The scourge had passed. It had swept over the length and breadth of the
region of which Guildford formed the centre, and had done its terrible
work of destruction there, leaving homes desolated and villages almost
depopulated. It was still raging in London, and was hurrying northward
and eastward with all its relentless energy and deadliness; but in most
of the places thus left behind its work seemed to be fully accomplished,
and there were no fresh cases.
People began to go about their business as of old. Those who had fled
returned to their homes, and strove to take up the scattered threads of
life as best they might. In many cases whole families had been swept out
of existence; in others (more truly melancholy cases), one member had
escaped when all the rest had perished. The religious houses were
crowded with the helpless orphans of the sufferers in the epidemic, and
the summer crops lay rotting in the fields for want of labourers to get
them in.
John's house in Guildford had by this time reassumed its normal aspect.
The last of the sick who had not been carried to the grave, but had
recovered to return home, had now departed, with many a blessing upon
the master, whose act of piety and charity had doubtless saved so many
lives at this crisis. The work the young man had set himself to do had
been nobly accomplished; but the task had been one beyond his feeble
strength, and he now lay upon a couch of sickness, knowing well, if
others did not, that his days were numbered.
He had fallen down in a faint upon the very day that the last patient
had been able to leave his doors. For a moment it was feared that the
poison of the distemper had fastened upon him; but it was not so. The
attack was but due to the failure of the heart's action -- nature, tried
beyond her powers of endurance, asserting herself at last -- and they
laid him down in his old favourite haunt, with his books around him,
having made the place look like it did before the house had been turned
into a veritable hospital and mortuary.
When John opened his eyes at last it was to find Joan bending over him;
and looking into her face with his sweet, tired smile, he said:
"You will not leave me, Joan?"
"No," she answered gently; "I will not leave you yet. Bridget and I will
nurse you. All our other helpers are themselves worn out; but we have
worked only a little while. We have not borne the burden and heat of
that terrible day."
"You came in a good hour -- like angels of mercy that you were," said
John, feeling, now that the long strain and struggle was over, a
wonderful sense of rest and peace. "I thought it was a dream when first
I saw your face, Joan -- when I saw you moving about amongst the sick,
always with a child in your arms. I have never been able to ask how you
came hither. In those days we could never stay to talk. There are many
things I would fain ask now. How come you here alone, save for your old
nurse? Are your parents dead likewise?"
"I know not that myself," answered Joan, with the calmness that comes
from constantly standing face to face with death. "I have heard naught
of them these many weeks. William goes ofttimes to Woodcrych to seek for
news of them there. But they have not returned, and he can learn nothing."
And then whilst John lay with closed eyes, his face so white and still
that it looked scarce the face of a living man, Joan told him all her
tale; and he understood then how it was that she had suddenly appeared
amongst them like a veritable angel of mercy.
When her story was done, he opened his eyes and said:
"Where is Raymond?"
"They told me he was sleeping an hour since," answered Joan. "He has
sore need of sleep, for he has been watching and working night and day
for longer than I may tell. He looks little more than a shadow himself;
and he has had Roger to care for of late, since he fell ill."
"But Roger is recovering?"
"Yes. It was the distemper, but in its least deadly form, and he is
already fast regaining his strength.
"Has Raymond been the whole time with you? I have never had the chance
to speak to him of himself."
And a faint soft flush awoke in Joan's cheek, whilst a smile hovered
round the corners of her lips.
"Nor I; yet there be many things I would fain ask of him. He went forth
to be with Father Paul when first the Black Death made its fatal entry
into the country; and from that day forth I heard naught of him until he
came hither to me. We will ask him of himself when he comes to join us.
It will be like old times come back again when thou, Joan, and he and I
gather about the Yule log, and talk together of ourselves and others."
A common and deadly peril binds very closely together those who have
faced it and fought it hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder; and in
those days of divided houses, broken lives, and general disruption of
all ordinary routine in domestic existence, things that in other times
would appear strange and unnatural were now taken as a matter of course.
It did not occur to Joan as in any way remarkable that she should remain
in John's house, nursing him with the help of Bridget, and playing a
sister's part until some of his own kith or kin returned. He had been
deserted by all of his own name. She herself knew not whether she had
any relatives living. Circumstances had thrown her upon his hospitality,
and she had looked upon him almost as a brother ever since the days of
her childhood.
