of man, who does not understand divine mysteries, it certainly seems to
be a fine thing to be up and doing, to protect from wrong those who are
too weak to protect themselves; but I think more is done in this world
by the example of Christian meekness and heavenly wisdom, than by all
the blows struck by earthly arms even in a just quarrel. What said our
Lord Himself? 'If he smite thee on one cheek, offer to him the other
also'; and again: 'Put up thy sword into his place, for all they that
take the sword shall perish with the sword.' To fight with carnal
weapons has always seemed to me to show an utter want of faith. Look at
the Christian religion: it grew not by the power of earthly grandeur,
but by the blood of the blessed martyrs. Through three centuries almost
they died one after the other, until at last men came to see that
killing would not stop the faith, but that, like a fabled monster, from
each death a thousand more believers sprung up. It was the beauty of
holiness that captivated the world at last, not the victory of
Constantine: that was but the effect of the growth of Christianity, not
the cause of its universal acceptance. But there was one part of thy
remark, AEdric, that was wholly wrong: it is not a glorious thing to die
or to live fighting for one's own; for what is thine own? Is anything
thou hast thine own?"
"My life is, my clothes are, lots of things are."
"What dost thou consider thine own to mean?"
"Why, what _is_ my own, what I can give away, keep to myself if I like;
that nobody else can have or take away from me; that I can destroy, do
what I like with, of course."
"Well, that is what most people understand by their own. But think if
that is the correct description of what is thine own. Is thy life thine
own? Canst thou keep it to thyself? Can nobody else take it away from
thee? Thou canst certainly destroy it, or give it away, and therein
lies the responsibility of ownership, which I will talk about later on,
if we have time. But is it not the same with all that thou hast got?
Cannot everything be taken from thee that thou hast? Dost thou not see
that thou art entirely at the mercy of some over-ruling Power? If,
then, thou wouldst fight for what thou callest thine own when anybody
comes or wishes to take it away from thee, to save one thing thou wilt
most likely lose another. Even if thou succeedest thou art certain to
be the worse off; for no one would attempt to take away the goods of
another unless he were pretty nearly equal to the other in strength, or
some other quality; while he would not attack thee unless he thought he
were superior to thee, or had a good chance of succeeding. Is it not
better to have no 'thine own'? He who taught us the way of life, who,
having all things, who being God, yet thought it not unworthy of Him to
be the poorest man upon earth; who, having all things offered to Him
(which He could have had indeed without such offer) by the Tempter, yet
chose to wander upon earth, having nowhere to lay His head--He had no
'His own.' No, He preached, and practised what He preached--the
universal love of God to man, and of man to his fellow. 'Give us this
day our daily bread,' is all we ought to ask for ourselves in the way of
earthly wants; all else has to do with our spirits, our souls.
"The instinct that causes us to wish for our own, to fight for our own,
or to die for our own, is not the instinct of a Christian. 'Sell all
thou hast and give to the poor,' are our Lord's words: for all we want
in this world are food and raiment, which having, let us be therewith
content. How did the first disciples of our Lord live after He was
taken from them? 'Neither said any of them that ought of the things
which he possessed was _his own_, but they had all things in common.'
The more all of us realise that this is not our life, that our home is
not here, the happier we shall be. A man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of things which he possesseth, but in the possession of the
Holy Spirit of God, which no human power can take from him; in fact, the
more they try to take it away, the more the Spirit abideth, for as the
soul resisteth temptation, so it becometh stronger, holier, purer. The
aim of our lives should be to live like Christ; and I have often told
thee how He lived. But we cannot attain to perfection by our own
efforts, it must be the faith in Jesus, which will only do this; and
this comes with His Holy Spirit. But by prayer and fasting and
unceasing watchfulness we may prepare our bodies, and make them more fit
to be the tabernacles of the Holy Ghost. But remember, my son, that the
great danger to all men is to think of themselves. In deep religious
meditation there is much danger of thinking only of _yourself_. The
rule of life should be to work and to obey: _laborare est
orare_--abolish _self_, forget _self_, annihilate _self_. So know
thyself that thou mayest know thy faults; think not so to know thyself
as to think thou hast any virtues. We have none but by the Spirit of
God.
