Isoult was silent. This was a sorrow beyond human comforting. It had
been mockery to bid him be of good cheer then.
"My father had enclosed, as you know," resumed Robin in a low voice.
"And these rioters would no enclosures."
"Would to God he had let it alone!" murmured Avery under his breath.
"God would not, Mr Avery," quietly answered Robin, "or he had let it
alone."
And dropping his head upon his hands, the poor boy rocked himself to and
fro silently. He seemed very faint and weary, yet Isoult doubted if he
could eat; but she fetched a jug of milk, and set it before him, bidding
him drink if he could.
"It would choke me, Mrs Avery," he answered. "But you are exceeding
good unto me."
"Poor child!" said Avery, pityingly. "Thou wilt be safe here at the
least. I have not enclosed, I thank God."
"I thought you would take me in for a few days," said the lad, "until I
may see my way afore me, and win some little heart to pursue it."
"Thy way shall be my way, Robin," replied Avery tenderly. "Twenty years
and more gone, when I was a stripling about thy years, thy father helped
me unto my calling with a gift of twenty pounds, which he never would
give me leave to pay him. Under thy leave, I will pay it thee."
"You are exceeding good," he said again, not lifting his head.
"And how didst thou get away, poor Robin?" asked Isoult.
"I dropped from the window," said he. "My chamber window was low built;
and when I heard the horrid shouts and yells at the front of the house,
I jumped out at the back, and hid me in the bushes beyond. And there,
not daring to creep away till they were gone, lest they should discover
me, I heard and saw all."
"Then the bushes took not fire?" suggested Avery.
"Nay," said he, "the fish-pond lieth atween them and the house, mind
you."
He was silent a little while. Then he said softly, under his
breath--"Mr Avery, when I saw the fiends lay hold upon Mother and Arbel,
I thought God must surely strike from Heaven for us. But when, ten
minutes later, I saw the flames shooting up to the welkin, I thanked Him
in mine heart that He had taken them to His rest ere that."
"But, Robin, lad! didst thou not strike for them?" cried Avery, who
could not bear anything that seemed like cowardice.
"Should I, think you?" he made answer, in that low, hopeless tone that
goes to the heart. "There were seventy or more of the enclosure men. I
could but have died with them. Maybe I ought to have done that. I
think it had cost less."
"Forgive me, Robin!" said John, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder.
"Poor heart! I meant not to reproach thee. I spake hastily, therefore
unadvisedly."
"Let me have thee abed, poor Robin," said Isoult. "'Tis but one of the
clock. Canst thou sleep, thinkest?"
"Sometime, I count I shall again," he answered; "but an' I were to judge
by my feeling, I should think I never could any more."
"Time healeth," whispered Avery, rather to his wife than Robin; but the
lad heard him.
"God doth, Mr Avery," he said. "And they are with God."
"Art thou less, Robin?" asked Avery tenderly.
"God is with me; that is the difference," he replied.
Robin Tremayne had always been a quiet, thoughtful boy; and even when
the first gush of his agony was over, there remained upon him a gentle,
grave pensiveness which it appeared as if he would never lose.
The next day proved as uneventful as other days at Bradmond. No rioters
came near them.
In the evening Dr Thorpe appeared. When the old man saw Robin, he cast
up his hands, and thanked God.
"Lad," said he, "I thought thou wert dead."
"I count God hath somewhat for me to do," answered Robin. "But if He
hath not, I would I were."
"Hush thee, Robin dear!" said Isoult, uneasily.
"What wouldst thou be, Robin?" inquired Kate, her eyes wide open.
"Dead and buried," answered he.
"Then may I be dead and buried too?" she asked.
"Nay, Kate, not so!" cried Isoult, in dismay.
"It will not do, Robin," said Dr Thorpe, smiling. And his face growing
grave, he pursued, "Lad, God setteth never too hard a lesson, nor layeth
on us more than we are able to bear."
"Too hard for what?" answered Robin. "There have been that have had
lessons set that they might not learn and live. Is that not too hard?"
"Nay, child!" Dr Thorpe answered. "If it be not too hard to learn, and
keep hold on eternal life, the lesser life of this little world is of no
matter."
"Nor the happiness of it, I suppose?" said Robin, gloomily.
"The plant God careth to grow now in us is holiness," he answered.
"That other fair flower, happiness, He keepeth for us in His own garden
above, where it is safer than in our keeping. 'Tis but stray fragments
and single leaves thereof that find their way down hither."
"I think so," said Robin, bitterly.
"Lad, lad! kick not against the pricks!" exclaimed Dr Thorpe, more
sternly. "God's will is the best for us. His way is the safe way, and
the only way."
"Easy to say so," answered Robin, slowly. "And it was easy to think
so--yesterday morning."
Dr Thorpe looked on him and did not reply.
"O Robin!" cried Kate, running to him from the door. "The sun is
shining again. It was raining so fast all the morn; and now the sun is
come, and all the little drops are so pretty in the sunshine. Come and
see! They are so pretty shining on the roses."
Robin rose to follow her, with the first smile (though a mournful one)
that Isoult had seen flit across his face.
"Kate is the better comforter, Dr Thorpe, and hath learned the sweeter
lesson," he said. "At least she hath learned it me. You would have me
count the chastening joyous, even at this present: God's word pointeth
to the joyousness to come. `Blessed are they that mourn,--for they
shall be comforted.'"