She knew that he was dying; there was that in his face which told as
much all too well to those who had long been looking upon death. To have
left him at such a moment would have seemed far more strange and
unnatural than to remain. In those times of terror stranger things were
done daily, no man thinking aught of it.
So she smiled as she heard John's last words, trying to recall the day
when she had first seen Raymond at Master Bernard's house, when he had
seemed to her little more than a boy, albeit a very knightly and
chivalrous one. Now her feelings towards him were far different: not
that she thought less of his knightliness and chivalry, but that she was
half afraid to let her mind dwell too much upon him and her thoughts of
him; for of late, since they had been toiling together in the
hand-to-hand struggle against disease and death, she was conscious of a
feeling toward him altogether new in her experience, and his face was
seldom out of her mental vision. The sound of his voice was ever in her
ears; and she always knew, by some strange intuition, when he was near,
whether she could see him or not.
She knew even as John spoke that he was approaching; and as the latch of
the door clicked a soft wave of colour rose in her pale cheek, and she
turned her head with a gesture that spoke a mute welcome.
"They tell me that thou art sick, good John," said Raymond, coming
forward into the bright circle of the firelight.
The dancing flames lit up that pale young face, worn and hollow with
long watching and stress of work, and showed that Raymond had changed
somewhat during those weeks of strange experience. Some of the
dreaminess had gone out of the eyes, to be replaced by a luminous
steadfastness of expression which had always been there, but was now
greatly intensified. Pure, strong, and noble, the face was that of a man
rather than a boy, and yet the bright, almost boyish, alertness and
eagerness were still quickly apparent when he entered into conversation,
and turned from one companion to another. It was the same Raymond -- yet
with a difference; and both of his companions scanned him with some
curiosity as he took his seat beside John's couch and asked of his
cousin's welfare.
"Nay, trouble not thyself over me; thou knowest that my life's sands are
well-nigh run out. I have been spared for this work, that thou, my
Raymond, gavest me to do. I am well satisfied, and thou must be the
same, my kind cousin. Only let me have thee with me to the end -- and
sweet Mistress Joan, if kind fortune will so favour us. And tell us now
of thyself, Raymond, and how it fared with thee before thou camest
hither. Hast thou been with Father Paul? And if so, why didst thou leave
him? Is he, too, dead?"
"He was not when we parted; he went forward to London when he bid me
come to see how it fared with thee, good John, and bring thee his
blessing. I should have been with thee one day earlier, save that I
turned aside to Basildene, where I heard that the old man lay dying alone."
"Basildene!" echoed both his hearers quickly. "Has the Black Death been
there?"
"Ay, and the old man who is called a sorcerer is dead. To me it was
given to soothe his dying moments, and give him such Christian burial as
men may have when there be no priest at hand to help them to their last
rest. I was in time for that."
"Peter Sanghurst dead!" mused John thoughtfully; and looking up at
Raymond, he said quickly, "Did he know who and what thou wert?"
"He did; for in his delirium he took me for my mother, and his terror
was great, knowing her to be dead. When I told him who I was, he was
right glad; and he would fain have made over to me the deeds by which he
holds Basildene -- the deeds my mother left behind her in her flight,
and which he seized upon. He would fain have made full reparation for
that one evil deed of his life; but his son, who had held aloof
hitherto, and would have left his father to die untended and alone --"
Joan had uttered a little exclamation of horror and disgust; now she
asked, quickly and almost nervously:
"The son -- Peter Sanghurst? O Raymond, was that bad man there?"
"Yes; and he knows now who and what I am, whereby his old hatred to me
is bitterly increased. He holds that I have hindered and thwarted him
before in other matters. Now that he knows I have a just and lawful
claim on Basildene, which one day I will make good, he hates me with a
tenfold deadlier hatred."
"Hates you -- when you came to his father in his last extremity? How can
he dare to hate you now?"
Raymond smiled a shadowy smile as he looked into the fire.
