"Thou to Guildford then, my son, and I and the Brethren to London."
So said Father Paul some three weeks later, as he stood once again
inside the precincts of the Monastery, with Raymond by his side, looking
round the thinned circle of faces of such of the Brothers as had
survived the terrible visitation which had passed over them, and now
gone, as it seemed, elsewhere. Quite one-half of the inhabitants of that
small retreat had fallen victims to the scourge. Scarce ten souls out of
all those who had sought shelter within those walls had risen from their
beds and gone forth to their desolated homes again. The great trench in
the burying ground had received the rest; and of the Brothers who
gathered round Father Paul to welcome him back, several showed, by their
pinched and stricken appearance, how near they themselves had been to
the gates of death.
Few stricken by the fatal sickness itself ever recovered; but there were
many others who, falling ill of overwork or some other feverish ailment,
were accounted to have caught the distemper, and many of these did
amend, though all sickness at such a time seemed to get a firmer hold
upon its victims. But Father Paul and both his young assistants had
escaped unscathed, though they had been waging a hand-to-hand fight with
the destroyer for three long weeks, that seemed years in the retrospect.
The Brothers came crowding round them as about those returned from the
grave. Indeed, to them it did almost seem as though this was a
resurrection from the dead; for they had long since given up all hope of
seeing their beloved Superior and Father again in the flesh.
But the Father himself only accounted his work begun. Although the
pestilence appeared to have passed from the immediate district, and such
cases as occurred amid the few survivors of the visitation were by no
means so fatal as they had been in the beginning, yet the sickness
itself in its most virulent form was sweeping along northward and
eastward, spreading death and desolation in its track; and Father Paul
had but one purpose in his mind, which was to follow in the path of the
destroyer, performing for the sufferers wherever he went the same
offices of piety and mercy that he had been wont to undertake all these
past days; and the Brothers, who had finished their labour of love
within the walls of their home, and had grown fearless before the
pestilence with that fearlessness which gradually comes to those who
look long and steadily upon death, were not wanting in resolve to face
it even in its most terrible shape.
So that they one and all vowed that they would go with Father Paul; and
his steps were bound for the capital of the kingdom, where he knew that
the need would be the sorest.
It seemed to the Brothers, who had long lived beneath his austere but
wise and fatherly rule, that not only did he himself bear a charmed
life, but that all who worked with him felt the shelter of that charm.
Raymond and Roger had returned, having suffered no ill effects from the
terrible sights and scenes through which they had passed. Though the
country in these almost depopulated districts literally reeked with the
pestilence, owing to the effluvia from the carcasses of men and beasts
which lay rotting on the ground unburied, yet they had passed unscathed
through all, and were ready to go forth again upon the same errand of mercy.
Raymond was much divided in mind as to his own course of action. Much as
he longed to remain with Father Paul, whom he continued to revere with a
loving admiration that savoured of worship, he yet had a great desire to
know how it was faring with his cousin John. He could not but be very
sure that the pestilence would not pass Guildford by, and he knew that
John would go forth amongst the sick and dying, and bring them into his
own house for tendance, even though his own life paid the forfeit. It
was therefore with no small eagerness that he longed for news of him;
and when he spoke of this to the Father, the latter at once advised that
they should part company -- he and such of the Brethren as were fit for
the journey travelling on to London, whilst the two youths took the
direct road to Guildford, to see how matters fared there.
"Ye are but striplings," said the Father kindly, "and though ye be
willing and devoted, ye have not the strength of men, nor are ye such
seasoned vessels. In London the scenes will be terrible to look upon. It
may be that they would be more than ye could well brook. Go, then, to
Guildford. They will need helpers there who know how best to wrestle
with the foul distemper, and ye have both learned many lessons with me.
I verily believe that your work lies there, as mine lies yonder. Go
then, and the Lord be with you. It may be we shall meet again in this
world, but if not, in that world beyond into which our Blessed Saviour
has passed, that through His intercession, offered unceasingly for us,
we too may obtain an entrance through the merits of His redeeming Blood."
Then blessing both the boys and embracing them with a tenderness new in
one generally so reserved and austere, he sent them away, and they set
their faces steadily whence they had come, not knowing what adventures
they might meet upon the way.
