The castle of Tremontes stands in a wood of oaks, a little way off
the high-road; it takes its name from the three mounds that rise in
the castle yard, covered now with turf and daisies, but piled together
within of stones, which cover, so the legend says, the bodies of three
Danish knights killed in a skirmish long ago; the river that runs in
the creek beside the castle is joined to the sea but a little below,
and the tide comes up to Tremontes; when the sea is out, there are
bare and evil-smelling mudbanks, with a trickle of brackish water in
the midst. But at the time of which I write, the channel was deeper,
and little ships with brown sails could be seen running before the
wind among the meadows, to discharge their cargoes at the water-gate
of the castle. It was a strong place with its leaded roofs and its
tower of squared stone, very white and smooth. There was a moat all
round the wall, full of water-lilies, where the golden carp could be
seen basking on hot days; there was a barbican with a drawbridge, the
chains of which rattled and groaned when the bridge was drawn up at
sunset, and let down at sunrise; the byre came up to the castle walls
on one side; on the other was a paved walk or terrace, and below, a
little garden of herbs and sweet flowers; within, was a hall on the
ground floor, with a kitchen and buttery; above that, a little chapel
and a solar; above that again, a bower and some few bedrooms, and at
the top, under the leads, a granary, to which the sacks used to be
drawn up by a chain, swung from a projecting penthouse on the top.
From the castle leads you could see the wide green flat, with dark
patches of woodland, with lines of willows marking the streams; here
and there a church tower rose from the trees; to the east a line of
wolds, and to the south a glint of sea from the estuary.
Inside, the castle was a sad place enough, dreary and neglected.
Marmaduke, the Lord of Tremontes, had been a great soldier in his
time, but he had received a grievous wound in the head, and had been
carried to Tremontes to die, and yet lingered on; his wife had long
been dead, and he had but one son, a boy of ten years old, Robert by
name, who was brought up roughly and evilly enough; he played with the
village boys, he lived with the half-dozen greedy and idle men-at-arms
who loitered in the castle, grumbling at their lack of employment, and
killing the time with drinking and foolish games and gross talk. There
was an old chaplain in the house, a lazy and gluttonous priest, who
knew enough of his trade to mumble his mass, and no more; women there
were none, except an old waiting-woman, a silent faithful soul, who
loved the boy and petted him, and mourned in secret over his miserable
upbringing, but who, having no store of words to tell her thoughts,
could only be dumbly kind to him, and careful of his childish hurts
and ailments; the boy ate and drank with the men, and aped their
swaggering and blasphemous ways, which made them laugh and praise his
cunning. The Lord Marmaduke had been nursed back into a sort of poor
life, and sate all day in a fur gown in the solar, with a velvet cap
on his head to hide his wound, which broke out afresh in the month of
May, when he had been wounded; when he was in ill case, he sate silent
and frowning, beating his hands on the table; when he was well he
muttered to himself, and laughed at Heaven knows what cheerful
thoughts, and would sing in a broken voice, fifty times on end, a
verse of a foul song; and he would suddenly smite those that tended
him, and laugh; sometimes he would wander into the chapel, and kneel
peeping through his fingers; and sometimes he would go and stroke his
armour, which lay where he had put it off, and cry. The only thing he
cared for was to have his keys beside him, and he would tell them one
by one, and curse if he could not tell them right. And so the days
dragged slowly by. He cared nothing for his son, who never entered the
solar except for his own ends. And one of these was to steal away his
father's keys, and to unlock every door in the castle; for he was
inquisitive and bold; he knew the use of all the keys but one; this
was a small strong key, with a head like a quatrefoil; and though he
tried to fit it to every cupboard and door in the house, he could
never find its place.
But one day when his father was ill and lay abed, staring at the
flies on the ceiling, the boy came to the solar, and slipped in behind
the dusty arras that hung round the room, making believe that he was a
rabbit in its burrow; he went round with his face to the wall, feeling
with his hands; and when he came to the corner of the room, the wall
was colder to his touch, like iron; and feeling at the place, he
seemed to discover hinges and a door. So he dived beneath the arras,
and then lifted it up; and he saw that in the wall was a small iron
door like a cupboard. Something in his heart held him back, but before
he had time to listen to it he had opened the little door, for the
keys lay on the table to his hand; and he was peering into a small
dark recess of stone, which seemed, for the wail that the little door
made on its hinges, not to have been opened for many years.
