II

I remember that we had that day finished cutting the corn in the Long

Field. It was evening, and a large moon had just come up. I had been to

see John the Smith about four horse-shoes, which he had promised me,

and I was returning by the bridge, having them hitched in my belt. As I

came by the great oak, which grows by the bridge, I became aware of a

man lurking there in the shadow, and looking narrowly I knew him for a

stranger. I was at first minded to give the hue and cry, and to bring

the whole village about his ears, but yet there was something familiar

to me in the man’s figure, so putting my hand to my knife, I came

a little out of my way to pass nearer to him. Blessed God, how cold

my heart turned when of a sudden I recognised him. It was Thomas the

Freeman, home from the Holy Land. I thought of his dead wife and babes

up at Hart Hill, and I was fain to pass him as if I knew him not, but

my knees failed under me, and I stood shaking like a leaf as he came

towards me.

‘What, Nicholas man,’ he said, ‘dost not know me, Thomas the Freeman?’

‘Holy Virgin,’ I said, and took his outstretched hands.

‘How go things with Katherine and the children? How are they?’ he asked.

I was silent, being troubled as to how I should answer him, for my

heart bled at the thought of the news he must have. I turned my face to

the ground.

‘What; are they not well? What’s to do? For the love of God, answer me.’

At that I turned to him full heavily and said sadly, ‘If to be at peace

is to be well, they are well, for they rest with the Blessed Saints in

Christ.’

He swayed to and fro like a drunken man.

‘They are dead?’ he asked, in a hoarse gasping voice.

I nodded, and he gave a low cry and sank to the earth as one dead.

I halloaed loudly, and John the Smith and his big son came running

from their house with bills in their hands. But I told them what had

befallen, and John’s son fetching water from the brook, we bathed

Thomas’s face therewith; so after a time he came to himself, though

moaning a little as though he were sore hurt. We half led and half

carried him to the Smith’s house, where they sat him on a great chair

by the fire. It was a long time before he spoke, and we stood apart

from him, the womenfolk and the children gazing curiously and pityingly

at him from the corner. Then he said, ‘How did they die?’ and we told

him shortly that the men of William of Beeston had slain them.

‘Kat and all my little ones; they did not leave a single one,’ he said,

and his head dropped slowly upon his breast and a single tear welled

from each of his eyes.

After that he was quiet again, and we knew not what to say to comfort

him, so after a little time I went my way home, and he stayed with John

the Smith that night.

The next morning I went to see how he fared. He was still sitting on

the great chair by the fireside where I had left him overnight, and

indeed they told me he had never moved or spoken a single word since.

He sat with his head on his bosom and his eyes half closed, fidgeting

with his fingers like a little boy who has been shamed for tardiness

at school. John greeted him as I entered, and asked him to break his

fast on bacon and beer, but he denied him and asked for a cup of water,

which they brought him. When he saw me he rose unsteadily.

‘I will go to my house,’ he said, and went towards the door.

‘Go not to-day,’ cried the Smith’s wife. ‘Sit and rest thee a while.’

‘Nay, good wife, but I will go,’ he said.

‘Ay, but the man is as weak as a sick dog,’ she cried. ‘Prithee, good

husband, if he will go, go thou with him.’

The Smith took his staff, and we both of us went together after Thomas.

It is a stiff uphill road to Hart Hill, and Thomas was forespent so

that we had to help him over the rough and steep places, going always

side by side in perfect silence. So we came to the little forest path,

and it was now half grown over and obstructed by the branches of the

trees, and so on to the stone wall that ran round the steading, and

there we stopped, for thence could all be seen of what was Thomas’s

house. In the midst of a wide open space, overgrown with rough hill

grass and ragwort and young gorse and blackberry, were a few charred

rafters and some baked and crumbling plaster. The September morning

was mellowing into perfect brightness, the dew had fallen heavily the

night before and glistened mistily on every blade and leaf. A great

stillness hung over the place; only a single crow flapped its black

wings in the blue sky, cawing its way to the woods. In three years the

busy homestead had become a wilderness and the spear-grass waved where

Thomas had dandled his babies. Thomas sighed heavily as he gazed, then

crossing himself he turned away.

‘This is a hard home-coming for a man like me,’ he said, ‘God knows I

had not looked for this at His hands.’

‘We are all in His hands, Thomas,’ I said, ‘and your wife and children

no less than we.’

So we came back in silence to town, and as we came to the Market we had

to catch Thomas between us or he would have fallen with his weakness.

When he had revived somewhat he said, ‘Now I must go to the Abbey at

Roodborough, for so I swore to myself when we were up yonder at Hart

Hill.’

