There was once a great scholar, Gilbert by name, who lived at
Cambridge, and was Fellow of St. Peter's College there. He was still
young, and yet he had made himself a name for learning, and still more
for wisdom, which is a different thing, though the two are often
confused. Gilbert was a slender, spare man, but well-knit and
well-proportioned. He loved to wear old scholarly garments, but he had
that sort of grace in wearing them that made him appear better
apparelled than most men in new clothes. His hair was thick and
curling, and he had small features clearly cut. His lips were somewhat
thin, as though from determined thought. He carried his eyes a little
wrinkled up, as though to spare them from the light; but he had a
gracious look which he turned on those with whom he spoke; and when he
opened his eyes upon you, they were large and clear, as though charged
with dreams; and he had a very sweet smile, trustful and gentle, that
seemed to take any that spoke with him straight to his heart, and made
him many friends. He had the look rather of a courtier than of a
priest, and he was merry and cheerful in discourse, so that you might
be long with him and not know him to be learned. It may be said that
he had no enemies, though he did not conceal his beliefs and thoughts,
but stated them so courteously and with such deference to opposite
views, that he drew men insensibly to his side. It was thought by many
that he ought to go into the world and make a great name for himself.
But he loved the quiet College life, the familiar talk with those he
knew. He loved the great plenty of books and the discourse of simple
and wise men. He loved the fresh bright hours of solitary work, the
shady College garden, with its butts and meadows, bordered by ancient
walls. He loved to sit at meat in the cool and spacious hall; and he
loved too the dark high-roofed College Church, and his own canopied
stall with the service-books in due order, the low music of the organ,
and the sweet singing of the choir. He was not rich, but his
Fellowship gave him all that he desired, together with a certain
seemly dignity of life that he truly valued; so that his heart was
very full of a simple happiness from day to day, and he thought that
he would be more than content to live out his life in the peaceful
College that he loved so well.
But he was ambitious too; he was writing a great book full of holy
learning; and he had of late somewhat withdrawn himself from the life
of the College; he sate longer at his studies and he was seen less
often in other Colleges. Ten years he gave himself to finish his task,
and he thought that it would bring him renown; but that was only a
far-off dream, gilding his studies with a kind of peaceful glory; and
indeed he loved the doing of his work better than any reward he might
get for it.
One summer he felt he wanted some change of life; the sultry Cambridge
air, so dry and low, seemed to him to be heavy and lifeless. He began
to dream of fresh mountain breezes, and the sound of leaping streams;
so at last he packed his books into a box, and set off a long journey
into the hills of the West, to a village where an old friend of his
was the priest, who he knew would welcome him.
On the sixth day he arrived at the place; he had enjoyed the journey;
much of the time he had ridden, but he often walked, for he was very
strong and active of body; he had delighted in seeing the places he
had passed through, the churches and the towns and the castles that
lay beside the way; he had been pleased with the simple friendly inns,
and as his custom was had talked with all travellers that he met. And
most of all he had loved, as he drew nearer the West, to see the great
green slopes of hills, the black heads of mountains, the steep wooded
valleys, where the road lay along streams, that dashed among mossy
boulders into still pools.
At last he came to the village which he sought, which lay with its
grey church and low stone houses by a bridge, in a deep valley. The
vicarage lay a little apart in a pleasant garden; and his friend the
Vicar had made him greatly welcome. The Vicar was an old man and
somewhat infirm, but he loved the quiet life of the country, and knew
all the joys and sorrows of his simple flock. A large chamber was set
apart for Gilbert, who ranged his books on a great table, and prepared
for much quiet work. The window of the chamber looked down the valley,
which was very still. There was no pattering of feet in the road, as
there was at Cambridge; the only sounds were the crying of cocks or
the bleating of sheep from the hill-pastures, the sound of the wind in
the woods, and the falling of water from the hills. So Gilbert was
well content.