In the cupboard, which had no shelves, lay some dark objects.
The boy took out the largest, looping the arras up over the little
door; it was a rudely made spiked crown or coronet of iron, with odd
devices chased upon it; the boy replaced it and drew out the next;
this was a rusted iron dagger with torn leather on the hilt. The boy
did not care for this--there were many better in the castle armoury.
There seemed to be nothing else in the cupboard. But feeling with his
hand in the dark corners, he drew out a stone about the size of a
hen's egg. This he thought he would take, so he locked the cupboard,
let the arras fall, and stood awhile to consider. On the arras
opposite him, over the door, was the figure of a man embroidered in
green tunic and leggings with a hat drawn over his face and with a
finger laid on his lip, as though he had cause to be silent, or to
wish others so. The man had a forked beard and a kind of secret smile,
as if he mocked the onlooker; and he seemed unpleasantly natural to
the boy, as though he divined his thought. He was half minded to put
the stone back; but the secrecy of the thing pleased him. Moreover as
he held the stone to the light, it seemed half transparent, and sent
out a dull red gleam.
So the boy put the stone in his pouch, and soon loved it exceedingly,
and desired to keep it with him. He often thrust it in secret places
inside and outside the castle, in holes in a hollow elder tree, or
chinks of the wall, and it pleased him when he lay in bed on windy
rainy nights, to think of the stone lying snug and warm in its small
house. Soon he began to attribute a kind of virtue to the thing; he
thought that events went better when he had it with him; and he named
it in his mind _The Wound_, because it seemed to him like the red and
jewelled wound in the side of the figure of Our Saviour that hung in
coloured glass over the chapel altar.
One day he had a terrible shock; he was lying on the terrace,
spinning the stone, and watching the little whirling gleams of red
light it made on the flags, when a man-at-arms stole upon him, and in
wantonness seized the stone, and flung it far into the moat, where it
fell with a splash. The boy was angry and smote the man upon the face
with all his might, and was sorely beaten for it--for they had no
respect for the heir, and indeed there was no one to whom he could
complain--but he held his peace; and a week after the stone was
restored to him in a way that seemed miraculous; for they ran the
water of the moat off, to mend the sluice, so that the water-lilies
sank in tangles to the bottom and the carp flapped in the mud; but the
boy found the stone lying on the pavement of the sluice.
But the fancy for the stone soon came to an end, as a boy's fancies
will; and he carried it with him, or put it into one of his
hiding-places and thought no more of _The Wound_.
Suddenly the peaceful, idle and evil life came to a close. One day he
had heard the tinkle of the sacring bell in the chapel, and had
slipped in and found the priest at mass--the boy had a curious love
for the mass; he liked to see the quaint movements of the priest in
his embroidered robe, and a sort of peace settled upon his spirit--and
this day he knelt near the screen and sniffed the incense, when he
heard a sound behind him, and turning, saw a man booted and cloaked as
though from a journey, standing in the door with a paper in his hand,
beckoning him. Even as he rose and went out, it came into his mind
that this was in some way a summons for him; the letter was from his
mother's brother, the Lord Ralph of Parbury, a noble knight; he had
been long away fighting in many wars, but on his return heard tell of
the illness of Marmaduke, and wrote to bid him send his son to him,
and he would train him for a soldier. They had great ado to read the
letter, and there was much putting of heads together over it; but the
messenger knew the purport, and the boy made up his mind to go, for he
felt, he had said to himself, like one of the silly and lazy carp
sweltering in the castle moat; so he dressed himself in his best and
went. The men-at-arms were sorry to see their playmate go, though they
had done him little but evil; and the old priest, half in tears,
brought a small book and gave it to the boy; the old nurse clung to
him and cried bitterly; but the boy felt nothing but a kind of shame
at the thought how glad he was to go; indeed he would hardly have gone
to wish farewell to his father, who was in one of his fits, and lay
muttering on his bed; but the boy went, and, the door being ajar, he
looked in and saw him, pale and fat, gibbering at his fingers, and
almost hated him. And so he mounted and rode away, on a hot still
summer afternoon, and was glad to see the castle tower sink down among
the oaks, as they rode by green tracks and open heaths, little by
little into the unknown land to the south.