This return journey was by no means so rapid as the ride hither had
been. Both the horses they had then ridden had perished of the sickness,
and as none others were to be found, and had they been obtainable might
but have fallen down by the wayside to die, the youths travelled on
foot. And they did not even take the most direct route, but turned aside
to this place or the other, wherever they knew of the existence of human
habitations; for wherever such places were, there might there be need
for human help and sympathy. And not a few acts of mercy did the boys
perform as they travelled slowly onwards through an almost depopulated
region.
Time fails to tell of all they saw and heard as they thus journeyed; but
they found ample employment for all their skill and energy. The lives of
many little children, whose parents had died or fled, were saved by
them, and the neglected little orphans left in the kindly care of some
devoted Sisterhood, whose inmates gladly received them, fearless of the
risk they might run by so doing.
Wandering so often out of their way, they scarce knew their exact
whereabouts when darkness fell upon them on the third day of their
journeying; but after walking still onwards for some time in what they
judged to be the right direction, they presently saw a light in a
cottage window, and knocking at the door, asked shelter for the night.
Travellers at such a time as this were regarded with no small suspicion,
and the youths hardly looked to get any answer to their request; but
rather to their surprise, the door was quickly opened, and Roger uttered
a cry of recognition as he looked in the face of the master of the house.
It was no other, in fact, than the ranger with whom as a boy he had
found a temporary home, from which home he had been taken in his
father's absence and sold into the slavery of Basildene. The boy's cry
of astonishment was echoed by the man when once he had made sure that
his senses were not deceiving him, but that it was really little Roger,
whom he had long believed to be dead; and both he and his companion were
eagerly welcomed in and set down to a plentiful meal of bread and
venison pasty, whilst the boy told his long and adventurous story as
briefly as he could, Stephen listening with parted lips and staring
eyes, as if to the recital of some miraculous narrative.
And in truth the tale was strange enough, told in its main aspects: the
escape from Basildene, which to himself always partook of the nature of
a miracle, the conflict with the powers of darkness in the Monastery,
his adventures in France, and now his marvellous escape in the midst of
the plague-stricken people whom he had tended and helped. The ranger,
who had lost his own wife and children in the distemper, and had himself
escaped, had lost all fear of the contagion --indeed he cared little
whether he lived or died; and when he heard upon what errand the youths
were bent, he declared he would gladly come with them, for the solitude
of his cottage was so oppressive to him that he would have welcomed even
a plague-stricken guest sooner than be left much longer with only his
hounds and his own thoughts for company.
"If I cannot tend the sick, I can at least bury the dead," he said,
drawing his horny hand across his eyes, remembering for whom he had but
lately performed that last sad office. And Raymond, to whom this offer
was addressed, accepted his company gladly, for he knew by recent
experience how great was the need for helpers where the sick and the
dead so far outnumbered the whole and sound.
He had gone off into a reverie as he sat by the peat fire, whilst Roger
and the ranger continued talking together eagerly of many matters, and
he heard little of what passed until roused by the name of Basildene
spoken more than once, and he commanded his drowsy and wearied faculties
to listen to what the ranger was saying.
"Yes, the Black Death has found its way in behind those walls, men say.
The old sorcerer tried all his black arts to keep it out; but there came
by one this morning who told me that the old man had been seized, and
was lying without a soul to go near him. They have but two servants that
have ever stayed with them in that vile place, and these both thought
the old man's dealings with the devil would at least suffice to keep the
scourge away, and felt themselves safer there than elsewhere. But the
moment he was seized they both ran away and left him, and there they say
he is lying still, untended and unwatched -- if he be not dead by now.
For as for the son, he had long since made his own preparations. He has
shut himself up in a turret, with a plentiful supply of food; and he
burns a great fire of scented wood and spices at the foot of the
stairway, and another in the place he lives in, and never means to stir
forth until the distemper has passed. One of the servants, before he
fled, went to the stair foot and called to him to tell him that his
father lay a-dying of the plague below; but he only laughed, and said it
was time he went to the devil, who had been waiting so long for him; and
the man rushed out of the house in affright at the sound of such
terrible blasphemy and unnatural wickedness at a time like this."