For the first few days he was somewhat restless; he explored the
valley in all directions. The Vicar could not walk much, and only
crept to and fro in the town, or to church; and though he sometimes
rode to the hills, to see sick folk on upland farms, yet he told
Gilbert that he must go his walks alone; and Gilbert was not loth; for
as he thus went by himself in the fresh air, a stream of pleasant
fancies and gentle thoughts passed lightly through his head, and his
work shaped itself in his brain, like a valley seen from a height,
where the fields and farms lie out, as if on a map, with the road
winding among them that ties them with the world.
One day Gilbert walked alone to a very solitary place among the
hills, a valley where the woods grew thickly; the valley was an
estuary, where the sea came up blue and fresh twice in the day,
covering the wide sandbanks with still water that reflected the face
of the sky; in the midst of the valley, joined with the hillside by a
chain of low mounds, there rose a large round hill, covered with
bushes which grew thickly over the slopes, and among little crags,
haunted by hawks and crows. It looked a very solitary, peaceful hill,
and he stopped at a farm beside the road to inquire of the way
thither, because he was afraid of finding himself unable to cross the
streams.
At his knock there came out an ancient man, with whom Gilbert entered
into simple travellers' talk of the weather and the road; Gilbert
asked him the name of the place, and the man told him that it was
called the Gate of the Old Hollow. Then Gilbert pointing to the hill
that lay in the midst, asked him what that was. The old man looked at
him for a moment without answering, and then said in a low voice,
"That, sir, is the Hill of Trouble." "That is a strange name!" said
Gilbert. "Yes," said the old man, "and it is a strange place, where no
one ever sets foot--there is a cruel tale about it; there is something
that is not well about the place."
Gilbert was surprised to hear the other speak so gravely; but the old
man, who was pleased with his company, asked him if he would not rest
awhile and eat; and Gilbert said that he would do so gladly, and the
more gladly if the other would tell him the story of the place. The
old man led him within into a large room, with plain oak furniture,
and brought him bread and honey and milk; and Gilbert ate, while the
old man told him the legend of the Hill.
He said that long years ago it was a place of heathen worship, and
that there stood a circle of stones upon it, where sacrifice was done;
and that men, it was said, were slain there with savage rites; and
that when the Christian teachers came, and the valley became obedient
to the faith, it was forbidden the villagers to go there, and for long
years it was desolate; but there had dwelt in the manor-house hard by
a knight, fearless and rough, who regarded neither God nor man, who
had lately wedded a wife whom he loved beyond anything in the world.
And one day there was with the knight a friend who was a soldier, and
after dinner, in foolish talk, the knight said that he would go to the
Hill, and he made a wager on it. The knight's lady besought him not to
go, but he girded on his sword and went laughing. Now at the time, the
old man said, there was much fighting in the valley, for the people
were not yet subject to the English king, but paid tribute to their
own Lords; and the knight had been one that fought the best. What the
knight saw on the hill no one ever knew, but he came back at sundown,
pale, and like a man that has been strangely scared, looking behind
him as though he expected to be followed by something; and from that
day he kept his chamber, and would not go abroad, or if he went out,
he went fearfully, looking about him; and the English men-at-arms came
to the valley, but the knight that had ever been foremost in the fight
would not ride out to meet them, but kept his bed. The manor lay off
the road, and he ordered a boy to lie in the copse beside the way, and
to come up to the house to tell him if any soldiers went by. But a
troop of horse came secretly over the hill; and seeing the place lie
so solitary and deserted, and being in haste, they came not in, but
one of them shot a bolt at a venture; but the knight, it seemed, must
have stolen from his bed, and have been peeping through the shutters;
for the knight's lady who sate below in sore shame and grief for her
husband's cowardice, heard a cry, and coming up found him in his
bedgown lying by the window, and a bolt sticking in his brain.
Her grief and misery were so sore at this, that she was for a time
nearly mad; they buried the knight in secret in the churchyard; but
the lady sate for many days speaking to no one, beating with her hand
upon the table and eating little.