The years flew fast away with the Lord Ralph; and Robert learnt to be
a noble knight. It was hard at first to change from the old sluggish
life, when he had none but himself to please; but something caught
fire within Robert's soul, and he submitted willingly and eagerly to
the discipline of Parbury, which was severe. He grew up strong and
straight and fearless, and worthy of fame, so that Ralph was proud of
his nephew; two things alone made him anxious; Robert was, he thought,
too desirous of praise, too much bent upon excelling others, though
Ralph tried to make him learn that it is the doing of noble things in
a noble way, for the love of the deed done, and for the honour of it,
that makes a worthy knight--and not the desire to be held worthy.
Moreover, Robert had but little chivalry or tenderness of spirit; he
was not cruel, for he disdained it; but he was hard, and despised
weakness and grace; cared not for child, or even horse or hound, and
held the love of women in contempt, saying that a soldier should have
no time to marry until he was old and spent; and that then it was too
late. It even made Ralph sorry that Robert had no love for Tremontes
or for his father, or for any of those whom he had left behind; for a
knight's face, said Ralph, should be set forward in gladness, but he
should look backward in love and recollection. But Robert understood
nothing of such talk; or cared not; and indeed there was little to
blame in him; for he was courteous and easy in peace; and he was
strong and valiant and joyful in war. He made no friend, but he was
admired by many and feared by some.
Then, when Robert was within a few days of twenty-five, came a
messenger, an old and gross man-at-arms with rusty armour, riding on a
broken horse; he was one of the merry comrades of Robert's childhood;
but Robert seemed hardly to know him, though he acknowledged his
greeting courteously, and stayed not to talk, but opened the letter he
had brought, and read gravely; and when he had read he said to the
messenger, "So my lord is dead." And the messenger would have babbled
about the end that the Lord Marmaduke had made, which indeed had been
a bitter one, but Robert cut him short, and asked him a plain question
or two about affairs, and frowned at his stumbling answers; and then
Robert went to his uncle, and after due obeisance said, "Sir, my
father, it seems, is dead, and with your leave I must ride to
Tremontes and take my inheritance." And the Lord Ralph, seeing no sign
of sorrow, said, "Your father was a great knight." "Ay, once," said
Robert, "doubtless, but as I knew him more tree than man." And
presently he took horse and rode all night to Tremontes; and when the
old man-at-arms would have ridden beside him, and reminded him with a
poor smile of some passages of his childhood, Robert said sourly,
"Man, I hate my childhood, and will hear no word of it; and you and
your fellow-knaves treated me ill; and your kindness was worse than
your anger. Ride behind me."
So they rode sadly enough, until at evening, with a great red sunset
glowing in the west, and smouldering behind the tree-trunks, he saw
the dark tower of Tremontes looking solemnly out above the oaks. Then
the man-at-arms asked humbly that he might ride forward and announce
the new lord's coming; but Robert forbade him, and rode alone into the
court.
He gave his horse to the man-at-arms and walked into the house; in
the hall he found a drunken company and much ugly mirth. He surveyed
the scene awhile in disgust, for they cried out at first for him to
join them, till it came upon them who it was that looked upon them; so
they stumbled to their feet and did him obeisance, and slunk out one
by one upon some pretence of business, leaving him alone with the old
priest, who was heavier and grosser than before. But he had his wits
as well as he ever had, and would have told Robert how his father had
made a blessed end, with holy oil and sacraments and all due comfort
of Mother Church, but Robert cut him short; and after a lonely meal in
the great hall, turned to look at such few parchments that there were
in the house, and sent for the steward to see how his inheritance
stood. It was a miserable tale he had to tell of neglect and
thriftlessness; and Robert said very soon that he could only hope to
save his estate by living poorly and giving diligence--and that he had
no mind to do; so he resolved that if he could find a purchaser, he
would sell the home of his fathers, and himself set out into the world
he loved, to carve out a fortune, if he might, with his sword.