Raymond's face took a new expression as he heard these words. The
lassitude and weariness passed out of it, and a curious light crept into
his eyes. Roger and the ranger continued to talk together of many
things, but their silent companion still sat motionless beside the
hearth. Over his face was stealing a look of purpose -- such purpose as
follows a struggle of the spirit over natural distaste and disgust.
When the ranger presently left them, to see what simple preparations he
could make for their comfort during the night, he motioned to Roger to
come nearer, and looking steadily at him, he said:
"Roger, I am going to Basildene tonight, to see what human skill may do
for the old Sanghurst. He is our enemy -- thine and mine -- therefore
doubly is it our duty to minister to him in the hour of his extremity. I
go forth this night to seek him. Wilt thou go with me? or dost thou fear
to fall again under the sway of his evil mind, or his son's, if thou
puttest foot within the halls of Basildene again?"
For a moment a look of strong repulsion crossed Roger's face. He shrank
back a little, and looked as though he would have implored his young
master to reconsider his resolution. But something in the luminous
glance of those clear bright eyes restrained him, and presently some of
their lofty purpose seemed to be infused into his own soul.
"If thou goest, I too will go," he said. "At thy side no harm from the
Evil One can come nigh me. Have I not proved that a hundred times ere
now? And the spell has long been broken off my neck and off my spirit. I
fear neither the sorcerer nor his son. If it be for us -- if it be a
call -- to go even to him in the hour of his need, I will go without a
thought of fear. I go in the name of the Holy Virgin and her Son. I need
not fear what man can do against me."
Great was the astonishment of the worthy ranger when he returned to hear
the purpose upon which his guests were bent; but he had already imbibed
some of that strange reverential admiration for Raymond which he so
frequently inspired in those about him, and it did not for a moment
occur to him to attempt to dissuade him from an object upon which his
mind was bent.
The October night, though dark and moonless, was clear, and the stars
were shining in the sky as the little procession started forth. The
ranger insisted on being one of the number. Partly from curiosity,
partly from sheer hatred of solitude, and a good deal from interest in
his companions and their errand of mercy, he had decided to come with
them, not merely to show them the way to Basildene, which he could find
equally well by night as by day, but to see the result of their journey
there, and take on with him to Guildford the description of the old
sorcerer's home and his seizure there.
As they moved along through the whispering wood, the man, in low and
awe-stricken tones, asked Roger of his old life there, and what it was
that made him of such value to the Sanghursts. Raymond had never talked
to the lad of that chapter in his past life, always abiding by Father
Paul's advice to let him forget it as far as possible.
Now, however, Roger seemed able to speak of it calmly, and without the
terror and emotion that any recollection of that episode used to cause
him in past years. He could talk now of the strange trances into which
he was thrown, and how he was made to see things at a distance and tell
all he saw. Generally it was travellers upon the road he was instructed
to watch, and forced to describe the contents of the mails they carried
with them. Some instinct made the boy many times struggle hard against
revealing the nature of the valuables he saw that these people had about
them, knowing well how they would be plundered by his rapacious masters,
after they had tempted them upon the treacherous swamp not far from
Basildene, where, if they escaped with their lives, it would be as much
as they could hope to do. But the truth was always wrung from him by
suffering at last -- not that his body was in any way injured by them,
save by the prolonged fasts inflicted upon him to intensify his gift of
clairvoyance; but whilst in these trances they could make him believe
that any sort of pain was being inflicted, and he suffered it exactly as
though it had been actually done upon his bodily frame. Thus they forced
from his reluctant lips every item of information they desired; and he
knew when plunder was brought into the house, and stored in the deep
underground cellars, how and whence it had come -- knew, too, that many
and many a wretched traveller had been overwhelmed in the swamp who
might have escaped with life and goods but for him.
It was the horror of this conviction, and the firm belief that he had
been bound over body and soul to Satan, that was killing him by inches
when the twin brothers effected his rescue. He did not always remember
clearly in his waking moments what had passed in his hours of trance,
but the horror of great darkness always remained with him; and at some
moments everything would come upon him with a fearful rush, and he would
remain stupefied and overwhelmed with anguish.