One day it seems that she had the thought to go herself to the Hill
of Trouble, so she robed herself in haste, and went at early dawn; she
went in secret, and came back at noon, smiling to herself, with all
her grief gone; and she sate for three days thus with her hands
folded, and from her face it was plain that there was joy in her
heart; and on the third evening they found her cold and stiff in her
chair, dead an hour since, but she was still smiling. And the lands
passed to a distant kinsman. And since that day, said the old man, no
one had ever set foot on the Hill, except a child not long since that
strayed thither, and came back in a great fear, saying that he had
seen and spoken with an old man, that had seemed to be angry, but that
another person, all in white, had come between them, and had led him
by the hand to the right road; it could not be known why the child was
frightened, but he said that it was the way the old man looked, and
the suddenness with which he came and went; but of the other he had no
fear, though he knew him not. "And that, sir, is the tale."
Gilbert was very much astonished at the tale, and though he was not
credulous, the story dwelt strongly in his mind. It was now too late
to visit the Hill, even if he had wished; and he could not have so
vexed the old man as to visit it from his house. He stood for awhile
at the gate looking down at it. It was hot and still in the valley.
The tide was out and the warm air quivered over the sandbanks. But the
Hill had a stillness of its own, as though it guarded a secret, and
lay looking out towards the sea. He could see the small crags upon it,
in the calm air, and the bushes that grew plentifully all over it,
with here and there a little green lawn, or a glade sloping down to
the green flat in which it stood. The old man was beside him and said
in his shrill piping voice, "You are not thinking of going to the
Hill, sir?" "Not now, at all events," said Gilbert, smiling. But the
old man said, "Ah, sir, you will not go--there are other things in
this world of ours, beside the hills and woods and farms; it would be
strange if that were all. The spirits of the dead walk at noonday in
the places they have loved; and I have thought that the souls of those
who have done wickedness are sometimes bound to a place where they
might have done good things, and while they are vexed at all the evil
their hands have wrought, they are drawn by a kind of evil habit to do
what they chose to do on earth. Perhaps those who are faithful can
resist them--but it is ill to tempt them."
Gilbert was surprised at this wise talk from so simple a man; and he
said, "How is it that these thoughts come into your mind?" "Oh, sir,"
said the other, "I am old and live much alone; and these are some of
the thoughts that come into my head as I go about my work, but who
sends them to me I cannot tell."
Then Gilbert said farewell, and would have paid for his meal, but the
old man courteously refused, and said that it was a pleasure to see a
stranger in that lonely place; and that it made him think more kindly
of the world to talk so simply with one who was, he was sure, so great
a gentleman.
Gilbert smiled, and said he was only a simple scholar; and then he
went back to the vicarage house. He told the Vicar of his adventure,
and the Vicar said he had heard of the Hill, and that there was
something strange in the dread which the place inspired. Then Gilbert
said, half impatiently, that it was a pity that people were so ridden
by needless superstition, and made fears for themselves when there was
so much in the world that it was well to fear. But the old Vicar shook
his head. "They are children, it is true," he said, "but children, I
often think, are nearer to heaven than ourselves, and perhaps have
glimpses of things that it is harder for us to see as we get older and
more dull."
But Gilbert made up his mind as they talked that he would see the
place for himself; and that night he dreamed of wandering over lonely
places with a fear upon him of he knew not what. And waking very
early, after a restless night, and seeing the day freshly risen, and
the dewy brightness of the valley, he put on his clothes in haste, and
taking with him a slice of bread from the table, he set out blithely
for the Hill, with an eagerness of spirit that he had been used to
feel as a child.
He avoided the farm, and took a track that seemed to lead into the
valley, which led him up and down through little nooks and pastures,
till he came to the base of the Hill. It was all skirted by a low wall
of piled stones covered with grey lichens, where the brambles grew
freely; but the grass upon the Hill itself had a peculiar richness and
luxuriance, as though it was never trodden or crushed underfoot.