Among the parchments was one that was closely sealed; it bore a date
before his birth; he read it at first listlessly enough, but presently
he caught sight of words that made his heart beat faster. It seemed
from the script that his father, as a young man, had served for awhile
with a great Duke of Spain, the prince of a little kingdom, and that
he had even saved his life in battle, and would have been promoted to
high honour, but that he had been recalled home to take his
inheritance; but the Duke, so said the writing, had given him the iron
crown and dagger that the Lord of the Marches wore, and with them the
great ruby of the dukedom, that was worth a king's ransom. And the
parchment said that it was pledged by the Duke, by all the most sacred
relics of Spain, bones of saints and wood of the True Cross, that
should he or any of his heirs come before the Duke with these tokens,
the Duke would promote him to chief honour.
Here then was the secret of the iron door and his father's constant
fingering of the keys; and this was the plaything of his youth, _The
Wound_, as he had called it. Robert bowed his head upon his hands and
tried to recollect where he had thrust it last; but though he thought
of a score of hiding-places where it might be, he could not remember
where it certainly lay. Could he have thrown away by his childish
folly a thing which would give him, if he cared to claim it, high
honour and great place?--and if he cared not to claim that boon, but
only sold the jewel, which was undoubtedly his own, he might be a
great lord, among the wealthiest in the land.
Robert sate long in thought in the silent solar, with a candle burning
beside him; once or twice his old nurse came in upon him, and longed
to kiss him and clasp her child close; but he looked coldly upon her
and seemed hardly to remember her.
At last the day began to brighten in the east; and Robert cast
himself for awhile upon his father's bed to sleep, and slept a broken
sleep. In the morning he first went to the cupboard and found the
crown and dagger as he had left them; but though he searched high and
low for the jewel, he could not find it in any of the secret places
where he used to lay it; and at last he took the crown and dagger in
despair, turned adrift the men-at-arms, and left none but the old
nurse in the house. The priest asked for some gift or pension that
would not leave him destitute, but Robert said, "Go to, you have lived
in gluttony and sloth all the years at the expense of my estate; and
now that you have nearly beggared me, you ask for more--you are near
your end; live cleanly and wisely for a few years, ere you depart to
your own place."
"Nay," said the priest whimpering, and with a miserable smile, "but I
am old, and it is hard to change."
"So said the carp," quoth Robert with a hard smile, "when they dangled
him up with a line out of the moat. Change and adventure are meet for
all men. And I look that I do a good deed, when I restore a recreant
shepherd to the fold." The priest went off, crying unworthy tears and
cursing the new lord, to try and find a priest's office if he could;
and Robert rode grimly away, back to his uncle, and told him all the
tale.
His uncle sate long in thought, and then said that his resolve to sell
the castle of Tremontes and the estate was, he believed, a wise one;
and it should be his care to find a purchaser. "I myself," he said,
"have none nearer than yourself to whom to leave my lands;" and then
he advised Robert, if he would try his fortune, to take the crown and
dagger, and to seek out the Duke or his heir, and to tell him the
whole story, and how the precious jewel was lost.
So Robert rode away to London; and his uncle was sad to see him go so
stonily and sullenly, with a mind so bent upon himself, and, it
seemed, without love for a living thing; and as Robert rode he
pondered; and it seemed to him a useless quest, because he thought
that the giving back of the jewel was part of the terms, and that the
Duke would not promote a man who brought him nothing but a memory of
old deeds; and moreover, he thought that the Duke would not believe
the story, but would think that he had the jewel safe at home, and
wished to gain fortune in Spain, and keep the wealth as well. And as
he rode into London, it seemed to him as though some wise power put it
into his heart what he should do; for he rode by the sign of a maker
of rich glass for church windows; and at once a thought darted into
his mind; and going in, he sought out the master of the shop, and told
him that he had lost a jewel from a crown, a jewel of price, and that
he was ashamed that the crown should lack it; and he asked if he could
make him a jewel of glass to set in its place; and he described the
jewel, how large it was and how dull outside, and its fiery heart; and
the craftsman smiled shrewdly and foxily, and told him to return on
the third day, and he should have his will. On the third day he came
again; and the craftsman, opening a box, took from it a jewel so like
_The Wound_, that he thought for a moment that he must have recovered
it; so he paid a mighty price for it, and set off light-hearted for
Spain.
After weary wandering, and many strange adventures by sea and land,
he rode one day to the Duke's palace gate. It was a great bare house
of stone, within a wall, at the end of a little town. It was far
larger and greater than he had dreamed; he was stayed at the gate, for
he knew as yet but a few words of the language; but he had written on
a parchment who he was, and that he desired to see the Duke. And
presently there came out a seneschal in haste, and he was led within
honourably, and soon he was had into a small room, richly furnished.