"But I fear I have not done my duty in telling thee how to live. Thou
hast a mission before thee, my son, and God will help thee. Thou dost
not yet know Him; but He will draw thee to Himself. If, as thou growest
older, the pleasures of the world, the gibes of others, or the
temptations of the flesh, should allure thee into sin, remember that a
little endurance here will procure everlasting happiness hereafter. And,
above all things, work; work is the great and homely friend that drives
away temptation. Flee youthful lusts which war against the soul; yea,
run away from them. Get up, run about; above all, work and pray. And
now, my son, may the blessing of God go with thee. Thou hast been
brought here in His wonderful wisdom to be as a brand plucked from the
burning, and, perhaps, to be a great instrument to win souls to God.
The aim of thy life must be to cast self on one side, and imitate the
life of Christ. This will be a hard task. Thou wishest to be a hero.
The greatest hero is he who unconsciously does simple or great deeds for
the sake of others, but which may cause him unutterable suffering. But,
remember, it is the unconsciousness of the actions that makes the
heroism; I mean the unconsciousness that thou art doing anything great.
And it is not the actions that the world calls great that are always
great. I believe the greatest heroes are known only to God.
"And now, my son, let us pray that His Holy Spirit may fill thy heart,
for thou hast a worthy object in life before thee, and wilt need much
strength to fulfil it."
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*"'TWIXT CUP AND LIP, THERE'S MANY A SLIP."*
It was nearly dusk before brother Corman returned; Father Dicoll and
AEdric were seated outside on the little quay looking for him.
"There he is," cried AEdric, as he caught sight of the little raft
coming sluggishly up with the tide. "I wonder what message he has
brought?"
"Whatever it is, it is now too late for thee to go away to-night."
"How glad I am! And perhaps it will rain to-morrow. I do wish it would,
and then I couldn't leave thee. Dost thou think it looks like rain,
Father Dicoll?"
Father Dicoll looked up.
"No, I can't say I think it does. The sun seems to me to be setting
beautifully."
And now brother Corman was coming nearer; they could hear the splash of
his oars, and he seemed to be singing.
AEdric was all impatience to know what was to happen to him, but walking
was yet far too painful, so he had to master his eagerness until Corman
got nearer. But at last he could stand it no longer, and called out:
"Am I to go to-morrow?"
Brother Corman ceased his chaunt and his rowing, and turned round; but
all he said was:
"Wait till I get on shore."
"How provoking he is! Why can't he tell me at once?"
But Father Dicoll said nothing. If he had said anything it would have
been to reprove AEdric for his impatience; but he was a wise man, who
trusted to silence for doing the work of words--a method which, however,
requires great knowledge in its application.
It was not long before Corman had run his raft alongside the quay, and
with provoking deliberation, as it seemed to AEdric, moored her to a
post; he then picked up the oars, and putting them over his shoulder,
came up to Father Dicoll and AEdric.
"Well, brother Corman, and how hast thou fared?" said Father Dicoll.
"Well enough. Wilfrid will have a litter brought down to the shore
yonder by noon to-morrow, and AEdric is to go there to meet him. He
promises to care for him well; and he also told me news which, if it be
true, may make a great deal of difference to the boy's fortunes, and
indeed for all the country round."
"What was that?"
"Why, that Centwine of Wessex is dead, and bid all men own the outlaw
Caedwalla to be king in his stead, before he died."
"How knew Wilfrid of that?"
"How knows Wilfrid of everything? He is not like us. He is troubled
about much serving; the doings of the world concern him, and the great
ones of the earth are those in whom he delights."
Father Dicoll said nothing, but turned towards their hut. AEdric
followed, leaning on Corman's arm, and using a stick for a crutch.
When they got inside Father Dicoll prepared their frugal meal, as Corman
was tired with his long walk and row. Then they had evening service,
and after that AEdric was attended to; the bandages on his leg were
changed, and he was made comfortable for the night. He felt very sad as
he lay down, and felt much inclined to rebel at being sent away without
having a voice in the matter; but the lessons of the last few days were
beginning to bear fruit, and he recognised the duty of submitting his
own inclinations to the wisdom of those whom he had found by experience
to be kind and good.
The next morning they were all up at the usual hour. Not much was said.
Father Dicoll thought it better to let the many conversations he had had
with AEdric remain in the boy's mind without further comment, and AEdric
himself was too unhappy at parting to say or ask much. As the hour drew
near for him to be put on board the raft, he felt more than ever
inclined to be rebellious; but again the kindness of the good monks, and
their constant teaching on the subject of self-obliteration, came to his
mind, and he sorrowfully prepared for his departure.