And he went after Kate.
For a few days more after Robin's coming all was quiet. No one came to
inquire for him, and they began to hope the worst was over. But late on
the Sunday evening, which was the seventh of July, suddenly there came a
rapping on the door. And there, to the surprise of all, stood Dr
Thorpe.
"Welcome, good friend!" said Avery; "but your occasion should be great
to have you forth this even."
"So it is," said he. "Is it not bed-time, Mrs Avery?"
"In very deed, Doctor," she answered. "We were going above but now."
"Leave the lad and the maids go, then," said he, "and you and Jack bide
a space."
So the maids and Robin departed.
"What is it, Doctor?" asked Avery, when they were gone.
"What it is, Jack," said Dr Thorpe, who sat in the corner with his hands
upon his knees, "is a great burning mountain that is at this moment
quiet. What it may be, is a great rushing and overflowing of the fiery
matter, that shall deal death all around. And what it will be--the Lord
God knoweth, and He only."
"You speak in parables, Doctor," replied Avery.
"The safest matter to speak at this time," answered he.
"You look for a new riot, an' I take you rightly."
"Hardly for a riot," the other answered. "Is the door fast?"
"I bolted it after you," said Avery.
Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke in a low, earnest voice.
"Not a riot," he said. "Say an uprising--a civil war--a mighty
rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above. Men that
will know no ruler, and bear no curb--little afraid to speak evil of
dignities, or to do evil against them. `We are, and there is none
beside us:' yea, `we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.'"
"There be such spirits alway," answered Avery, "but, I thank God, rarely
so many come together as shall do a mischief."
"There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the
next month or twain," said Dr Thorpe, gloomily. "I see more than you;
and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and
me. A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro
way, when I was aware of a little ragged lad that sat by the roadside,
the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face. I drew bridle, and
asked the lad what ailed him. He told me his mother did lie at death's
door, not far thence. `Hath she any doctor or apothecary?' quoth I.
`Nay,' saith he, `neither the priest nor the apothecary would come
without money, and father hath not a penny.' Well, I 'light from mine
horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me
to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good.
I found her under an hedge, with nought save a ragged rug to cover her,
twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a
rugged sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets. All they were
dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian [gipsy] crew that
doth over-run all countries at times. I saw in a moment that though
beyond their skill, her disorder was not (with God's blessing) beyond
mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her. The physic that I
fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at
the blessings which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from
them. Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man
that had some power of affection. Well, the woman amended, and all they
left that part. I heard no more of them sithence, until late last
night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an
hand was laid upon my bridle. An highwayman, thought I; and I
remembered that I had little money upon me. But in the stead of easing
me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.--`What
is your name, and where dwell you?'--`Verily,' said I, `I might ask the
same of you. But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name
nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the
other is Bodmin. What more would you?'--`Your calling?'--`A
physician.'--`Enough,' quoth my strange questioner. `I pray you to
alight from your horse, and have no fear of me. I will do you no harm;
I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold. I want
neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be
on you. Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.'--`In
good sooth,' said I, `I have nought to whisper unto you.'--`But I have
to you,' saith he, `and what I say must not be spoken aloud. You would
trust me if you knew what I would have.'--`Well, friend,' quoth I, `for
a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me. All the money I
have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you
are welcome. For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old
man, no longer of much service unto any. If you desire me to ply my
trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me
you should gain little beside an evil conscience.'--So with that I
'lighted down.--`Throw the bridle on your arm,' saith he, `and follow
me.'--So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark,
and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small
forsaken and ruinated hut that stood on the common.--`Stand where you be
a moment,' quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle.
`Now, know you me?' saith he. `Not a whit better than afore,' quoth
I.--He blew out the candle.--`You have forgot my face,' he saith. `Mind
you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in
this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her
malady?'--`I know you now,' said I; `you are that woman's husband.'
`Then you are aware,' answereth he, `that I would do you no hurt.'--`Say
on,' quoth I.--`Suffer me,' saith he, `to ask you certain
questions.'--`So be it,' said I.--Then he,--`Is your house in Bodmin
your own?'--`It is so,' answered I, marvelling if he were about to ask
me for mine house.--`Sell it,' quoth he, `and quickly.'--`Wherefore?'
answered I.--`I passed no word touching your questions,' quoth he,
grimly.--`In good sooth,' said I, `this is a strange matter, for a man
to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.'--`You shall see
stranger things than that,' he answered, `ere your head be hoarier by
twain s'ennight from now.'--`Well! say on,' quoth I.--`Have you,'
pursueth he, `any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury? You
were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.'--`Friend,' said I,
`my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as
it entereth my purse.'--`The better,' quo' he.--`Good lack!' said I, `I
alway thought it the worse.'--`The worse afore, the better now,' he
answered. `But once more--have you any friend you would save from
peril?'--And I,--`Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to
fall therein.'--`Then,' quoth he, `give them privily the counsel that I
now give you. If the sun find you at Bodmin,--yea, any whither in
Cornwall or Devon--twain s'ennights hence, he shall not set on you
alive. Speak not another word. Mount your horse, and go.'--I strave,
however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he
hearken. `Go!' he crieth again, so resolute and determinedly that I did
go. Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that
some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing. I shall surely take
his counsel, and go hence. What say you, Jack? Shall we go together?"
There was dead silence for a minute. Isoult's head was in a whirl.