LOWER AND LOWER.
It becomes our painful duty to record that from the date of the feast,
described in our last chapter, the character of poor Elfric underwent
rapid deterioration. In the first place, the fact of his having yielded
to the forbidden indulgence, and—as he felt—disgraced himself, gave
Edwy, as the master of the secret, great power over him, and he never
failed to use this power whenever he saw any inclination on the part of
his vassal to throw off the servitude. It was not that he deliberately
intended to injure Elfric, but he had come to regard virtue as either
weakness or hypocrisy, at least such virtues as temperance, purity, or
self restraint.
The great change which was creeping over Elfric became visible to
others: he seemed to lose his bright smile; the look of boyish
innocence faded from his countenance, and gave place to an expression
of sullen reserve; he showed less ardour in all his sports and
pastimes, became subject to fits of melancholy, and often seemed lost
in thought, anxious thought, in the midst of his studies.
He seldom had the power, even if the will, to communicate with home.
Mercia was in many respects an independent state, subject to the same
king, but governed by a code of laws differing from those of Wessex;
and it was only when a royal messenger or some chance traveller left
court for the banks of the Midland Avon, that Elfric could use the art
of writing, a knowledge he was singular in possessing, thanks to the
wisdom of his sire.
So the home authorities knew little of the absent one, for whom they
offered up many a fervent prayer, and of whom they constantly spoke and
thought. And yet, so mysterious are the ways of Providence, it seemed
as if these prayers were unanswered—seemed indeed, yet they were not
forgotten before God.
Seemed forgotten; for Elfric was rapidly becoming reckless. Many
subsequent scenes of indulgence had followed the first one, and other
haunts, residences of licentious young nobles, or taverns, had been
sought out by the youths, and always by Redwald’s connivance.
He was Edwy’s evil genius, and always seemed at hand whensoever the
prince sought occasion to sin. Still, he was not at all suspected by
Edred, before whom he kept up an appearance of the strictest
morality—always punctual in his attendance at mass, matins, and
evensong, and with a various stock of phrases of pious import ready at
tongue in case of need or opportunity of using them to advantage.
To Elfric, his behaviour was always reserved, yet he seemed even more
ready to lend him a helping hand downward than did the prince.
So time passed on; weeks became months; and Christmas with all its
hallowed associations had passed; it had been Elfric’s first Christmas
away from home, and he was sad at heart, in spite of the boisterous
merriment of his companions. The spring of the year 955 came on, and
Lent drew near, a season to which Edwy looked forward with great dread,
for, as he said, there would be nothing in the whole palace to eat
until Easter, and he could not even hope to bribe the cook.
The canons of the church required all persons to make confession, and
so enter upon the fast tide, having “thus purified their minds;” x it
may, alas! be easily guessed how the guilty lads performed this duty,
how enforced confession only led to their adding the sin of further
deceit, and that of a deadly kind.
Thus they entered upon Lent: their abstinence was entirely compulsory,
not voluntary; and although they made up for it in some degree when
they could get away from the palace, yet even this was difficult, for
it was positively unlawful for butchers to sell or for people to buy
meat at the prohibited seasons, and the law was not easily evaded. But
it was a prayerless Lent also to Elfric, for he had, alas! even
discontinued his habit of daily prayer, a habit he had hitherto
maintained from childhood, a habit first learned at his mother’s knee.
Holy Week came, and was spent with great strictness; the king seemed to
divide his whole time between the business of state and the duties of
religion.
Dunstan was absent at Glastonbury, but other ecclesiastics thronged the
palace, and there were few, save the guilty boys and Redwald, who
seemed uninfluenced by the solemn commemoration.
But it must not be supposed that Elfric was wholly uninfluenced: after
the preaching of the Passion by a poor simple monk on Good Friday, he
retired to his own little room, where he wept as if his heart would
break. Had Dunstan been then in town, the whole story would have been
told, and much misery saved, for Elfric felt he could trust him if he
could trust anybody; but unhappily Dunstan was, as we have seen,
keeping Passiontide at his abbey.
Still, Elfric felt he must tell all, and submit to the advice and
penance which might be imposed; and as he sat weeping over his sin that
Good Friday night, with the thought that he might find pardon and peace
through the Great Sacrifice so touchingly pleaded that day, he felt
that the first step to amendment must lie in a full and frank
confession of all; he knew he should grievously offend Edwy, and that
he should lose the favour of his future king, but he could not help it.
“Why, oh why did I leave Æscendune, dear Æscendune?—fool that I was—I
will go back.”
