derby baker had retired to the self-same spot, and besides this
hallowed memory there was the still more substantial cell to hand
which the saintly old recluse had left behind him.
This, cut out of the solid rock, and situated at the summit of a deep
declivity, was overgrown by a curtain of ivy, which not only screened
its tenant from the wintry winds, but also hid his retreat from
the gaze of the innocent passer-by. The Abbey, hard by, had
been dismantled before Nicholas knew it, but it was a source of
gratification to him to be so near so sacred a building, and at
eventide he would wander fondly about its walls and murmur his vespers
to himself.
Sir Everard paused before entering upon the solitude of his friend,
and would fain have rested his weary limbs on the mossy banks of
the slope, but remembering how nearly Father Philip was to death he
overruled his feelings, and, brushing through the ivy covering of the
doorway, he entered quietly into the sanctum of the hermit.
Nicholas was evidently deeply engaged in his devotions, for he was
kneeling before the little altar of his cell, and, catching somewhat
of the spirit of reverence, Everard paused upon the threshold, loth
to penetrate any further. The lamp gave but a fitful flickering light,
hut the devotee heeded not; and, by-and-bye, as the knight stood
spellbound, the wick sputtered in the oil, and making a final effort
the flame shot up for a moment with a brilliant glare and then died
slowly out, leaving nothing but a fragment of smouldering wick and a
sickly odour to attest its presence.
Crowleigh roused himself as it died away, and came to the resolution
that it was high time to announce his presence; and failing to
distinguish any signs to intimate that his friend's prayers were
nearing conclusion he advanced towards him.
He had scarcely moved a step when he started back with horror. There
was little enough light entered within this solitary abode, but yet
there was quite enough to enable him to see curled up together upon a
bed of leaves a number of snakes of different kinds. His first impulse
was to rush out and escape, but bethinking himself of the defenceless
position of his friend, he picked up a huge stone and let it fall upon
them.
Still Nicholas did not stir, and heedless of the badger, which
fiercely showed its teeth and looked as if it meditated an attack upon
him, Sir Everard strode softly up to his friend's side and tapped him
lightly on the shoulder.
"Nicholas," he exclaimed.
Nicholas returned no answer, and his friend stood dumbfounded. Surely
that pale face and that emaciated form could not belong to the once
sturdy companion, or--and he noticed that the eyes were closed; or
else--and he trembled at the bare idea--Nicholas Bury must be dead!
He put out his hand and shook it gently, and he was speedily rewarded
by seeing his friend open his eyes.
"Lie still, Leo," he commanded, addressing the badger.
The faithful animal, which had regarded the intruder with marked
disfavour, rolled itself up again in obedience to the command, and
remained in the corner watching the knight with glistening eyes.
"Nicholas," repeated Crowleigh, for he had not yet been noticed.
Nicholas turned slowly round, as if his ears had not deceived him,
but on seeing his friend and benefactor standing by his side, his face
lighted up with pleasure, and he quickly arose.
"My good friend, Everard," he exclaimed, as he warmly shook the
proffered hand, "thou art indeed a stranger here."
"Aye, I have a mission to thee," he replied.
"A mission," the hermit echoed. Art thou, then, the bearer of
ill-tidings to me? Is my safety jeopardised, or what? Tell me,
Everard, let me know it all. I have done no man evil that I wot
of--unless in these evil days it be wrong to visit the sick and the
afflicted; but I am ready for aught, even though it were instant
death."
"Nay, Nicholas," returned his friend, "thou art in a gloomy strain.
I am a messenger of peace; I bear good tidings to thee, not ill-news.
Thou must away with me at once."
"I cannot go; but see! my lamp is out. I must light it again. You
see how indifferent I am," he apologetically exclaimed, "I even fall
asleep over my prayers."
"Ha! I perceive thou art over-weary; take my advice for the once, and
do not rise so soon, nor pray so long."
"Ah, Everard, 'tis not that," replied the holy man; "I have not been
to my poor couch since yester morning. I have been praying through the
night for the speedy restoration of our holy Church."
"And see, whilst thou hast been sleeping I have saved thy life,"
interjected Everard; "but I must tell thee on my journey. I would have
thee accompany me back to Haddon."
"My poor pets!" exclaimed the hermit sorrowfully, as he lifted up the
stone; "they are all killed."
"'Tis a case of death, I fear," pursued Crowleigh, referring to the
father's illness.
"I fear it is," replied the other, looking ruefully at his dead pets.
"Thou hast killed my companions, Everard."
"Ugh! pretty companions, I trow," said the knight, scornfully; "but we
must hasten. I will acquaint thee with the whys and wherefores as
we go. Nay, never mind the lamp, thou can'st say adieu to that. Our
horses are tethered to a tree below, and thou must shrive a friend who
is at death's door--a priest. I have ridden throughout the livelong
day to fetch thee. Art thou ready now?"
"What, so soon? This is sudden indeed."
"Aye, man, so soon. Death tarries for no man, and, beshrew me, it will
not tarry for us either."
"I must take Leo, then."
"Very well, pick him up, but let us be off I pray."
"This is _too_ sudden, Everard, indeed it is. I have many sick to
visit, and I would fain go to the monastery just once again, to
bid----"
"There must be no buts about it, Nicholas," returned his friend
quickly, "the father is dying, and the baron expects you."
"Give me but an hour, then I will go with thee. 'Tis sad to break
away from a spot hallowed by so many sacred memories, and at so short
warning, too. I am loth to go, Everard, even now. There is no other
spot on earth like this to me."
"'Tis a cold and cheerless home, truly," exclaimed the knight,
sympathetically, "and I will find thee a far better one, Nicholas.
See, I will give thee half-an-hour, and then you must bid adieu to
this place or I must return alone and leave thee."
Nicholas submitted to the decision of his friend, and in less than the
stipulated time they had both turned their backs upon the hospitable
shelter which had been a home to the monk when every door seemed shut
against him, and were on their way to Haddon.