He was left alone, and the seneschal showed him through which door the
Duke would come.
Presently a door opened, and there came in an old shrunken man, in a
furred gown, very stately and noble, holding the paper in his hand.
Robert did obeisance, but the Duke raised him, and spoke courteously
to him in the English tongue, and desired to see his tokens.
Then Robert brought forth the crown and the dagger and the jewel, and
the Duke looked at them in silence for awhile, shading his eyes. And
then he praised the Lord Marmaduke very nobly, saying that he owed his
life to him. And then he told Robert that he would be true to his
word, and promote him to honour; but he said that first he must abide
with him many days, and go in and out with his knights, and learn the
Spanish tongue and the Spanish way of life; so Robert abode with him
in great content, and was treated with honour by all, but especially
by the Duke, who often sent for him and spoke much of former days.
Then at last there came a day when the Duke sent for him and in the
presence of all his lords told them the story and passed the crown and
the dagger and the jewel from hand to hand; and the lords eyed the
stone curiously and handled it tenderly; and then the Duke said that
the knight who could, for the sake of honour, restore a jewel that
could buy a county--there was not the like of it in the world, save in
the Emperor's crown--was a true knight indeed; and therefore he made
Robert Lord of the Marches, put the crown on his head, and a purple
robe with a cape of miniver on his shoulders, and commanded that he
should be used by all as if of royal birth.
The greatness of his reward was a surprise to Robert, and he had it in
his heart to tell the Duke the truth. But the lords passed before him
and did obeisance, and he put the good hour aside.
Very soon Robert set out for the Castle of the Marches; and he found
it a marvellous house, fit for a king, with wide lands. And there he
abode for several years, and did worthily; for he was an excellent
knight, and a prudent general; moreover he was just and kind; and the
people feared and obeyed his rule, and lived in peace, though none
loved Robert; but he made the land prosperous and great, and cleared
it of robbers, and raised a mighty revenue for the Duke, who praised
him and made him great presents.
One day he heard that the Duke was ill; the next a courier came in
haste to summon him to the Duke's presence; he wondered at this; but
went with a great retinue. He found the Duke feeble and bent, but with
a bright eye; he kissed Robert, like a brother prince, and as they
sate alone he opened his heart to him and told him that he had done
worthily; he had none of his kin, or none fit to hold his dukedom
after him; but that all he desired was that his people should be well
ruled, and that he had determined that Robert should succeed him.
"There will be envious and grasping hands," he said, "held out--but
you are strong and wise, and the people will be content to be ruled by
you," and then he showed him a paper that made him a prince in title,
and that gave him the Dukedom on his own death.
Now there lived in the Duke's house a wise and learned man named
Paul, an alchemist, who knew the courses of the stars and the virtues
of plants, and many other secret things; and the Duke delighted much
in his conversation, which was ingenious and learned. But Robert heard
him vacantly, thinking that such studies were fit only for children.
And Paul being old and gentle, loved not Robert, but held that the
Duke trusted him overmuch. And one night, when Robert and other lords
were sitting with the Duke, Paul being present, the talk turned on the
virtues of gems; and Paul, as if making an effort that he had long
prepared for, told the Duke of a curious liquor, an _aqua fortis_,
that he had distilled, which was a marvellous thing to test the worth
of gems, and would tell the true from the false; and the Duke bade him
bring the liquor and show him how the spirit worked. And it seemed to
Robert that, as Paul spoke, a shadowy hand came from the darkness and
clutched at his heart, enveloping him in blackness, so that he sate in
a cold dream. And Paul went out, and presently returned bringing a
small phial of gold--for the liquor, he said, would eat its way
through any baser metal--and in the other hand a little dish of gems.
Some of them, he said, were true gems, others of them less precious,
and others naught but sparkling glass; and he poured a drop on each;
the true gems sparkled unhurt in the clear liquid, the less precious
threw off little flakes of impurity, and the glass hissed and melted
in the potent venom. And Robert, contrary to his wont, came and stood,
sick at heart, feeling the old man's eyes fixed on him with a steady
gaze. At last Paul said, "The Prince Robert"--for the Duke had told
the lords of the honour he had given him--"seems to wonder more than
his wont at these simple toys and tricks; shall not the Duke let us
test the great ruby, that its worth may be the better proven? perhaps
too it has some small impurity to be purged away, and will shine more
bravely, like a noble heart under affliction." And the Duke said,
"Yes, let the ruby be brought."