And a sweet desire of home and kindred rose up before him—of his
father’s loving welcome, his fond mother’s chaste kiss, and of the dear
old woods and waters—the hallowed associations of his home life. He
rose up to seek Father Benedict, determined to enter upon the path of
peace at any cost, when Edwy entered.
He did not see in the gathering darkness the traces of emotion visible
on poor Elfric’s countenance, and he began in his usual careless
way—“How are you, Elfric, my boy; glad Lent is nearly over? What a
dismal time that wretched monk preached this morning!”
“Edwy, I am utterly miserable: I must tell all; I cannot live like this
any longer.”
“What a burst of penitence! go to confession; to be sure it looks well,
and if one can only manage to get out a few tears they account him a
saint; tell me the receipt.”
“But, Edwy, I must tell all!”
“Not if you are wise.”
“Why not? It is all in secrecy.”
“No it is not; you will be required as a penance to go and tell the
king all that we have done; you may do so, and I will manage to
represent matters so as to throw the whole blame on you; you will be
sent home in disgrace.”
Poor Elfric hung down his head; the thought of his disgrace reaching
home had not occurred to him.
“Come,” said Edwy, “I don’t want to be hard upon you. Cheer up, my man.
What have you done amiss? Only enjoyed yourself as nature has guided
you. Why should you think God meant us to pass through life like those
miserable shavelings Edred delights to honour? Cheer up, Elfric; your
bright face was never meant for that of a hypocrite. If you are so
dreadfully bad, you are in a pretty numerous company; and I don’t think
the shavelings believe their own tales about fire and torment
hereafter. They are merry enough, considering.”
In short, poor Elfric’s short-lived penitence was given to the winds.
Edwy went alone to be shriven on the morrow.
On Easter Day they both received the Holy Communion in the royal
chapel.
From that time remorse ceased to visit the heir of Æscendune, as if he
had at last quenched the Spirit, and he became so utterly wild and
reckless, that at last Dunstan thought it necessary to speak to him
privately on the subject. It was nearly six months after Easter.
The boy entered the study set apart for the use of the great monk and
statesman with a palpitating heart, but he managed to repress its
beatings, and put on a perfectly unconcerned expression of countenance.
He had gained in self control if in nothing else.
“I wished to speak with you, Elfric,” said the abbot, “upon a very
serious matter. When you first came here, I was delighted to have you
as a companion to the prince. You were evidently well brought up, and
bore an excellent character; but, I grieve to say, you have greatly
changed for the worse. Are you not aware of it?”
“No, father. What have I done?”
Dunstan sighed at the tone of the reply, and continued—“It is not any
particular action of which I wish to accuse you, but of the general
tenor of your conduct. I do not speak harshly, my boy; but if truth be
told, you are as idle as you were once diligent, as sullen and reserved
as once candid and open: and, my son, your face tells a tale of even
worse things, and, but that I am puzzled to know where you could obtain
the means of self indulgence, I should attribute more serious vices to
you.”
“Who has accused me, father?”
“Yourself—that is, your own face and manner. Did you ever contemplate
yourself in a mirror when at home? There is a steel one against that
wall, go and look at yourself now.”
Elfric blushed deeply.
“My face is still the same,” he said.
“It is the same, and yet not the same. Innocence once took her place at
its portals, and had sealed it as her own; the expression is all
changed; my boy, I am absolutely certain that all is not well with you.
For your own sake, delay no longer to avoid the danger of losing your
salvation, for the habits you form now will perhaps cling to you
through life. Turn now to your own self; confess your sin, and be at
peace.”
“I came to confession at Shrovetide; I am not required to come now, am
I?”
“Required? No, my boy, it is your own sense of guilt, alone, which
should draw you. The Church, since there has been no public scandal,
leaves you to your own judgment at such a time as this. Have you never
felt such remorse of conscience as would tell you your duty?”
“Never.”
He thought of Good Friday, and blushed.
“Your tone and words belie each other, my boy. God grant you
repentance; you will not accept my help now, but the time may come when
you will seek help in vain.”
Elfric bowed, without reply, and at a sign left the chamber.
A few weeks later, at the beginning of November, Edred left London for
a tour in the west, and quitted his nephews with more than his usual
affection, although his goodbye to Elfric was more constrained, for the
good old king, not knowing the whole truth, was beginning to fear that
Elfric was a dangerous companion. He little thought that he was rather
sinned against than sinning.
Dunstan was to follow him in a week, and only remained behind to
discharge necessary business.