The little raft was made ready to receive AEdric by Corman, who placed
on it a few skins and a pitcher of water. As the boy had brought
nothing with him there was no difficulty about baggage. When all was
ready, Father Dicoll assisted AEdric down the path to the quay, and
helped him on board, directing him to lie down in such a position as not
to inconvenience Corman while rowing. Then, giving him his blessing, he
took an affectionate farewell.
AEdric could scarcely refrain from tears, but, remembering how Ceolwulf
would have laughed at him if he had given way to his emotion, he
mastered his feelings, and smiled back at Father Dicoll.
"I shall soon come back and see thee; thou knowest; my leg is very
nearly well now, thou hast cured it so wonderfully, and when I go back
to Wihtea thou and brother Corman will come over and teach us all to be
good."
Father Dicoll nodded and said, "As God wills it, my son." Then brother
Corman got on to the raft, and, pushing off, began to row slowly away.
AEdric waved his hand to the good monk, and then sank back on his couch
with a wistful look.
"What is Wilfrid like, brother Corman? dost thou think I shall like
him?"
"I am sure thou wilt; but I don't suppose thou wilt see very much of
him, he is always so busy. Thou seest he is not like Father Dicoll and
me. He is not a simple monk like us, and he has a great deal to look
after."
"Then shall I have to be all by myself all day? Will no one talk to me
or tell me stories as thou and Father Dicoll were always doing?"
"No, there is no fear of that; he has several monks and priests with
him, and I expect Bernwine, or Hildila, will look after thee."
"And who are they?"
"Well, Bernwine is Wilfrid's nephew, and a priest. Hildila is also a
priest, and they are reported to be good men."
They were going gently by the sedgy banks; the trees were a deeper
russet-brown than they had been when AEdric came wearily past them a few
weeks before. He had felt lonely and in great pain then; he was
stronger now, and his leg was nearly well, but Dicoll doubted whether he
would quite regain the full use of it, as the wound had been very severe
and had cut through a tendon. But he felt more lonely now, and dreaded
the going among an entirely new set of faces, without a single friend to
welcome him.
They went on in silence for some little time. At last AEdric said:
"I wonder if Wulfstan did really go with Ceolwulf?"
"I should think there was no doubt about it."
"If people are dead dost thou think they can come and tell us where they
are, and what they are doing?"
"I never knew myself any that did," answered Corman, cautiously. "But
all men have believed it to be possible, and there are countless legends
and stories which tell of such occurrences."[1]
[1] See "the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Great" for the belief in
supernatural messages, a work not likely to be known by Corman, but
surely representing the orthodox belief of the time.
"Then why dost thou think my father AElfhere or my mother Alftruda never
came to see me and tell me what has become of them?"
"Why, my son, what a very unreasonable question! How can I tell?"
AEdric looked dissatisfied. He thought the monks knew everything: a not
uncommon belief with children in respect of those who are older than
they are; a belief that is at the same time flattering and embarrassing,
and which serves as the basis for the greatest number of impositions
quackery and charlatanism have known how to successfully palm off on
ignorance.
Again they lapsed into silence. Boseham was still in sight behind them.
AEdric turned his head to look once more at the quiet little place where
he had learnt so much.
"Why, Corman, isn't that a man on horseback on the quay?"
Corman looked. "Well, it does look like some one on a horse. I wonder
who it can be."
"Hark! I think I hear somebody calling," said AEdric.
Corman ceased rowing, and the raft, sluggishly moving when Corman rowed
his hardest, ceased to ripple through the water.
A loud halloo came over the water.
"What can he want. Is he calling us?" asked AEdric.
"Hush! he is saying something," said Corman.
An indistinguishable shout again reached them.
"I can't make out what he is saying, but it seems to be very important.
I wonder who he is. Now, it may be right to go back, but it may be
wrong. Hark! he's calling again."
"Something about 'back' is what he seems to say," said AEdric.
Corman still waited, and gazed in the direction of the horseman.
"What I can't understand is, why Father Dicoll is not there. I don't
think it is all right, or he would be on the quay, and would wave to us,
or make some signal."
AEdric looked carefully to see whether he could not make out his figure
anywhere. At last he called out:
"I see him. There he is; he is waving his hands."
Corman looked where AEdric pointed, and saw Father Dicoll, who was
certainly making some kind of sign, but it did not seem to him that they
were signs to return.
