I
The old House of Heritage stood just below the downs, in the few
meadows that were all that was left of a great estate. The house
itself was of stone, very firmly and gravely built; and roofed with
thin slabs of stone, small at the roof-ridge, and increasing in size
towards the eaves. Inside, there were a few low panelled rooms opening
on a large central hall; there was little furniture, and that of a
sturdy and solid kind--but the house needed nothing else, and had all
the beauty that came of a simple austerity.
Old Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged and poor. She had but
one house-servant, a serious and honest maid, whose only pride was to
keep the place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. But
Mistress Alison was not to be dismayed by poverty; she was a tranquil
and loving woman, who had never married; but who, as if to compensate
her for the absence of nearer ties, had a simple and wholesome love of
all created things. She was infirm now, but was quite content, when it
was fine, to sit for long hours idle for very love, and look about her
with a peaceful and smiling air; she prayed much, or rather held a
sweet converse in her heart with God; she thought little of her latter
end, which she knew could not be long delayed, but was content to
leave it in the hands of the Father, sure that He, who had made the
world so beautiful and so full of love, would comfort her when she
came to enter in at the dark gate.
There was also an old and silent man who looked after the cattle and
the few hens that the household kept; at the back of the house was a
thatched timbered grange, where he laid his tools; but he spent his
time mostly in the garden, which sloped down to the fishpond, and was
all bordered with box; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot days,
of the good herbs that shed their rich smell in the sun; and here the
flies, that sate in the leaves, would buzz at the sound of a footfall,
and then be still again, cleaning their hands together in their busy
manner.
The only other member of the quiet household was the boy Paul, who
was distantly akin to Mistress Alison. He had neither father nor
mother, and had lived at Heritage all of his life that he could
remember; he was a slender, serious boy, with delicate features, and
large grey eyes that looked as if they held a secret; but if they had,
it was a secret of his forefathers; for the boy had led a most quiet
and innocent life; he had been taught to read in a fashion, but he had
no schooling; sometimes a neighbouring goodwife would say to Mistress
Alison that the boy should be sent to school, and Mistress Alison
would open her peaceful eyes and say, "Nay, Paul is not like other
boys--he would get all the hurt and none of the good of school; when
there is work for him he will do it--but I am not for making all toil
alike. Paul shall grow up like the lilies of the field. God made not
all things to be busy." And the goodwife would shake her head and
wonder; for it was not easy to answer Mistress Alison, who indeed was
often right in the end.
So Paul grew up as he would; sometimes he would help the old
gardener, when there was work to be done; for he loved to serve
others, and was content with toil if it was sweetened with love; but
often he rambled by himself for hours together; he cared little for
company, because the earth was to him full of wonder and of sweet
sights and sounds. He loved to climb the down, and lie feasting his
eyes on the rich plain, spread out like a map; the farms in their
closes, the villages from which went up the smoke at evening, the
distant blue hills, like the hills of heaven, the winding river, and
the lake that lay in the winter twilight like a shield of silver. He
loved to see the sun flash on the windows of the houses so distant
that they could not themselves be seen, but only sparkled like stars.
He loved to loiter on the edge of the steep hanging woods in summer,
to listen to the humming of the flies deep in the brake, and to catch
a sight of lonely flowers; he loved the scent of the wind blowing
softly out of the copse, and he wondered what the trees said to each
other, when they stood still and happy in the heat of midday. He
loved, too, the silent night, full of stars, when the wood that topped
the hill lay black against the sky. The whole world seemed to him to
be full of a mysterious and beautiful life of which he could never
quite catch the secret; these innocent flowers, these dreaming trees
seemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at arm's length, while they
guarded their joy from him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him to
have less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful and careful,
working hard to find a living, and dreading the sight of man; but
sometimes in the fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a little
of what was in her heart. "Yes," Paul would say to himself, "it is
like that."