So the lord that had the charge of the Duke's jewels brought a casket,
and there in its place lay the great ruby, red as blood. And Robert
would have spoken, but the words died upon his tongue, and he saw the
shadow of the end.
Then Paul took the ruby and laid it on his dish; and as he raised the
phial to pour, he looked at Robert, and said "But perhaps it is shame
to treat so great a gem so discourteously?" And the Duke being old and
curious said, "Nay, but pour." But then, as Paul raised the phial, the
Duke lifted his hand, and said very pleasantly, "Yet after all, I hold
not the jewel my own, but the Lord Robert's, who hath so faithfully
restored it to me. What will you, my lord?" he said, turning with a
smile to Robert. And Robert, looking and smiling very stonily, said,
in a voice that he could scarcely command, "Pour, sir, pour!" So Paul
poured the liquor.
The great ruby flashed for a moment, and then a thin white steam
floated up, while the gem rose in a blood-stained foam, hissing and
bubbling. Then there was a silence; and then Robert put his hand to
his heart and stood still; the Duke looked at him, and Paul said in
his ear, "Now, Lord Robert, play the man!--I knew the secret."
Then Robert rising from his place said that he would ask the Duke's
leave to speak to him in private on this matter, and the Duke, coldly
but courteously, led the way into an inner room, and there Robert told
him all the story. Perhaps a younger man might have been more ready to
forgive; but the Duke was old; and when Robert had done the story, he
sate looking so aged and broken, that a kind of pity came into
Robert's mind, and crushed the pity he felt for himself. But at last
the Duke spoke. "You have deceived me," he said, "and I do not know
that I can even think that your story is true; you can serve me no
longer, for you have done unworthily." And with that he tore the
parchment across, and dropped it on the ground, and then made a
gesture of dismissal; and Robert rose, hoping that the Duke would yet
relent, and said at last, "May I hope that your Grace can say that you
forgive me? I do not ask to be restored--but in all other things I
have served you well." "No, my Lord Robert," said the Duke at last
coldly and severely, "I cannot forgive; for I have trusted one who has
deceived me."
So Robert went slowly out of the room through the hall; and no man
spoke to him and he spoke to none. Only Paul came to join him, and
looked at him awhile, and then said, "Lord Robert, I have been the
means of inflicting a heavy blow upon you; but it was not I who
struck, but God, to whom I think you give no allegiance." And Robert
said, "Nay, Sir Paul, trouble not yourself; you have done as a
faithful servant of the Duke should do to a faithless servant; I bear
you no malice; as you say, it is not you who strike."
Then the old man said, "Believe me, Lord Robert, that the day will
come, and I think it is not far distant, when you will be grateful to
the stroke which, at the cost of grievous pain to yourself, has
revealed your soul to yourself. All men know the worst that can be
known of you; the cup is emptied to the dregs; it is for you to fill
it." Then he put out his hand, and Robert grasped it, and went out
into the world alone. That night he sent a courier to his castle to
say that he would return no more, and that all things were the Duke's;
and he sent back to the Duke, by a private messenger, the crown and
the dagger; and the Duke mourned over the loss of his trusty servant,
but could not forgive him nor hear him spoken of.
Robert only kept for himself the sum of gold with which he had come
to the Duke's court; and he travelled into France, for he knew that he
would find fighting there, and took service in the army of Burgundy;
he was surprised within himself to find how little he cared for the
loss of his greatness; indeed he felt that a certain secret heaviness
and blackness of spirit had left him, and that he was almost
light-hearted; but in one of the first battles he fought in he was
stricken from his horse, and trampled under foot. And they took him
for tendance to a monastery near the field; and in a few weeks, when
he came slowly back to life, he knew that he could fight no more.