"I think he means us to go on. Now do thou watch him, don't look at the
other man at all. I will turn the raft round and row back. If he waves
his hands, as if sending us away, tell me at once."
Corman then turned the raft round, while AEdric looked intently at
Father Dicoll.
The man had stopped shouting as soon as he saw that the raft was coming
back, but Dicoll went on waving his arms more than ever. He was
standing a little way behind the man, so that his movements were not
seen by him.
"Well," said Corman, "what dost thou make of it?"
"I think he means we are to return," said AEdric.
Corman turned round to look.
"Well, I don't know; it looks as though he were beckoning, certainly,
but it is very difficult to see from this distance. However, I will go
on rowing a little longer, and then, perhaps, we shall be able to make
out what it all means."
So saying, Corman pulled against the tide, that was running out fast.
He did not make much way, but Dicoll never ceased to make signs, waving
his arms about frantically.
"I think he does perhaps mean we are to go on," said AEdric, who had
been carefully watching him.
"Well, I will turn round again, and we shall see whether he changes his
movements."
Directly the raft was turned round the horseman began to shout
vigorously, but Father Dicoll ceased to wave his hands and arms.
"What dost thou think of that, AEdric?"
"I think it means we are to come back."
"I don't though; now see," and Corman once more turned the raft round as
if to row back. Instantly Father Dicoll began to wave his arms
frantically, and the horseman ceased to shout. Suddenly he caught sight
of Father Dicoll, something flashed in the air, and Father Dicoll ceased
to wave his arms.
"What does that mean? He hasn't struck Father Dicoll, has he?"
"I don't like the look of it. I certainly shall not go back until I
have left thee in a safe place."
Corman again turned the raft round, and headed it for the entrance of
the creek. As he did so, the shouting began again.
"Ah! thou mayest shout, shout till thou art hoarse too, but I shan't
come back yet."
"Oh, Corman, he has struck Father Dicoll! I saw him raise his arm, and
then I saw Father Dicoll fall. How dreadful! and all because Father
Dicoll tried to save me."
Corman was very much overcome.
"If any ill hath happened to him, the Lord will requite the doer of it;
but it would be a grievous thing for any evil to befall him. Oh,
Dicoll, my father, what shall I do bereft of thee? Sweet has thy
intercourse been to me. Desolate am I, and deprived of life, if thy
life be taken from me," and Corman ceased rowing, and gazed ruefully
towards Boseham.
"Oh, Corman, look! the man is galloping along the shore, and----why,
there are several more men coming down. What are they going to do?"
Corman and AEdric remained for a few moments in speechless curiosity.
The man on horseback had galloped furiously up to the men, and was
gesticulating rapidly. The men dispersed and ran about the shore. At
last they all seemed to be running to one spot. They all collected
round something, the man on horseback appearing to be energetically
directing them.
"Why, it's one of the Boseham boats they are launching, I do believe,"
said Corman.
"So it is, and now they are getting into it. What do you think it
means?"
"I think they are going to row after us."
So saying, Corman began rowing again as hard as he could.
They were about three-quarters of a mile away, and had to go about a
mile more before they could reach the "hard," or landing place, on the
other side of the creek, for they had to row out of the little creek, at
the head of which Boseham stands, and cross the larger creek that wound
its muddy way up to within a mile of Cissanceaster.
The tide was running out strongly, and this was all in their favour, for
as they got farther down the stream ran stronger.
Corman knew the importance of making the full use of the tide, and he
strained every muscle to get into the main channel.
The other boat was now manned, and the crew were rowing vigorously, but
unscientifically. The horseman had got in, and was steering.
"They are not gaining much, if at all," said AEdric.
Corman said nothing. He had need of all his strength and breath; the
drops of perspiration on his brow told how hard he was working. The
clumsy raft went sluggishly along in spite of all his toil, and the
other boat came nearer.
"Why can't I row? I know how; I have often done it at home. I could at
least take one oar."
Corman shook his head, and rowed hard.
Nothing more was said by AEdric, and the oars splashed and the water
gurgled under the unwieldy logs of the raft, as it slushed its way
through the water.
"They are gaining on us now. Well done!" cried AEdric, as one of the
men twisted his oar under the water, and was knocked by the handle of it
against the next man, and so into the bottom of the boat. It was comic
to see his legs go up in the air, and to hear the shouts of wrath from
the helmsman.
