No hermit e’er so welcome crost
A child’s lone path in woodland lost.
--KEBLE.
Hal had wandered farther than his wont, rather hoping to be out of call
if Simon arrived to give him a lesson in chivalrous sports. He found
himself on the slope of one of the gorges down which smaller streams
rushed in wet weather to join the Derwent. There was a sound of tinkling
water, and leaning forward, Hal saw that a tiny thread of water dropped
between the ferns and the stones. Therewith a low, soft chant in a manly
voice, mingling with the drip of the water.
The words were strange to him&&
Lucis Creator optime,
Lucem dierum proferens&&
but they were very sweet, and in leaning forward to look between the
rowan branches and hear and see more, his foot slipped, and with Watch
barking round him, he rolled helplessly down the rock, and found himself
before a tall light-haired man, in a dark dress, who gave a hand to
raise him, asking kindly, ‘Art hurt, my child?’
‘Oh, no, sir! Off, off, Watch!’ as the dog was about to resent anyone’s
touching his master. ‘Holy sir, thanks, great thanks,’ as a long fair
hand helped him to his feet, and brushed his soiled garment.
‘Unhurt, I see,’ said that sweet voice. ‘Hast thou lost thy way? Good
dog, thou lovest thy master! Art thou astray?’
‘No, sir, thank you, I know my way home.’
‘Thou art the boy who lives with the shepherd at Derwentside, on Bunce’s
ground?’
‘Ay, Hob Hogward’s herd boy,’ said Hal. ‘Oh, sir, are you the holy
hermit of the Derwent vale?’
‘A hermit for the nonce I am,’ was the answer, with something of a smile
responsive to the eager face.
‘Oh, sir, if you be not too holy to look at me or speak to me! If
you would help me to some better knowledge--not only of sword and
single-stick!’
‘Better knowledge, my child! Of thy God?’ said the hermit, a sweet look
of joy spreading over his face.
‘Goodwife Dolly has told me of Him, and taught me my Pater and Credo,
but we have lived far off, and she has not been able to go to church
for weeks and years. But what I long after is to tell me what means all
this--yonder sea, and all the stars up above. And they will call me a
simpleton for marking such as these, and only want me to heed how to
shoot an arrow, or give a stroke hard enough to hurt another. Do such
rude doings alone, fit for a bull or a ram as meseems, go to the making
of a knight, fair sir?’
‘They go to the knight’s keeping of his own, for others whom he ought
to defend,’ said the hermit sadly; ‘I would have thee learn and practise
them. But for the rest, thou knowest, sure, who made the stars?’
‘Oh yes! Nurse Dolly told me. She saw it all in a mystery play long long
ago--when a Hand came out, and put in the stars and sun and moon.’
‘Knowest thou whose Hand was figured there, my child?’
‘The Hand of God,’ said Hal, removing his cap. ‘They be sparks to show
His glory! But why do some move about among the others--one big one
moves from the Bull’s face one winter to half-way beyond it. And is the
morning star the evening one?’
‘Ah! thou shouldst know Ptolemy and the Almagest,’ said the hermit
smiling, ‘to understand the circuits of those wandering stars--Coeli
enarrant gloriam Dei.’
‘That is Latin,’ said the boy, startled. ‘Are you a priest, sir?’
‘No, not I--I am not worthy,’ was the answer, ‘but in some things I may
aid thee, and I shall be blessed in so doing. Canst say thy prayers?’
‘Oh, yes! nurse makes me say them when I lie down and when I get
up--Credo and Pater. She says the old parson used to teach them our own
tongue for them, but she has well-nigh forgot. Can you tell me, holy
man?’
‘That will I, with all my heart,’ responded the hermit, laying his long
delicate hand on Hal’s head. ‘Blessed be He who has sent thee to me!’
The boy sat at the hermit’s feet, listening with the eagerness of one
whose soul and mind had alike been under starvation, and how time went
neither knew till there was a rustling and a step. Watch sprang up,
but in another moment Simon Bunce, cap in hand, stood before the hut,
beginning with ‘How now, sir?’
The hermit raised his hand, as if to make a sign, saying, ‘Thou seest I
have a guest, good friend.’
Bunce started back with ‘Oh! the young Lord! Sworn to silence, I trust!