Then indeed he fell into a great despair and darkness of spirit. It
seemed as though some cruel and secret enemy had struck him blow after
blow, and not content with visiting him with shame, had rent from him
all that made him even wish to live. But in the monastery lived a wise
old monk, with whom he had much talk, and in his weakness told him all
his life and his fall. And one day the two sate together in the
cloister, on a day in spring, while a bird sang very blithely in a
bush that was all pricked with green points and shoots. And the old
monk said, "This is a strange tale, Lord Robert, that you have told
me; and the wonder grows as I think of it; but it seems to me that God
has led you in a wonderful manner; He made you strong and bold and
self-sufficient; and then He has taken these things from you, not
gently, because you were strong to bear, but very sternly; He has led
you through deep waters and yet you live; and He will set you upon the
rock that is higher, so that you may serve Him yet."
And then it seemed, in a silence made beautiful by the sweet piping
of the bird, that a little flower rose and blossomed in Robert's soul;
he saw, in a sudden way that cannot be told in words, that he was
indeed in stronger hands than his own; and there came into his mind
that in following after strong things, he had missed the thing that
was stronger than all--Love, that holds the world in his grasp.
So it came to pass that the Lord Robert became the thing that he had
most despised--a monk. And he found here that his courage, which he
had thought the strongest thing he had, was yet hardly strong enough
to bear the doing of mean and sordid tasks, such as a monk must often
do; but it became to him a kind of fierce pleasure to trample on
himself, and to do humbly and severely all menial things. He swept the
church, he dug in the garden, he fetched and carried burdens, and
spared himself in nothing.
But after a time he fell ill; he missed, no doubt, the old activities
of life; his days had been full of business and occupation, and though
he did not look back--indeed a deep trench seemed to have been dug
across his life, and he saw himself across it like a different man,
and he could often hardly believe that he was the same--yet it seemed
as though some spring had been broken in his spirit. He fell into long
sad musings, and waters of bitterness flowed across his soul. The
monks thought that he would die, he became so wan and ghost-like; but
he never failed in his duty, and though his life stretched before him
like a weary road, he knew that it would be long before he reached the
end, and that he had many leagues yet to traverse, before the night
fell cold on the hills.
Now, there was business to be done for the House in England, and
Robert was sent there, the Prior hoping that the change and stir might
lighten the load upon his spirit.
It happened at last that he found himself, in the course of his
journeyings, not far from Tremontes. His uncle, the Lord Ralph, he
heard, was dead, and his lands had gone to the nearest of his kin. He
knew nothing of what had befallen Tremontes, but he made enquiries,
saying that he had seen the Lord Robert in Spain; he found that there
was great curiosity about him; he was plied with questions, and he was
forced to speak of himself, as in a strange dream, and to hear the
story of his disgrace told with many wild imaginings. It seemed that
Ralph had himself undertaken the care of Tremontes, and had turned it
by diligence into a rich estate, hoping, it was said, to hand it over
to the Lord Robert on his return; but that as he had disappeared and
made no sign, it was supposed that he had died fighting, and the Lord
Ralph having died suddenly, Tremontes had passed with the rest of his
estate.
Early one summer morning Robert set off across the broad green flat,
and trudged to Tremontes. The country had hardly altered, and it was
with a strange thrill of delight that one by one the familiar
landmarks came into view; and at last he saw the castle itself over
the oaks. He had learnt that there was a priest there as chaplain, a
wise and sad man, to whom he bore a letter. Twenty years had passed
since he saw the castle last, but it looked to his eyes no older; the
hens picked and cried in the byre; the sun shone pleasantly as ever
upon the lilied pool and the warm terrace. Robert felt no sadness, but
a kind of hunger to be remembered, to be welcomed, to be received with
loving looks. The porter led him in, up into the familiar hall, where
sate a few sober men-at-arms, who rose and made a seemly obeisance;
and he was presently sitting in a little parlour that opened on the
chapel, talking quietly to the old priest, who seemed glad enough to
have his company. Robert told him that he had known Tremontes in his
youth; and after he had spoken of many indifferent things, he asked
that he might withdraw for a little into the chapel, and say a silent
prayer for those who were departed.
The old priest understood him and led the way; and in a moment Robert
found himself seated by the little arcade, looking at the dim figure
that hung in the window, where he had sate as a boy, when the
messenger had come to summon him away. How it all came back to him!
The years were obliterated in a flash; he put out his hand idly to the
arcade, where the pillars stood out from the wall, and his fingers
touched a small dusty thing that lay between a pillar and the stones.
It was hardly with surprise that he raised it, and saw that he held
the ruby, where he had put it in that careless hour.