Gilbert climbed the wall, but the brambles clung to him as though to
keep him back; he disentangled them one by one, and in a moment he
found himself in a little green glade, among small crags, that seemed
to lead to the top of the Hill. He had not gone more than a few paces
when the pleasure and excitement died out of his mind, and left him
feeling weary and dispirited. But he said to himself that it was his
troubled night, and the walk at the unusual hour, and the lack of
food; so he took out his bread and ate it as he walked, and presently
he came to the top.
Then he suddenly saw that he was at the place described; in front of
him stood a tall circle of stones, very grey with age. Some of them
were flung down and were covered with bushes, but several of them
stood upright. The place was strangely silent; he walked round the
circle, and saw that it occupied the top of the Hill; below him were
steep crags, and when he looked over he was surprised to see all down
the rocks, on ledges, a number of crows that sate silent in the sun.
At the motion he made, a number of them, as though surprised to be
disturbed, floated off into the air, with loud jangling cries; and a
hawk sailed out from the bushes and hung, a brown speck, with
trembling wings. Gilbert saw the rich plain at his feet and the
winding creek of the sea, and the great hills on left and right, in a
blue haze. Then he stepped back, and though he had a feeling that it
would be wiser not to go, he put it aside and went boldly into the
circle of stones. He stood there for a moment, and then feeling very
weary, sate down on the turf, leaning his back against a stone; then
came upon him a great drowsiness. He was haunted by a sense that it
was not well to sleep there, and that the dreaming mind was an ill
defence against the powers of the air--yet he put the thought aside
with a certain shame and fell asleep.
He woke with a sudden start some time after; there was a chill in
his limbs, not from the air which glowed bright in the steady sun, but
a chill of the spirit that made his hair prickle in an unusual way. He
raised himself up and looked round him, for he knew by a certain sense
that he was not alone; and then he saw leaning against one of the
stones and watching him intently, a very old and weary-looking man.
The man was pale and troubled; he had a rough cloak such as the
peasants wore, the hood of which was pulled over his head; his hair
was white and hung about his ears; he had a staff in his hand. But
there was a dark look about him, and Gilbert divined in some swift
passage of the spirit that he did not wish him well. Gilbert rose to
his feet, and at the same moment the old man drew near; and though he
looked so old and feeble, Gilbert had the feeling that he was strong
and even dangerous. But Gilbert showed no surprise; he doffed his hat
to the old man, and said courteously that he hoped he had not wandered
to some private place, where he ought not to be. "The heat was great,
and I slept unawares," he said. The old man at first made no answer,
and then said in a very low and yet clear voice, "Nay, sir, you are
welcome. The Hill is free to all; but it has an evil name, I know, and
I see but few upon it." Then Gilbert said courteously that he was but
a passer-by, and that he must set off home again, before the sun was
high. And at that the old man said, "Nay, sir, but as you have come,
you will surely wait awhile and speak with me. I see," he added, "so
few of humankind, that my mind and tongue are alike stiff with disuse;
but you can tell me something of your world--and I," he added, "can
tell you something of mine." Then there came suddenly on Gilbert a
great fear, and he looked round on the tall stones of the circle that
seemed to be like a prison. Then he said, "I am but a simple scholar
from Cambridge, and my knowledge of the world is but small; we work,"
he said, "we write and read, we talk and eat together, and sometimes
we pray." The old man looked at him with a sudden look, under his
brows, as he said the words; and then he said, "So, sir, you are a
priest; and your faith is a strong one and avails much; but there is a
text about the strong man armed who is overcome of the stronger. And
though the faith you teach is like a fort in an enemy's country, in
which men may dwell safely, yet there is a land outside; and a fort
cannot always hold its own." He said this in so evil and menacing a
tone that Gilbert said, "Come, sir, these are wild words; would you
speak scorn of the faith that is the light of God and the victory that
overcometh?" Then the old man said, "Nay, I respect the faith--and
fear it even," he added in a secret tone--"but I have grown up in a
different belief, and the old is better--and this also is a little
stronghold, which holds its own in the midst of foes; but I would not
be disputing," he added--and then with a smile, "Nay, sir, I know what
is in your mind; you like not this place--and you are right; it is not
fit for you to set your holy feet in; but it is mine yet; and so you
must even accept the hospitality of the place; you shall look thrice
in my glass, and see if you like what you shall see." And he held out
to Gilbert a small black shining thing. Gilbert would have wished to
refuse it, but his courtesy bade him take it--and indeed he did not
know if he could have refused the old man, who looked so sternly upon
him. So he took it in his hand. It was a black polished stone like a
sphere, and it was very cold to the touch--so cold that he would fain
have thrown it down; but he dared not. So he said with such spirit as
he could muster, "And what shall I see beside the stone?--it seems a
fair and curious jewel--I cannot give it a name." "Nay," said the old
man sharply, "it is not the stone; the stone is naught; but it hides a
mystery. You shall see it in the stone."