I bade him not meddle with you, sir.’
‘It was against his will, I trow,’ said the hermit. ‘He fell over the
rock by the waterfall, but since he is here, I will answer for him that
he does no hurt by word or deed!’
‘Never, holy sir!’ eagerly exclaimed Hal. ‘Hob Hogward knows that I can
keep my mouth shut. And may I come again?’
Simon was shaking his head, but the hermit took on him to say, ‘Gladly
will I welcome thee, my fair child, whensoever thou canst find thy way
to the weary old anchoret! Go thy way now! Or hast thou lost it?’
‘No, sir; I ken the woodland and can soon be at home,’ replied Hal;
then, putting a knee to the ground, ‘May I have your blessing, holy
man?’
‘Alack, I told thee I am no priest,’ said the hermit; ‘but for such as I
am, I bless thee with all my soul, thou fatherless lad,’ and he laid
his hand on the young lad’s wondering brow, then bade him begone, since
Simon and himself had much to say to one another.
Hal summoned Watch, and turned to a path through the wood, leading
towards the coast, wondering as he walked how the hermit seemed to know
him--him whose presence had been so sedulously concealed. Could it be
that so very holy a man had something of the spirit of prophecy?
He kept his promise of silence, and indeed his guardians were so much
accustomed to his long wanderings that he encountered no questions, only
one of Hob’s growls that he should always steal away whenever there was
a chance of Master Bunce’s coming to try to make a man of him.
However, Bunce himself arrived shortly after, and informed Hob that
since young folks always pried where they were least wanted, and my lord
had stumbled incontinently on the anchoret’s den, it was the holy man’s
will that he might come there whenever he chose. A pity and shame
it was, but it would make him more than ever a mere priestling, ever
hankering after books and trash!
‘Were it not better to ask my lady and Sir Lancelot if they would have
it so? I could walk over to Threlkeld!’
‘No, no, no, on your life not,’ exclaimed Simon, striking his staff on
the ground in his vehemence. ‘Never a word to the Threlkeld or any of
his kin! Let well alone! I only wish the lad had never gone a-roaming
there! But holy men must not be gainsaid, even if it does make a poor
craven scholar out of his father’s son.’
And thus began a time of great contentment to the Lord Clifford. There
were few days on which he did not visit the hermitage. It was a small
log hut, but raised with some care, and made weatherproof with moss and
clay in the crevices, and there was an inner apartment, with a little
oil lamp burning before a rough wooden cross, where Hal, if the hermit
were not outside, was certain to find him saying his prayers. Food was
supplied by Simon himself, and, since Hal’s admission, was often carried
by him, and the hermit seemed to spend his time either in prayer or in
a gentle dreamy state of meditation, though he always lighted up into
animation at the arrival of the boy whom he had made his friend. Hal had
thought him old at first, on the presumption that all hermits must be
aged, nor was it likely that age should be estimated by one living such
a life, but the light hair, untouched with grey, the smooth cheeks and
the graceful figure did not belong to more than a year or two above
forty. And he had no air of ill health, yet this calm solitary residence
in the wooded valley seemed to be infinite rest to him.
Hal had no knowledge nor experience to make him wonder, and accepted the
great quiet and calm of the hermit as the token of his extreme holiness
and power of meditation. He himself was always made welcome with Watch
by his side, and encouraged to talk and ask questions, which the hermit
answered with what seemed to the boy the utmost wisdom, but older heads
would have seen not to be that of a clever man, but of one who had been
fairly educated for the time, had had experience of courts and camps,
and referred all the inquiries and wonderments which were far beyond him
direct to Almighty Power.
The mind of the boy advanced much in this intercourse with the first
cultivated person he had encountered, and who made a point of actually
teaching and explaining to him all those mysteries of religion which
poor old Dolly only blindly accepted and imparted as blindly to her
nursling. Of actual instruction, nothing was attempted. A little
portuary, or abbreviated manual of the service, was all that the hermit
possessed, treasured with his small crucifix in his bosom, and of course
it was in Latin. The Hours of the Church he knew by heart, and never
failed to observe them, training his young pupil in the repetition and
English meaning of such as occurred during his visits. He also told much
of the history of the world, as he knew it, and of the Church and the
saints, to the eager mind that absorbed everything and reflected on it,
coming with fresh questions that would have been too deep and perplexing
for his friend if he had not always determined everything with ‘Such is
the will of God.’