[Illustration: How Corman and AEdric fled before Berchthune]
"That has stopped them a bit. Now if they only would stick in the mud!
the tide is falling fast, and they couldn't get off."
Corman was getting tired with his exertions. It was quite clear, unless
some accident happened to the other boat, they must be caught. They
were so near to each other now that AEdric could distinguish the men.
They were all strangers to him. The man who commanded was a tall,
grey-bearded man, muscular and wiry. He wore a helmet and linked mail
shirt, across which a chain hung supporting a two-edged battle axe; his
keen eyes glared from under thick, bushy, grey eyebrows, and two wings
of a hawk attached to his helmet gave him a very war-like air.
"Who can he be, I wonder?" said AEdric.
Corman only shook his head by way of answer, and kept rowing
desperately, but there was evidently no chance. Suddenly an idea struck
him. "AEdric," he gasped, "dost thou see any shallow spot ahead over
which we could go, but on which they would stick? If thou dost, point
to it, and I will row over it."
AEdric looked about; the sea was so muddy that it was difficult to tell
where the deep water was, but the current ran in stronger eddies, and
with more of ruffle on its surface in the channel, and the boy saw one
bank that he thought would do.
They had now got to the part of the creek where the Boseham lake, or
creek, joined the arm that went up to Cissanceaster. There was a long
spit of mud running out from the western shore. If they could pass over
this they would gain a good bit on their pursuers, who might, perhaps,
be tempted to follow them, in which case they would inevitably run
aground, and would have to remain for some hours.
"I see a lane of deeper water across that bank there, only you must row
very hard for it. It is some way off yet!" cried AEdric.
Corman tugged at the oars, the awkward raft moved hardly any quicker,
and the drops of perspiration rolled off the monk.
Nearer and nearer the other boat came after them. The steersman was
laughing. AEdric could see his great mouth opening in a broad grin of
triumph. The men were not rowing nearly so hard now, and he could hear
them talking. They were quite confident of success.
"Pull, Corman, pull! we are just going into the shallow part."
And the poor monk rowed harder than ever. His eyes were straining and
bloodshot, and the muscles of his neck stood out like knotted cords.
The bow of the other boat was only a few yards off. The man in the bows
had put his oar in, and was standing ready to jump on board the raft.
The water curled under the bows.
Suddenly the man in the bows was jerked violently forward, a large rush
of water spread over the yellow surface ahead, and a wild shout of joy
rang out from AEdric.
"They are ashore, they are ashore! Hurrah!"
And so it was: the boat, drawing quite two feet of water, had plunged
into the mud, and was now stuck fast. All was instantly confusion and
clamour on board. The chieftain stormed and raged, notwithstanding it
was entirely his own fault; for he had not followed the wake of the
raft, but had tried to cut it off. The raft was still in comparatively
deep water, and was going away merrily. The men on board all stood up,
and pushed and tugged at their oars, but as fast as they pushed their
oars in, and moved the boat at all, they pulled her on again by trying
to get their oars out of the deep, clinging, holding mud. Fierce
imprecations and abusive epithets flew from the commander, but all to no
purpose.
"Get out, men! out with ye, or we shall remain here for ever. See how
the tide is falling!" shouted the old man.
The men tumbled over the gunwale into the shallow water, but they could
hardly have done a more useless thing. Instead of pushing the boat off
they only pulled it all the deeper into the mud; for not being able to
obtain any foothold, they hung on to the sides of the boat to prevent
themselves sinking in. It was a ludicrous sight to see all these strong
men hanging round the boat, wallowing and plunging in the black,
clinging mud. The helmsman grew more and more furious, the more it
became apparent that their position was hopeless. The men, disgusted
with the mud and their fruitless exertions, tried to get in again, and
the sight was still more comic, as they all struggled to climb over the
side of the high and awkward boat. Their muddy legs all had the
appearance of wearing long black silk stockings, and as they wriggled
and plunged, they gradually became covered with the same horrible,
greasy, shiny coating. Sometimes a man would be seen to raise himself
up, get one leg over the gunwale, lie down on his side, and try to roll
himself into the boat, his other leg would wave in the air, and just as
he was succeeding, some of the other men, intent on their own
endeavours, would pull the boat too much down on that side, and he would
roll over into the mud again. At last one or two succeeded in getting
in, and the others, with their assistance, were hauled over the side,
not without much bruising of legs and arms, and a plentiful bedaubment
of mud.