And Gilbert said, "And what shall I see in the stone?" And the old man
said, "What shall be."
So Gilbert looked upon the stone; the sun shone upon it in a bright
point of light--and for an instant he saw nothing but the gleaming
sides of the ball. But in a moment there came upon him a dizziness
like that which comes upon a man who, walking on a hill-top, finds
himself on the edge of a precipice. He seemed to look into a great
depth, into the dark places of the earth--but in the depth there hung
a mist like a curtain. Now while he looked at it he saw a commotion in
the mist; and looking closer, he saw that it seemed to be something
waving to and fro that drove the mist about; and presently he saw the
two arms of a man; and then the mist parted, and he saw the figure of
a man standing and waving with his arms, like a man who would fan
smoke aside; and the smoke fled from the waving arms and rolled away;
and the man stepped aside.
Then Gilbert looked beyond, and he saw a room with a low ceiling and a
mullioned window; and he knew it at once for his room in St. Peter's
College. There were books on the table; and he saw what seemed like
himself, risen to his feet, as though at a sound; and then he saw the
door open and a man come in who made an obeisance, and the two seemed
to talk together, and presently Gilbert saw the other man pull
something from a cloth and put it in his own hands. And the figure of
himself seemed to draw near the window to look at the thing; and
though it was all very small and distant, yet Gilbert could see that
he held in his hands a little figure that seemed a statue. And then
the mist rolled in again and all was hid.
He came to himself like a man out of a dream, he had been so intent on
what appeared; and he saw the hill-top and the circle of stones, and
the old man who stood watching him with a secret smile upon his face.
Then Gilbert made as though he would give the stone back, but before
he could speak, the old man pointed to the stone again--and Gilbert
looked again and saw the deep place, and the cloud, and the man part
the cloud.
Then he saw within a garden, and he knew it at once to be the garden
of St. Peter's; it seemed to be summer, for the trees were in leaf. He
saw himself stand, carrying something in his hand, and looking at a
place in the garden wall. There was something on the wall, a patch of
white, but he could not see what it was; and beneath it there stood a
small group of men in scholars' dress who looked upon the wall, but he
could not see their faces; but one whom he recognised as the Master of
the College stood with a stick in his hand, and pointed to the white
patch on the wall--and then something seemed to run by, a cat or dog,
and all at once the cloud flowed in over the picture; and again he
came to himself and saw the hill-top, and the stones, and the old man,
who had drawn a little nearer, and looked at him with a strange smile.
And again he pointed to the stone; and Gilbert looked again and saw
the cloud work very swiftly and part, and the man who swept the clouds
off came forth for an instant, and then was lost to view.