"Methinks he knows little of filial love. He knew that his father had
been stricken with the distemper, but he left him to die alone. He would
not have come nigh him at all, save that he heard sounds in the house,
and feared that robbers had entered, and that his secret treasure hoards
might fall into their hands. He had come down armed to the teeth to
resist such marauders, being willing rather to stand in peril of the
distemper than to lose his ill-gotten gold. But he found none such as he
thought; yet having come, and having learned who and what manner of man
I was, he feared to leave me alone with his father, lest I should be
told the secret of the hidden hoard, which the old man longed to tell me
but dared not. Doubtless the parchment he wished to place in my hands is
there; but his son hovered ever within earshot, and the old man dared
not speak. Yet with his last breath he called me lord of Basildene, and
charged me to remove from it the curse which in his own evil days had
fallen upon the place."
"Peter Sanghurst will not love you the more for that," said John.
"Verily no; yet methinks he can scarce hate me more than he does and has
done for long."
"He is no insignificant foe," was the thoughtful rejoinder. "His hate
may be no light thing."
"He has threatened me oft and savagely," answered Raymond, "and yet no
harm has befallen me therefrom."
"Why has he threatened thee?" asked Joan breathlessly; "what hast thou
done to raise his ire?"
"We assisted Roger, the woodman's son, to escape from that vile slavery
at Basildene, of which doubtless thou hast heard, sweet lady. That was
the first cause of offence."
"And the second?"
Raymond's clear gaze sought her face for a moment, and Joan's dark eyes
kindled and then slowly dropped.
"The second was on thy account, sweet Joan," said Raymond, with a
curious vibration in his voice. "He saw us once together -- it is long
ago now -- and he warned me how I meddled to thwart him again. I scarce
understood him then, though I knew that he would fain have won this fair
hand, but that thou didst resolutely withhold it. Now that I have
reached man's estate I understand him better. Joan, he is still bent
upon having this hand. In my hearing he swore a great oath that by fair
means or foul it should be his one day. He is a man of resolute
determination, and, now that his father no longer lives, of great wealth
too, and wealth is power. Thou hast thwarted him till he is resolved to
humble thee at all cost. I verily believe to be avenged for all thou
hast cost him would be motive enough to make him compass heaven and
earth to win thee. What sayest thou? To withstand him may be perilous --"
"To wed him would be worse than death," said Joan, in a very low tone.
"I will never yield, if I die to save myself from him."
Unconsciously these two had lowered their voices. John had dropped
asleep beside the fire with the ease of one exhausted by weakness and
long watching. Joan and Raymond were practically alone together. There
was a strange light upon the face of the youth, and into his pale face
there crept a flush of faint red.
"Joan," he said, in low, firm tones that shook a little with the
intensity of his earnestness, "when I saw thee first, and knew thee for
a very queen amongst women, my boyish love and homage was given all to
thee. I dreamed of going forth to win glory and renown, that I might
come and lay my laurels at thy feet, and win one sweet answering smile,
one kindly word of praise from thee. Yet here am I, almost at man's
estate, and I have yet no laurels to bring to thee. I have but one thing
to offer -- the deep true love of a heart that beats alone for thee.
Joan, I am no knightly suitor, I have neither gold nor lands -- though
one day it may be I may have both, and thy father would doubtless drive
me forth from his doors did I present myself to him as a suitor for this
fair hand. But, Joan, I love thee -- I would lay down my life to serve
thee -- and I know that thou mayest one day be in peril from him who is
also mine own bitter foe. Wilt thou then give me the right to fight for
thee, to hold this hand before all the world and do battle for its
owner, as only he may hope to do who holds it, as I do this moment, by
that owner's free will? Give me but leave to call it mine, and I will
dare all and do all to win it. Sweet Mistress Joan, my words are few and
poor; but could my heart speak for me, it would plead eloquent music.
Thou art the sun and star of my life. Tell me, may I hope some day to
win thy love?"
Joan had readily surrendered her hand to his clasp, and doubtless this
had encouraged Raymond to proceed in his tale of love.
He certainly had not intended thus to commit himself, poor and unknown
and portionless as he was, with everything still to win; but a power
stronger than he could resist drew him on from word to word and phrase
to phrase, and a lovely colour mantled in Joan's cheek as he proceeded,
till at last she put forth her other hand and laid it in his, saying:
"Raymond, I love thee now. My heart is thine and thine alone. Go forth,
if thou wilt, and win honour and renown -- but thou wilt never win a
higher honour and glory than I have seen thee winning day by day and
hour by hour here in this very house -- and come back when and as thou
wilt. Thou wilt find me waiting for thee --ever ready, ever the same. I
am thine for life or death. When thou callest me I will come."