One other chief delight the boy had; he knew the magic of sound,
which spoke to his heart in a way that it speaks to but few; the
sounds of the earth gave up their sweets to him; the musical fluting
of owls, the liquid notes of the cuckoo, the thin pipe of dancing
flies, the mournful creaking of the cider-press, the horn of the
oxherd wound far off on the hill, the tinkling of sheep-bells--of all
these he knew the notes; and not only these, but the rhythmical swing
of the scythes sweeping through the grass, the flails heard through
the hot air from the barn, the clinking of the anvil in the village
forge, the bubble of the stream through the weir--all these had a tale
to tell him. Sometimes, for days together, he would hum to himself a
few notes that pleased him by their sweet cadence, and he would string
together some simple words to them, and sing them to himself with
gentle content. The song of the reapers on the upland, or the rude
chanting in the little church had a magical charm for him; and
Mistress Alison would hear the boy, in his room overhead, singing
softly to himself for very gladness of heart, like a little bird of
the dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time; when she would
wonder and speak to God of what was in her heart.
As Paul grew older--he was now about sixteen--a change came slowly
over his mind; he began to have moods of a silent discontent, a
longing for something far away, a desire of he knew not what. His old
dreams began to fade, though they visited him from time to time; but
he began to care less for the silent beautiful life of the earth, and
to take more thought of men. He had never felt much about himself
before; but one day, lying beside a woodland pool at the feet of the
down, he caught a sight of his own face; and when he smiled at it, it
seemed to smile back at him; he began to wonder what the world was
like, and what all the busy people that lived therein said and
thought; he began to wish to have a friend, that he might tell him
what was in his heart--and yet he knew not what it was that he would
say. He began, too, to wonder how people regarded him--the people who
had before been but to him a distant part of the shows of the world.
Once he came in upon Mistress Alison, who sate talking with a gossip
of hers; when he entered, there was a sudden silence, and a glance
passed between the two; and Paul divined that they had been speaking
of himself, and desired to know what they had said.
One day the old gardener, in a more talkative mood than was his wont,
told him a tale of one who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a few
miles away, and, praying for riches, had found the next day, in
digging, an old urn of pottery, full of ancient coins. Paul was very
urgent to know about the well, and the old man told him that it must
be visited at noonday and alone. That he that would have his wish must
throw a gift into the water, and drink of the well, and then, turning
to the sun, must wish his wish aloud. Paul asked him many more
questions, but the old man would say no more. So Paul determined that
he would visit the place for himself.
The next day he set off. He took with him one of his few possessions,
a little silver coin that a parson hard by had given him. He went his
way quickly among the pleasant fields, making towards the great bulk
of Blackdown beacon, where the hills swelled up into a steep bluff,
with a white road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their green
smooth sides. It was a fresh morning with a few white clouds racing
merrily overhead, the shadows of which fell every now and then upon
the down and ran swiftly over it, like a flood of shade leaping down
the sides. There were few people to be seen anywhere; the fields were
full of grass, with large daisies and high red sorrel. By midday he
was beneath the front of Blackdown, and here he asked at a cottage of
a good-natured woman, that was bustling in and out, the way to the
well. She answered him very kindly and described the path--it was not
many yards away--and then asked where he came from, saying briskly,
"And what would you wish for? I should have thought you had all you
could desire." "Why, I hardly know," said Paul, smiling. "It seems
that I desire a thousand things, and can scarcely give a name to one."
"That is ever the way," said the woman, "but the day will come when
you will be content with one." Paul did not understand what she meant,
but thanked her and went on his way; and wondered that she stood so
long looking after him.
At last he came to the spring. It was a pool in a field, ringed round
by alders. Paul thought he had never seen a fairer place. There grew a
number of great kingcups round the brim, with their flowers like
glistening gold, and with cool thick stalks and fresh leaves. Inside
the ring of flowers the pool looked strangely deep and black; but
looking into it you could see the sand leaping at the bottom in three
or four cones; and to the left the water bubbled away in a channel
covered with water-plants. Paul could see that there was an abundance
of little things at the bottom, half covered with sand--coins,
flowers, even little jars--which he knew to be the gifts of wishers.
So he flung his own coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither and
thither, glancing in the light, till it settled at the dark bottom.
Then he dipped and drank, turned to the sun, and closing his eyes,
said out loud, "Give me what I desire." And this he repeated three
times, to be sure that he was heard. Then he opened his eyes again,
and for a moment the place looked different, with a strange grey
light. But there was no answer to his prayer in heaven or earth, and
the very sky seemed to wear a quiet smile.
Paul waited a little, half expecting some answer; but presently he
turned his back upon the pool and walked slowly away; the down lay on
one side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees which grew
very plentifully; Paul thought that he would like to walk upon the
down; so he went up a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it.