Then there beat upon his mind a great wave of thought, and he saw how
gentle had been the hand that led him, and how surely he had been
guided; he looked into the depth of his soul, and saw the very secret
counsels of God. That was an hour full of a strange and marvellous
happiness, when he felt like a child leaning against a father's knee.
He had no longer any repining or any questioning; but he knelt, full
of a mysterious peace, resigning himself utterly into the mighty hands
of the Father.
Presently the waning light warned him that the day was turning to the
evening; and he came out and spoke to the priest, but with such a
solemn and tranquil radiance of mien that the priest said to him, "I
thought, brother, when you came to me, that you had a strange thing to
tell me; but now you seem like one who has laid his very self down at
the foot of the Cross." And Robert smiled and said, "I think I have."
Presently he set off; and a foolish fancy came and fluttered in his
mind for a moment, that he ought not to come like a thief and steal so
rich a thing away; till he reflected in himself that he had but to
speak the word and the whole was his.
The old priest had told him that the Lord of Tremontes, Richard, was a
just man, and ruled the estate well and bountifully; that he would
have none but honest men to labour for him, and that he was liberal
and kind. Just as Robert went out of the gate he met a grave man, in
rich but sober attire, riding in, who drew aside to let the monk pass
and put off his hat to him. Then it came into Robert's mind to speak
to him, and he said, "Do I speak with the Lord Richard of Tremontes?"
"Richard of Parbury, father," said the Lord. "Tremontes is indeed
held by me, but I have no lordship here. The Lord Robert of Tremontes
may yet be living; we know not if he be alive or dead; and I but hold
the estate for him and administer it for him; and if he returns he
will find it, I believe, not worse than he left it."
Then Robert made up his mind and said, "Lord Richard, I have a message
for you from the Lord Robert--but for your ears alone. I have seen him
and know him. You have doubtless heard of his disgrace and his fall;
and he will not return. He was but anxious to know that the estate was
justly ruled and administered, and he resigns it into your hands."
Then the Lord Richard dismounted from his horse, and bade the monk
enter and speak with him at large; but he would not. Then the Lord
Richard said, "This is not a light matter, father; a great estate,
craving your pardon, cannot thus pass by word of mouth."
"And it shall not," said the monk, "the Lord Robert shall send you due
quittance."
Then the Lord Richard said, "Father, be it so, then; but should the
Lord Robert return and claim the estate, it is his."
Then the monk said, "He will not return; he is dead to the world." And
then he added, for he saw that the Lord Richard was pondering the
matter, "I that speak with you am he." Then he blessed the Lord
Richard, and departed in haste--and so solemn was his face and manner,
that the Lord Richard did not stay him, but went within in wonder and
awe.
Then Robert returned to the monastery, with a quiet joy in his heart;
and he made a quittance of the estate, and sent it secretly to the
Lord Richard by a faithful hand; and when the Lord Richard came in
haste to see the monk and speak with him, he had departed for Spain.
Robert journeyed many days and came at last again to the house of the
Duke. And he was then admitted, and bidden to dinner; so he sate in
the hall that he knew, and no man recognised him in the thin and
sunburnt monk that sate and spoke so low and courteously; and
afterwards he asked audience of the Duke, who still lived, but was
very near his end; and when he was alone with him, he drew out the
stone and said, "My lord, your faithful and loving servant has found
the ruby and herewith restores it; and he asks your forgiveness, for
he loves you truly;" and Robert knelt beside him, and wept, but not
for bitterness of heart.
Then said the Duke, speaking low, "My son, I have need to be forgiven
and not to forgive." And they had great joy together, and Robert told
him all that was in his heart.
"My lord," he said, "God hath led me by a strange path into peace; He
saw the evil strength of my heart, and smote me in my pride; and He
made me as a little child that He might receive me; and I am His."
And it came that the Duke was sick unto death; and he sent for Robert,
who abode in the city, and would have given him the stone; but Robert
said with a smile that he would not have it, for he had learnt at
least the meaning of one text, that the price of wisdom is above
rubies. And he kissed the hand of the Duke.
And the Duke died and was buried; but of Robert's life and death I
know no more; but in the High Church, near the altar, is a stone
grave, on which are the words "Brother Robert," and underneath the
crown of a prince. So I think he lies there, all of him that doth
fade.