‘Roodborough,’ I cried. ‘Why, Thomas, it is seven miles, and thou

couldst hardly walk the length of the Market Place.’ But he answered,

‘I must go,’ and actually tried to set forward. Then seeing he would

not be stayed, and wondering why he should wish to go thither, I

bethought myself of a certain business of my Lord’s, which I had with

the Cellarer of the Abbey, and I offered right willingly to bring him

there. I took him and led him to my house, where he ate a little fresh

fish and bread, and then we took cart and came two hours after noon to

Roodborough.

There I had much talk with Simon the Cellarer. Meanwhile, as I heard,

Thomas accosted certain of the monks as they stood in the Guest House

administering to the wants of the poor, and prayed them with vehemence

and insistence to lead him to the Abbot. So earnest was his countenance

and so strange and convincing his manner, that they knew not how to

deny him, especially as Abbot Gregory had notable bowels of compassion,

and never denied himself to the poor and afflicted, and they weened he

might be wroth if they sent the man away. So they brought him to the

Abbot, and he told the Abbot all those things which had happened to

him since his going forth overseas, and humbly asked to be admitted

to their Order. Then the Abbot sent for me, and partly from the

confirmation of my lips, and partly from common rumour, knowing Thomas

to have spoken truly, he commanded that he should be taken into the

Abbey. So I returned home by myself, and a week or two later Thomas was

admitted to the Order as he had asked.

But he was very feeble and ill from the time that he came within the

Abbey walls. They put him in a bed in their Infirmary, attending him

night and day. All through his illness he was very devout in the

exercises of religion, as far as the weakness of his body and the

strict commands of the Abbot would allow, continually recommending

himself to his Maker through the merits of Christ Jesus, Our Lord, and

ceaselessly imploring the intercession of Our Lady and All Saints for

the remission of his sins. The good Abbot, being filled with pity for

the man on account of the grievous trials, with which it had seemed

meet to the Lord to try him, had him oftentimes carried from his cell

in the Infirmary of the Choir to assist at the Holy Sacrament of the

Mass. On the warm days of the late autumn, they would open the little

window of his cell and place his bed so that he could gaze towards Hart

Hill and Garstang, which he loved above all things. For there in the

mellow distance he could watch the white mists swirl round the familiar

peaks and woods and fill the remembered valleys as though with fine

wool. He watched the wind bend the trees upon the slopes and drive the

clouds like a flight of wild geese across the grey sky. Nearer at hand

in the Abbey orchard the last red leaves came fluttering down, and he

knew that the winter was hard by. Then his stricken face grew bright

with some faint foreshining of the joy to come, and his lips moved in

prayer.

‘What prayer dost thou pray?’ the Brother who had charge of the

Infirmary asked him one day.

‘Good brother, I am thanking God,’ he replied.

He grew feebler day by day, his life quietly flowing hence, like a

still river that flows through secret valleys to the sea, until as days

grew sharp and chill, at the beginning of Advent, the Brethren doubted

whether God would not call him to Himself before Christmas Day came.

But hearing two of the Brethren whispering somewhat to this effect,

when they thought that he slept, he called to them, and said, ‘Dear

Brethren, have no fear for me; I shall live till Christmas Day.’

When the bell rang for Midnight Mass on Christmas Day, and he still

lay on his bed a living man, the Brethren knew that God must have made

him a promise. But even while Mass was singing in the Church, he grew

on a sudden weaker; he twice failed to catch his breath, and he became

very cold, so that they could not warm him by rubbing his limbs. So

they sent to warn the Abbot, as he had straitly charged them, and he

hastening brought the Blood and Body of Christ, and having shriven him

without delay, administered it to him, who received it with trembling

humility, but with tears of joy in his eyes.

Then he asked that he might die in the manner which is customary with

the Order, if he were so far thought worthy. So having spread a cross

of ashes on the floor, they laid him thereon. Then, whispering to the

Abbot, who knelt beside him, he asked that the window might be opened,

that he might see the sun rise upon Christmas Day.

It was still very dark and very quiet; only the wind rustled among the

grass and bare branches, and ever and anon the passing bell tolled from

the great tower. The kneeling Brethren prayed, and the dying man fixed

his eyes on that spot in the darkness where, in morning light, the

valley between Hart Hill and Garstang was wont plainly to be seen. The

bitter cold air entered the cell.

They watched an hour and then another. Blue vivid bands streaked the

east, a luminous haze spread from the hilltops down into the valleys;

the cloak of thick darkness slowly lifted and a grey light filled

the earth. Over Hart Hill and Garstang grew and blossomed an intense

radiance, a burning white rose; slant beams of splendour fell athwart

the smoking hillsides; the mists rose in purple and scarlet and gold

before the rising sun. From the red-roofed town below came the joyful

ringing of many bells. It was Christmas morning.

Thomas the Freeman stretched out his arms towards the East; a great

splendour, as of the smoke of incense, and a wondrous music as of a

vast symphony filled the earth and sky.

‘Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus,’ he said, and fell back upon his

cross.