To all of this Raymond listened with great interest. He and John had
read of some such phenomena in their books relating to the history of
magic; and little as the hypnotic state was understood in those days,
the young student had gained some slight insight into the matter, and
was able to speak of his convictions to Roger with some assurance. He
told him that though he verily believed such power over the wills of
others to be in some sort the work of the devil, it might yet be
successfully withstood by a resolute will, bound over to the
determination to yield nothing to the strong and evil wills of others.
And Roger, who had long since fought his fight and gained strength and
confidence, was not afraid of venturing into the stronghold of
wickedness -- less so than ever now that he might go at Raymond's side.
It was midnight before the lonely house was reached, and Raymond's heart
beat high as he saw the outline of the old walls looming up against the
gloomy sky. Not a light was to be seen burning in any of the windows,
save a single gleam from out the turret at the corner away to the left;
and though owls hooted round the place, and bats winged their uncertain
flight, no other living thing was to be seen, and the silence of death
seemed to brood over the house.
"This is the way to the door that is the only one used," said Stephen,
"and we shall find it unlocked for certain, seeing that the servants
have run away, and the young master will not go nigh his father, not
though he were ten times dying. My lantern will guide us surely enough
through the dark passages, and maybe young Roger will know where the old
man is like to be found."
"Below stairs, I doubt not, amongst his bottles and books of magic,"
answered Roger, with a light shiver, as he passed through the doorway
and found himself once again within the evil house. "He would think that
in yon place no contagion could touch him. He spent his days and nights
alike there. He scarce left it save to go abroad, or perchance to have a
few hours' sleep in his bed. But the treasure is buried somewhere nigh
at hand down in those cellars, though the spot I know not. And he fears
to leave it night or day, lest some stealthy hand filch away the
ill-gotten gain. Men thought he had the secret whereby all might be
changed to gold, and indeed he would ofttimes bring pure gold out from
the crucibles over his fire; but he had cast in first, unknown to those
who so greedily watched him, the precious baubles he had stolen from
travellers upon the road. He was a very juggler with his hands. I have
watched him a thousand times at tricks which would have made the fortune
of a travelling mountebank. But soft! here is the door at the head of
the stairs. Take heed how that is opened, lest the hound fly at thy
throat. Give me the lantern, and have thou thy huntsman's knife to
plunge into his throat, else he may not let us pass down alive."
But when the door was opened, the hound, instead of growling or
springing, welcomed them with whines of eager welcome. The poor beast
was almost starved, and had been tamed by hunger to unwonted gentleness.
Raymond, who had food in his wallet, fed him with small pieces as they
cautiously descended the stairs, for Basildene would furnish them with
more if need be; the larder and cellar there were famous in their way,
though few cared to accept of their owner's hospitality.
Roger almost expected to find the great door of that subterranean room
bolted and locked, so jealous was its owner of entrance being made
there; but it yielded readily to the touch, and the three, with the
hound, passed in together.
In a moment Raymond knew by the peculiar atmosphere, which even in so
large a place was sickly and fetid, that they were in the presence of
one afflicted with the true distemper. The place was in total darkness
save for the light of the lantern the ranger carried; but there were
lamps in sconces all along the wall, and these Roger quickly lighted,
being familiar enough with this underground place, which it had been
part of his duty to see to. The light from these lamps was pure and
white and very bright, and lit up the weird vaulted chamber from end to
end. It shone upon a stiffened figure lying prone upon the floor not far
from the vaulted fireplace, upon whose hearth the embers lay black and
cold; and Raymond, springing suddenly forward as his glance rested upon
this figure, feared that he had come too late, and that the foe of his
house had passed beyond the power of human aid.
"Help me to lift him," he said to Stephen; "and, Roger, kindle thou a
fire upon the hearth. There may be life in him yet. We will try what we
know. Yes, methinks his heart beats faintly; and the tokens of the
distemper are plainly out upon him. Perchance he may yet live. Of late I
have seen men rise up from their beds whom we have given up for lost."
Raymond was beginning to realize that the black boils, so often looked
upon as the death tokens, were by no means in reality anything of the
kind. As a matter of fact, of the cases that recovered, most, if not
all, had the plague spots upon them. These boils were, in fact, nature's
own effort at expelling the virulent poison from the system, and if
properly treated by mild methods and poultices, in some cases really
brought relief, so that the patient eventually recovered.