Suddenly, as he passed a small thicket, a voice hailed him; it was a
rich and cheerful voice, and it came from under the trees. He turned
in the direction of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards off,
and saw, sitting on a green bank under the shade, two figures. One was
a man of middle age, dressed lightly as though for travelling, and
Paul thought somewhat fantastically. His hat had a flower stuck in the
band. But Paul thought little of the dress, because the face of the
man attracted him; he was sunburnt and strong-looking, and Paul at
first thought he must be a soldier; he had a short beard, and his hair
was grown rather long; his face was deeply lined, but there was
something wonderfully good-natured, friendly, and kind about his whole
expression. He was smiling, and his smile showed small white teeth;
and Paul felt in a moment that he could trust him, and that the man
was friendly disposed to himself and all the world; friendly, not in a
servile way, as one who wished to please, but in a sort of prodigal,
royal way, as one who had great gifts to bestow, and was liberal of
them, and looked to be made welcome. The other figure was that of a
boy rather older than himself, with a merry ugly face, who in looking
at Paul, seemed yet to keep a sidelong and deferential glance at the
older man, as though admiring him, and desiring to do as he did in all
things.
"Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noon-tide?" said the man.
Paul stopped and listened, and for a moment could not answer. Then he
said, "I am going to the down, sir, and I have been"--he hesitated for
a moment--"I have been to the Wishing Well."
"The Wishing Well?" said the man gravely. "I did not know there was
one hereabouts. I thought that every one in this happy valley had been
too well content--and what did you wish for, if I may ask?"
Paul was silent and grew red; and then he said, "Oh, just for my
heart's desire."
"That is either a very cautious or a very beautiful answer," said the
man, "and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit a
little with us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of music
such as I dare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Do
you practise music, child, the divine gift?"
"I love it a little," said Paul, "but I have no skill."
"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill," said the man; "you
have the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, turning to his boy,
"what shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose'
first?"
The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and
put it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a
small lute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning
finger to the boy. "Remember," he said, "that you come in at the fifth
chord, together with the voice--not before." He struck four simple
chords on the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty
preciseness; and then at the same moment the little pipe and his own
voice began; the pipe played a simple descant in quicker time, with
two notes to each note of the song, and the man in a brisk and simple
way, as it were at the edge of his lips, sang a very sweet little
country song, in a quiet homely measure.
There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was
a beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of
power and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden
picture of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little
trees, taking what came, sunshine and rain, and just living and
smiling, breathing fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping
a light sleep till they should waken to another tranquil day. He
listened as if spellbound. There were but three verses, and though he
could not remember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and
told her dreams.
He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop,
not prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time;
the pipe played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck
a brisk chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!"
said the singer; "no musician could have played it better. You
remembered what I told you, to keep each note separate, and have no
gliding. This song must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird
that hops on the grass." Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile,
said, "Reverend sir, how does my song please you?"
"I never heard anything more beautiful," said Paul simply. "I cannot
say it, but it was like a door opened;" and he looked at the minstrel
with intent eyes;--"may I hear it again?" "Boy," said the singer
gravely, "I had rather have such a look as you gave me during the song
than a golden crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid
me the homage of the pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel
desires."
Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very
sad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he
sang what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done
with mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a
sorrow. When he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and
sadly in, like the voice of grief that could not be controlled, the
weeping of those on whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim
way--for he was but a child--the song seemed the voice of the world,
lamenting its noblest, yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous
to follow in their steps. It brought before him all the natural
sorrows of death, the call to quit the sweet and pleasant things of
the world--a call that could not be denied, and that was in itself
indeed stronger and even sweeter than the delights which it bade its
listeners leave. And Paul seemed to walk in some stately procession of
men far off and ancient, who followed a great king to the grave, and
whose hearts were too full of wonder to think yet what they had lost.
It was an uplifting sadness; and when the sterner strain came to an
end, Paul said very quietly, putting into words the thoughts of his
full heart, "I did not think that death could be so beautiful." And
the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were full of tears.
Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and
sang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited,
but strong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him,
and he longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end,
there was a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half
speaking to himself, "There, my son, I have given you a specimen of my
art; and I think from your look that you might be of the number of
those that make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should you
try to do so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfect
first. You will make many that are not perfect. In some the soul will
be wanting; in others the body, in a manner of speaking, will be
amiss; for they are living things, these songs, and he that makes them
is a kind of god. Well, if you cannot mend one, throw it aside and
think no more of it. Do not save it because it has some gracious
touch, for in this are the masters of the craft different from the
mere makers of songs. The master will have nothing but what is perfect
within and without, while the lesser craftsman will save a poor song
for the sake of a fine line or phrase.
"And next, you must do it for the love of your art, and not for the
praise it wins you. That is a poisoned wine, of which if you drink,
you will never know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit that
befits a master. The master may be discouraged and troubled oft, but
he must have in his soul a blessed peace, and know the worth and
beauty of what he does; for there is nothing nobler than to make
beautiful things, and to enlighten the generous heart. Fighting is a
fair trade, and though it is noble in much, yet its end is to destroy;
but the master of song mars nought, but makes joy;--and that is the
end of my sermon for the time. And now," he added briskly, "I must be
going, for I have far to fare; but I shall pass by this way again, and
shall inquire of your welfare; tell me your name and where you live."
So Paul told him, and then added timidly enough that he would fain
know how to begin to practise his art. "Silence!" said the minstrel,
rather fiercely; "that is an evil and timorous thought. If you are
worthy, you will find the way." And so in the hot afternoon he said
farewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul stood in wonder and hope,
and saw the two figures leave the flat, take to the down, and wind up
the steep road, ever growing smaller, till they topped the ridge,
where they seemed to stand a moment larger than human; and presently
they were lost from view.
So Paul made his way home; and when he pushed the gate of Heritage
open, he wondered to think that he could recollect nothing of the road
he had traversed. He went up to the house and entered the hall. There
sate Mistress Alison, reading in a little book. She closed it as he
came in, and looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to her and said,
"Mother" (so he was used to call her), "I have heard songs to-day such
as I never dreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of making
music; I must be a minstrel." "'Must' is a grave word, dear heart,"
said Mistress Alison, looking somewhat serious; "but let me hear your
story first." So Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. Mistress
Alison sate musing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, till
he said at last, "Will you not speak, mother?" "I know," she said at
last, "whom you have met, dear child--that is Mark, the great
minstrel. He travels about the land, for he is a restless man, though
the king himself would have him dwell in his court, and make music for
him. Yet I have looked for this day, though it has come when I did not
expect it. And now I must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Many
years ago there was a boy like you, and he loved music too and the
making of songs, and he grew to great skill therein. But it was at
last his ruin, for he got to love riotous company and feasting too
well; and so his skill forsook him, as it does those that live not
cleanly and nobly. And he married a young wife, having won her by his
songs, and a child was born to them. But the minstrel fell sick and
presently died, and his last prayer was that his son might not know
the temptation of song. And his wife lingered a little, but she soon
pined away, for her heart was broken within her; and she too died. And
now, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you are that child, the
son of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived with me all your
life; but because the tale was a sad one, I have forborne to tell it
you. I have waited and wondered to see whether the gift of the father
is given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it might be yours,
and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will talk of this no
more to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think well over what I
have said, and see if it makes a difference in your wishes. I have
told you all the tale."
Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much in
Paul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, and
he did not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight of
the minstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind,
and that he saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods
and streams, with a light of evening over it, bounded by far-off
hills, all blue and faint, among which some beautiful thing was hidden
for him to find; it seemed to call him softly to come; the trees
smiled upon him, the voice of the streams bade him make haste--it all
waited for him, like a country waiting for its lord to come and take
possession.
Then it seemed to him that his soul slipped like a bird from the
window, and rising in the air over that magical land, beat its wings
softly in the pale heaven; and then like a dove that knows, by some
inborn mysterious art, which way its path lies, his spirit paused upon
the breeze, and then sailed out across the tree-tops. Whither? Paul
knew not. And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep.
He woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a kind of tranquil joy
and purpose; and when he was dressed, and gone into the hall, he found
Mistress Alison sitting in her chair beside the table laid for their
meal. She was silent and looked troubled, and Paul went up softly to
her, and kissed her and said, "I have chosen." She did not need to ask
him what he had chosen, but put her arm about him and said, "Then,
dear Paul, be content--and we will have one more day together, the
last of the old days; and to-morrow shall the new life begin."