Somewhat to the surprise of Simon Bunce and Hob Hogward, Hal improved
greatly, not only in speech but in bearing; he showed no such dislike
or backwardness in chivalrous exercises as previously; and when once Sir
Lancelot Threlkeld came over to see him, he was absolutely congratulated
on looking so much more like a young knight.
‘Ay,’ said Bunce, taking all the merit to himself, ‘there’s nought like
having an old squire trained in the wars in France to show a stripling
how to hold a lance.’
Hal had been too well tutored to utter a word of him to whom his
improvement was really due, not by actual training, but partly by
unconscious example in dignified grace and courtesy of demeanour, and
partly by the rather sad assurances that it was well that a man born to
his station, if he ever regained it, should be able to defend himself
and others, and not be a helpless burthen on their hands. Tales of
the Seven Champions of Christendom and of King Arthur and his Knights
likewise had their share in the moulding of the youthful Lord Clifford.
His great desire was to learn to read, but it was not encouraged by the
hermit, nor was there any book available save the portuary, crookedly
and contractedly written on vellum, so as to be illegible to anyone
unfamiliar with writing, with Latin, or the service. However, the
anchoret yielded to his importunity so far as to let him learn the
alphabet, traced on the door in charcoal, and identify the more sacred
words in the book--which, indeed, were all in gold, red and blue.
He did not advance more than this, for his teacher was apt to go off in
a musing dream of meditation, repeating over and over in low sweet tones
the holy phrases, and not always rousing himself when his pupil made
a remark or asked a question. Yet he was always concerned at his own
inattention when awakened, and would apologise in a tone of humility
that always made Hal feel grieved and ashamed of having been
importunate. For there was a dignity and gentleness about the hermit
that always made the boy feel the contrast with his own roughness and
uncouthness, and reverence him as something from a holier world.
‘Nurse, I do think he is a saint,’ one day said Hal.
‘Nay, nay, my laddie, saints don’t come down from heaven in these days
of evil.’
‘I would thou could see him when one comes upon him at his prayers.
His face is like the angel at the cross I saw so long ago in the castle
chapel.’
‘Dost thou remember that chapel? Thou wert a babe when we quitted it.’
‘I had well nigh forgotten it, but the good hermit’s face brought all
back again, and the voice of the father when he said the Service.’
‘That thou shouldst mind so long! This hermit is no priest, thou sayst?’
‘No, he said he was not worthy; but sure all saints were not priests,
nurse.’
‘Nay, it is easy to be more worthy than the Jack Priests I have known.
Though I would they would let me go to church. But look thee here,
Hal, if he be such a saint as thou sayst, maybe thou couldst get him to
bestow a blessing on poor Piers, and give him his hearing and voice.’
Hal was sure that his own special saint was holy enough for anything,
and accordingly asked permission of him to bring his silent companion
for blessing and healing.
The mild blue eye lighted for a moment. ‘Is the poor child then
afflicted with the King’s Evil?’ the hermit asked.
‘Nay, he is sound enough in skin and limb. It is that he can neither
hear nor speak, and if you, holy sir, would lay thine hand on him, and
sign him with the rood, and pray, mayhap your holiness--’
‘Peace, peace,’ cried the hermit impetuously, lifting up his hand. ‘Dost
not know that I am a sinner like unto the rest--nay, a greater sinner,
in that a burthen was laid on me that I had not the soul to rise to, so
that the sin and wickedness of thousands have been caused by my craven
faint heart for well nigh two score years? O miserere Domine.’
He threw himself on the ground with clasped hands, and Hal, standing
by in awestruck amazement, heard no more save sobs, mingled with the
supplications of the fifty-first Psalm.
He was obliged at last to go away without having been able to recall
the attention of his friend from his agony of prayer. With the reticence
that had grown upon him, he did not mention at home the full effect of
his request, but when he thought it over he was all the more convinced
that his friend was a great saint. Had he not always heard that saints
believed themselves great sinners, and went through many penances? And
why did he speak as if he could have cured the King’s Evil? He asked
Dolly what it was, and she replied that it was the sickness that only
the King’s touch could heal.