But the intensity of the poison, and its rapid action upon the human
organs, made cases of recovery rare indeed at the outset, when the
outbreak always came in its most virulent form; and truly the appearance
of old Peter Sanghurst was such as almost to preclude hope of
restoration. Tough as he was in constitution, the glaze of death seemed
already in his eyes. He was all but pulseless and as cold as death,
whilst the spasmodic twitchings of his limbs when he was lifted spoke of
death rather than life.
Still Raymond would not give up hope. He had the fire kindled, and it
soon blazed up hot and fierce, whilst the old man was wrapped in a rich
furred cloak which Roger produced from a cupboard, and some hot cordial
forced between his lips. After one or two spasmodic efforts which might
have been purely muscular, he appeared to make an attempt to swallow,
and in a few more minutes it became plain that he was really doing so,
and with increasing ease each time. The blood began to run through his
veins again, the chest heaved, and the breath was drawn in long,
labouring gasps. At last the old man's eyes opened, and fixed themselves
upon Raymond's face with a long, bewildered stare.
They asked him no questions. They had no desire that he should speak.
His state was critical in the extreme. They had but come to minister to
his stricken body. To cope with a mind such as his was a task that
Raymond felt must be far beyond his own powers. He would have given much
to have had Father Paul at this bedside for one brief hour, the more so
as he saw the shrinking and terror creeping over the drawn, ashen face.
Did his guilty soul know itself to be standing on the verge of eternity?
and did the wretched man feel the horror of great darkness infolding him
already?
All at once he spoke, and his words were like a cry of terror.
"Alicia! Alicia! how comest thou here?"
Raymond, to whom the words were plainly addressed, knew not how to
answer them, or what they could mean; but the wild eyes were still fixed
upon his face, and again the old man's excited words broke forth --
"Comest thou in this dread hour to claim thine own again? Alicia,
Alicia! I do repent of my robbery. I would fain restore all. It has been
a curse, and not a blessing; all has been against me -- all. I was a
happy man before I unlawfully wrested Basildene from thee. Since I have
done that deed naught has prospered with me; and here I am left to die
alone, neglected by all, and thou alone -- thy spirit from the dead --
comes to taunt me in my last hour with my robbery and my sin. O forgive,
forgive! Thou art dead. Spirits cannot inherit this world's goods, else
would I restore all to thee. Tell me what I may do to make amends ere I
die? But look not at me with those great eyes of thine, lightened with
the fire of the Lord. I cannot bear it -- I cannot bear it! Tell me only
how I may make restoration ere I am taken hence to meet my doom!"
Raymond understood then. The old man mistook him for his mother, who
must have been about his own age when her wicked kinsman had ousted her
from her possessions. Had they not told him in the old home how wondrous
like to her he was growing? The clouded vision of the old man could see
nothing but the face of the youth bending over him, and to him it was
the face of an avenging angel. He clasped his hands together in an agony
of supplication, and would have cast himself at the boy's feet had he
not been restrained. The terrible remorse which so often falls upon a
guilty conscience at the last hour had the miserable man in its
clutches. His mind was too far weakened to think of his many crimes even
blacker than this one. The sight of Raymond had awakened within him the
memory of the defrauded woman, and he could think of nothing else. She
had come back from the dead to put him in mind of his sin. If he could
but make one act of restitution, he felt that he could almost die in
peace. He gripped Raymond's hand hard, and looked with agonizing
intensity into his face.
"I am not Alicia," he answered gently. "Her spirit is at rest and free,
and no thought of malice or hatred could come from her now. I am her
son. I know all -- how you drove her forth from Basildene, and made
yourself an enemy; but you are an enemy no longer now, for the hand of
God is upon you, and I am here in His name to strive to soothe your last
hours, and point the way upwards whither she has gone."
"Alicia's son! Alicia's son!" almost screamed the old man. "Now Heaven
be praised, for I can make restitution of all!"
Raymond raised his eyes suddenly at an exclamation from Roger, to see a
tall dark figure standing motionless in the doorway, whilst Peter
Sanghurst's fiery eyes were fixed upon his face with a gaze of the most
deadly malevolence in them.