So the two passed a long and quiet day together. For to the wise and
loving-hearted woman this was the last of sweet days, and her soul
went out to the past with a great hunger of love; but she stilled it
as was her wont, saying to herself that this dear passage of life had
hitherto only been like the clear trickling of a woodland spring,
while the love of the Father's heart was as it were a great river of
love marching softly to a wide sea, on which river the very world
itself floated like a flower-bloom between widening banks.
And indeed if any had watched them that day, it would have seemed
that she was the serener; for the thought of the life that lay before
him worked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could only by an
effort bring himself back to loving looks and offices of tenderness.
They spent the whole day together, for the most part in a peaceful
silence; and at last the sun went down, and a cool breeze came up out
of the west, laden with scent from miles and miles of grass and
flowers, which seemed to bear with it the fragrant breath of myriads
of sweet living things.
Then they ate together what was the last meal they were to take thus
alone. And at last Mistress Alison would have Paul go to rest. And so
she took his hand in hers, and said, "Dear child, the good years are
over now; but you will not forget them; only lean upon the Father, for
He is very strong; and remember that though the voice of melody is
sweet, yet the loving heart is deeper yet." And then Paul suddenly
broke out into a passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on hand
and cheek and lips; and then he burst away, ashamed, if the truth be
told, that his love was not deeper than he found it to be.
He slept a light sleep that night, his head pillowed on his hand,
with many strange dreams ranging through his head. Among other
fancies, some sweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of melody
played, it seemed to him, by three silver-sounding flutes, so delicate
that he could hardly contain himself for gladness; but among his
sadder dreams was one of a little man habited like a minstrel who
played an ugly enchanted kind of melody on a stringed lute, and smiled
a treacherous smile at him; Paul woke in a sort of fever of the
spirit; and rising from his bed, felt the floor cool to his feet, and
drew his curtain aside; in a tender radiance of dawn he saw the barn,
deep in shadow, in the little garden; and over them a little wood-end
that he knew well by day--a simple place enough--but now it had a sort
of magical dreaming air; the mist lay softly about it like the breath
of sleep; and the trees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, seemed
to him to be full of silent prayer, or to be hiding within them some
divine secret that might not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked long
at this; and presently went back to his bed, and shivered in a
delicious warmth, while outside, very gradually, came the peaceful
stir of morning. A bird or two fluted drowsily in the bushes; then
another further away would join his slender song; a cock crew cheerily
in a distant grange, and soon it was broad day. Presently the house
began to be softly astir; and the faint fragrance of an early kindled
fire of wood stole into the room. Then, worn out by his long vigil, he
fell asleep again; and soon waking, knew it to be later than was his
wont, and dressed with haste. He came down, and heard voices in the
hall; he went in, and there saw Mistress Alison in her chair; and on
the hearth, talking gaily and cheerily, stood Mark the minstrel. They
made a pause when he came in. Mark extended his hand, which Paul took
with a kind of reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her sweet old
smile, said to Paul, "So you made a pilgrimage to the Well of the
Heart's Desire, dear Paul? Well, you have your wish, and very soon;
for here is a master for you, if you will serve him." "Not a light
service, Paul," said Mark gravely, "but a true one. I can take you
with me when you may go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a stroke
of the sun, and must bide at home awhile." They looked at Paul, to see
what he would say. "Oh, I will go gladly," he said, "if I may." And
then he felt he had not spoken lovingly; so he kissed Mistress Alison,
who smiled, but somewhat sadly, and said, "Yes, Paul--I understand."
So when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage was made ready, and he
kissed Mistress Alison--and then she said to Mark with a sudden look,
"You will take care of him?" "Oh, he shall be safe with me," said
Mark, "and if he be apt and faithful, he shall learn his trade, as few
can learn it." And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked away with
Mark; and his heart was so full of gladness that he stepped out
lightly and blithely, and hardly looked back. But at the turn of the
road he stopped, while Mark seemed to consider him gravely. The three
that were to abide, Mistress Alison, and the maid, and the old
gardener, stood at the door and waved their hands; the old house
seemed to look fondly out of its windows at him, as though it had a
heart; and the very trees seemed to wave him a soft farewell. Paul
waved his hand too, and a tear came into his eyes; but he was eager to
be gone; and indeed, in his heart, he felt almost jealous of even the
gentle grasp of his home upon his heart. And so Mark and Paul set out
for the south.