And Gilbert saw a very dark place, with something long and white,
that glimmered faintly, lying in the midst; and he bent down to look
at it, but could not discern what it was. Then he saw in the darkness
which surrounded the glimmering thing some small threads of dusky
white, and some small round things; and he looked at them long; and
presently discerned that the round things were pebbles, and that the
white threads were like the roots of trees; and then he perceived that
he was looking into the earth; and then with a sickly chill of fear he
saw that the long and glimmering thing was indeed the body of a man,
wrapped in grave-clothes from head to foot. And he could now
distinguish--for it grew more distinct--the sides of a coffin about
it, and some worms that moved to and fro in their dark burrows; but
the corpse seemed to shine with a faint light of its own--and then he
could see the wasted feet, and the thin legs and arms of the body
within; the hands were folded over the breast; and then he looked at
the face; and he saw his own face, only greatly sunk and fallen, with
a bandage that tied up the chin, and leaden eyes; and then the clouds
swept in upon it; and he came to himself like a drowning man, and saw
that he was in the same place; and his first thought was a thrill of
joy to know that he was alive; but then he groaned aloud, and he saw
the old man stand beside him with a very terrible look upon his face,
holding out his hand for the stone in silence; so Gilbert gave him
back the stone, and then with a fierce anger said, "Why have you shown
me this? for this is the trickery of hell." And the old man looked at
him very sternly and said, "Why then did you come to this place? You
were not called hither, and they that pry must be punished. A man who
pulls open the door which leads from the present into the future must
not be vexed if he sees the truth--and now, sir," he added very
angrily, "depart hence in haste; you have seen what you have seen." So
Gilbert went slowly from the circle, and very heavily, and as he
stepped outside he looked back. But there was nothing there but the
turf and the grey stones.
Gilbert went slowly down the Hill with a shadow upon him, like a man
who has passed through a sudden danger, or who has had a sudden
glimpse into the dark realities of life. But the whole experience was
so strange and dreamlike, so apart from the wholesome current of his
life, that his fears troubled him less than he had supposed; still, a
kind of hatred for the quiet valley began to creep over him, and he
found himself sitting long over his books, looking down among the
hills, and making no progress. If he was not silent when in company
with the old Vicar, it was because he made a strong effort, and
because his courtesy came to his assistance. Indeed the old Vicar
thought that he had never known Gilbert so tender or thoughtful as he
had been in the last week of his visit. The truth was that it was an
effort to Gilbert to talk about himself, and he therefore drew the old
priest on to talk about the details of his own life and work. Thus,
though Gilbert talked less himself, he was courteously attentive, so
that the old man had a sense that there had been much pleasant
interchange of feeling, whereas he had contributed the most of the
talk himself. Gilbert, too, found a great comfort in the offices of
the Church in these days, and prayed much that, whatever should befall
him, he might learn to rest in the mighty will of God for himself,
whatever that will might be.
Soon after this he went back to Cambridge, and there, among his old
friends and in his accustomed haunts, the whole impression of the
vision on the Hill of Trouble grew faint and indistinct, especially as
no incident occurred to revive it. He threw himself into his work, and
the book grew under his hands; and he seemed to be more eager to fill
his hours than before, and avoided solitary meditation.
Some three years after the date of his vision, there was announced to
him by letter the advent of a great scholar to Cambridge, who had read
one of Gilbert's books, and was desirous to be introduced to him.
Gilbert was sitting one day in his rooms, after a happy quiet morning,
when the porter came to the door and announced the scholar. He was a
tall eager man, who came forward with great friendliness, and said
some courteous words about his pleasure at having met one whom he was
so desirous to see. He carried something in his hand, and after the
first compliments, said that he had ventured to bring Gilbert a little
curiosity that had lately been dug up at Rome, and which he had been
fortunate in securing. He drew off a wrapper, and held out to Gilbert
a little figure of a Muse, finely sculptured, with an inscription on
the pedestal. Gilbert stepped to the window to look at it, and as he
did so it flashed across his mind that this was surely the scene that
he had observed in the black stone. He stood for a moment with the
statue in his hand, with such a strange look in his face, that the
new-comer thought for an instant that his gift must have aroused some
sad association. But Gilbert recovered himself in a moment and
resolutely put the thought out of his mind, praised the statue, and
thereupon entered into easy talk.