The heart of the amorous Edwy beat with delight as he saw his uncle
depart, and he made arrangements at once to spend the night after
Dunstan’s departure in mirth and jollity at the house of Ethelgiva and
her fair daughter.
He came back after an interview with Redwald on the subject, and found
Elfric in their common study. There was an alcove in the room, and it
was covered by a curtain.
“O Elfric,” said the prince, “is it not delightful? The two tyrants,
the king and the monk, will soon be gone. I wish the Evil One would fly
off with them both, and when the cat is away will not the mice play? I
have made all the arrangements; we shall have such a night at the lady
Ethelgiva’s.”
“How is the fair Elgiva?”
It was now Edwy’s turn to blush and look confused.
“I wish I had the power of teasing you, Elfric. But if you have a
secret you keep it close. Remember old Dunstan vanishes on the
fifteenth, and the same evening, oh, won’t it be joyful? But I am tired
of work. Come and let us take some fresh air.”
They left the room, when the curtain parted, and the astonished
countenance of Father Benedict, who had been quietly reading in the
deep embrasure of the window, presently appeared. He looked like a man
at whose feet a thunderbolt had fallen, and hastily left the room.
The week passed rapidly away, and at its close Dunstan took his
departure. A train of horses awaited him, and he bade the young princes
Edwy and Edgar farewell, with the usual charge to work diligently and
obey Father Benedict.
That same night, after the clerks had sung compline in the chapel, and
the chamberlain had seen to the safety of the palace, Edwy came quietly
to the room of his page, and the two left as on the first occasion.
Redwald attended them, and just before the boat left the bank he spoke
a word of caution.
“I fear,” he said, in a low tone, “that all is not quite right. That
old fox Dunstan is up to some trick; he has not really left town.”
“Perhaps he has a similar appointment tonight,” said Edwy,
sarcastically. “I should keep mine though he and all his monks from
Glastonbury barred the way.”
They reached the castellated mansion of Ethelgiva in due course, and
the programme of the former evening was repeated, save that, if there
was any change, the conversation was more licentious, and the wine cup
passed more freely.
It was midnight, and one of the company was favouring them with a song
of questionable propriety, when a heavy knock was heard at the door.
The servants went to answer it, and all the company awaited the issue
in suspense.
One of the principal domestics returned with haste, and whispered some
words into the ear of Ethelgiva—which seemed to discompose her.
“What can this mean?” she said. “A guard of soldiers demand admittance
in the king’s name?”
A louder knocking attested the fact.
“You must admit them, or they will batter the door down. Edwy, Elfric!
here, hide yourselves behind that curtain, it veils a deep recess.”
They had scarcely concealed themselves when Dunstan entered, attended
by a guard of the royal hus-carles.
“What means this insolence?” said Ethelgiva.
“No insolence is intended, royal lady, nor could be offered to the
widow of the Etheling, by me,” replied Dunstan, “but I seek to
discharge a sacred trust committed to me. Where are my pupils, the
Prince Edwy and his companion?”
“In their beds, at the palace, I should suppose.”
“Nay, be not so perfidious; they are here, lady, and probably within
hearing; they must come forth, or I must order the guard to search the
house, which I should regret.”
“By whose authority?”
“By that of the king, whose signet is on my hand.”
“They are not here; they left half-an-hour ago.”
“Pardon me, madam, if I observe that we have watched the house for an
hour.
“Had not this scene better terminate?” he added, with icy coldness.
At this moment a favourite dog, which Edwy had often petted, and which
had entered with the guard, found him out behind the curtain, and in
its vociferous joy betrayed the whole secret.
Confusion or smiles sat on every face save that of the imperturbable
Dunstan.
“Your dog, madam, is more truthful than its mistress,” he said, bluntly
yet quietly; and then, advancing to the recess, he drew aside the
curtain and gazed upon the discovered couple.
“Will you kindly return to the palace with me?”
“How dare you, insolent monk, intrude upon the pleasures of your future
king?”
“I dare by the orders of the present king, your royal uncle, who has
committed the whole matter into my hands; and, Prince Edwy, in the
discharge of my duty ‘dare’ is a superfluous word. Will you, as I said
before, both follow me, if you are sufficiently masters of yourselves
to do so?”
The import of all this was seen at a glance, but there was no course
but submission, and Edwy well knew how utterly indefensible his conduct
was; so, with crestfallen gait, he and Elfric followed their captor to
the river, where was another large boat by the side of their own. They
entered it, and returned to the palace stairs much more sober than on
previous occasions.