The great scholar spent some days at Cambridge, and Gilbert was much
with him. They talked of learned matters together, but the great
scholar said afterwards that though Gilbert was a man of high genius
and of great insight into learning, yet he felt in talking with him as
though he had some further and deeper preoccupation of thought.
Indeed when Gilbert, by laying of dates together, became aware that it
was three years to a day since he had seen the vision in the stone, he
was often haunted by the thought of his visit to the Hill. But this
lasted only a few days; and he took comfort at the thought that he had
seen a further vision in the stone which seemed at least to promise
him three more peaceful years of unchanged work, before he need give
way to the heaviness that the third vision had caused him. Yet it lay
like a dark background in his thoughts.
He kept very much to his work after this event, and became graver and
sterner in face, so that his friends thought that his application to
study was harmful. But when they spoke of it to Gilbert, he used to
say laughingly that nothing but work made life worthy, and that he was
making haste; and indeed the great book grew so fast that he was
within sight of the end. He had many wrestles within himself, about
this time, as to the goodness and providence of God. He argued to
himself that he had been led very tenderly beside the waters of
comfort, that he had served God as faithfully as he could--and indeed
he had little to reproach himself with, though he began to blame
himself for living a life that pleased him, and for not going about
more in the world helping weak brethren along the way, as the Lord
Christ had done. Yet again he said to himself that the great doctors
and fathers of the Church had deemed it praiseworthy that a man should
devote all the power of his brain to making the divine oracle clear,
and that the apostle Paul had spoken of a great diversity of gifts
which could be used faithfully in the service of Christ. Still, he
reflected that the truest glimpse into the unknown that he had ever
received--for he doubted no longer of the truth of the vision--had
come to him from one that was, he thought, outside the mercies of God,
an unhallowed soul, shut off by his own will and by his wickedness
from the fold; and this was a sore burden to him.
At last the book was done; and he went with it to a friend he had at
Oxford, a mighty scholar, to talk over some difficult passages. The
opinion of the scholar had been cordial and encouraging; he had said
that the book was a very great and sound work, useful for doctrine and
exhortation, and that many men had given their whole lives to work
without achieving such a result. Gilbert had some of the happiness
which comes to one who has completed a lengthy task; and though the
time drew nigh at which he might expect a further fulfilment of the
vision, he was so filled with gratitude at the thought of the great
work he had done, that there was little fear or expectation in his
mind.
He returned one summer afternoon to Cambridge, and the porter told
him that the Master and several of the Fellows were in the garden, and
would fain see him on his arrival. So Gilbert, carrying a little
bundle which contained his precious book, went out there at once. The
Master had caused to be made a new sundial, which he had affixed in
such a way to the wall that those whose chambers gave on the garden
could read the time of day without waiting to hear the bells.
When Gilbert came out he saw the little group of Fellows standing by
the wall, while the Master with a staff pointed out the legend on the
dial, which said that the only hours it told were the hours of
sunshine. It came upon Gilbert in a moment that this was the second
vision, and though two or three of the group saw him and turned to him
with pleasant greetings, he stood for a moment lost in the strangeness
of the thing. One of them said, "He stands amazed at the novelty of
the design;" and as he said the words, an old gray cat that belonged
to the College, and lodged somewhere in the roofs, sprang from a bush
and ran past him. One of the Fellows said, "Aha, cats do not love
change!" and then Gilbert came forward, and greeted his friends; but
there lay a cold and terrible thought in the background of his mind,
and he could not keep it out of his face; so that one of the Fellows,
drawing him aside, asked if he had a good verdict on the book, for he
seemed as one that was ill-pleased. And the Master, fearing that
Gilbert did not like the dial, came and said to him courteously that
he knew it was a new-fangled thing, but that it was useful, and in
itself not unpleasant, and that it would soon catch a grace of
congruity from the venerable walls around. "But," he added, "if you do
not like it, it shall be put in some other place." Then Gilbert
bestirred himself and said that he liked the dial very well, so that
the Master was content.
But Gilbert, as soon as he was by himself, delivered his mind up to
heavy contemplation; the vision had twice fulfilled itself, and it was
hardly to be hoped that it would fail the third time. He sent his book
to be copied out fair, and when it was gone it was as though he had
lost his companion. The hours passed very slowly and drearily; he
wrote a paper, to fill the time, of his wishes with regard to what
should be done with his books and little property after his death, and
was half minded to tear it up again. And then after a few days of
purposeless and irresolute waiting, he made up his mind that he must
go again to the West, and see his friend the old priest. And though he
did not say it to himself in words, yet a purpose slowly shaped itself
in his mind that he must at all cost go to the Hill, and learn again
what should be, and that thus alone could he break the spell.
He spent a morning in making his farewells; he tried to speak to his
friends as usual, but they noticed long afterwards that he had used a
special tenderness and wistfulness in all he said; he sate long in his
own room, with a great love in his heart for the beautiful and holy
peace of the place, and for all the happiness he had known there; and
then he prayed very long and earnestly in the chapel, kneeling in his
stall; and his heart was somewhat lightened.
Then he set off; but before he mounted his horse he looked very
lovingly at the old front of the College, and his servant saw that his
eyes were full of tears and that his lips moved; and so Gilbert rode
along to the West.
His journey was very different from the same journey taken six years
before; he spoke with none, and rode busily, like one who is anxious
to see some sad errand through. He found the old Vicar still more
infirm and somewhat blind; but the Vicar said that he was very happy
to see him, as he himself was near the end of life, and that he could
hope for but few years,--adding that it was far different for Gilbert,
who, he supposed, would very soon be a Dean with a Cathedral of his
own, and would forget his humble friend the old Vicar. But Gilbert put
the wit aside, and talked earnestly with the Vicar about the end of
life and what might be hereafter. But the old Vicar said solemnly that
he knew not, and indeed cared little. But that he would go into the
dark like a child holding a loving hand, and would have no need to
fear.
That night Gilbert lay in his bed awake, and very strange thoughts
passed through his mind, which he strove to quiet by prayers; and so
fell asleep; till at last in the dim dawn he awoke. Then after a
moment's thought he took a paper and wrote on it, saying that he was
gone out and knew not when he would return; but he prayed the Vicar
that when he should find the paper, he should at once fall to prayer
for him, for there was a sore conflict before him to fight out, both
in soul and body, and what would be the issue he knew not. "And if,"
the end of the writing ran, "I must depart hence, then pray that my
passage may be easy, and that I may find the valley bright." And he
laid the paper upon the table. Then he dressed himself, and went out
alone into the valley, walking swiftly and intently--so intently that
when he passed the farm he marked not that the old farmer was sitting
in an arbour in the garden, who called shrilly to him; but Gilbert
heard not, and the old farmer was too weak to follow; so Gilbert went
down to the Hill of Trouble.
It lay, as it had lain six years before, very still and beautiful in
the breathless sunshine. The water was in the creek, a streak of
sapphire blue; the birds called in the crags, and the bushes and lawns
glistened fresh with dew.
But Gilbert, very pale and with his heart beating fast, came to the
wall and surmounted it, and went swiftly up the Hill, till he found
himself near the stones; then he looked once round upon the hills and
the sea, and then with a word of prayer he stepped within the circle.
This time he had not long to wait. As he entered the circle he saw
the old man enter from the opposite side and come to meet him, with a
strange light of triumph in his eyes. Then Gilbert looked him in the
face with a rising horror, and said, "Sir, I have come again; and I
doubt the truth of your vision no longer; I have done my work, and I
have twice seen the fulfilment--now therefore tell me of my end--that
I may be certified how long I have to live. For the shadow of the
doubt I cannot bear."
And the old man looked at him with something of compassion and said,
"You are young, and you fear the passage hence, knowing not what may
be on the other side of the door; but you need not fear. Even I, who
have small ground of hope, am ashamed that I feared it so much. But
what will you give me if I grant your boon?"