It was a bold pledge for a maiden to give in those days of harsh
parental rule; yet Joan gave it without shrinking or fear. That this
informal betrothal might be long before it could hope to be consummated,
both the lovers well knew; that there might be many dangers lying before
them, they did not attempt to deny. It was no light matter to have thus
plighted their troth, when Raymond was still poor and nameless, and
Joan, in her father's estimation, plighted to the Sanghurst. But both
possessed brave and resolute spirits, that did not shrink or falter; and
joyfully happy in the security of their great love, they could afford
for a time to forget the world.
Raymond drew from within his doublet the half ring he had always carried
about with him, and placed it upon the finger of his love. Joan, on her
side, drew from her neck a black agate heart she had always worn there,
and gave it to Raymond, who put it upon the silver cord which had
formerly supported his circlet of the double ring.
"So long as I live that heart shall hang there," he said. "Never believe
that I am dead until thou seest the heart brought thee by another. While
I live I part not with it."
"Nor I with thy ring," answered Joan, proudly turning her hand about
till the firelight flashed upon it.
And then they drew closer together, and whispered together, as lovers
love to do, of the golden future lying before them; and Raymond told of
his mother and her dying words, and his love, in spite of all that had
passed there, for the old house of Basildene, and asked Joan if they two
together would be strong enough to remove the curse which had been cast
over the place by the evil deeds of its present owners.
"Methinks thou couldst well do that thyself, my faithful knight,"
answered Joan, with a great light in her eyes; "for methinks all evil
must fly thy presence, as night flies from the beams of day. Art thou
not pledged to a high and holy service? and hast thou not proved ere now
how nobly thou canst keep that pledge?"
At that moment John stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes. There was
in them that slightly bewildered look that comes when the mind has been
very far away in some distant dreamland, and where the weakened
faculties have hardly the strength to reassert themselves.
"Joan," he said -- "Joan, art thou there? art thou safe?"
She rose and bent over him smilingly.
"Here by thy side, good John, and perfectly safe. Where should I be?"
"And Raymond too?"
"Raymond too. What ails thee, John, that thou art so troubled?"
He smiled slightly as he looked round more himself.
"It must have been a dream, but it was a strangely vivid one. Belike it
was our talk of a short while back; for I thought thou wast fleeing from
the malice of the Sanghurst, and that Raymond was in his power, awaiting
his malignant rage and vengeance. I know not how it would have ended --
I was glad to wake. I fear me, sweet Joan, that thou wilt yet have a
hard battle ere thou canst cast loose from the toil spread for thee by
yon bad man."
Joan threw back her head with a queenly gesture.
"Fear not for me, kind John, for now I am no longer alone to fight my
battle. I have Raymond for my faithful knight and champion. Raymond and
I have plighted our troth this very day. Let Peter Sanghurst do his
worst; it will take a stronger hand than his to sunder love like ours!"
John's pale face kindled with sympathy and satisfaction. He looked from
one to the other and held out his thin hands.
"My heart's wishes and blessings be with you both," he said. "I have so
many times thought of some such thing, and longed to see it
accomplished. There may be clouds athwart your path, but there will be
sunshine behind the cloud. Joan, thou hast chosen thy knight worthily
and well. It may be that men will never call him knight. It may be that
he will not have trophies rich and rare to lay at thy feet. But thou and
I know well that there is a knighthood not of this world, and in that
order of chivalry his spurs have already been won, and he will not, with
thee at his side, ever be tempted to forget his high and holy calling.
For thou wilt be the guiding star of his life; and thou too art
dedicated to serve."
There was silence for a few moments in the quiet room. John lay back on
his pillows panting somewhat, and with that strange unearthly light they
had seen there before deepening in his eyes. They had observed that look
often of late -- as though he saw right through them and beyond to a
glory unspeakable, shut out for the time from their view. Joan put out
her hand and took that of Raymond, as if there was assurance in the warm
human clasp. But their eyes were still fixed upon John's face, which was
changing every moment.
He had done much to form both their minds, this weakly scion of the De
Brocas house, whose life was held by those who bore his name to be
nothing but a failure. It was from him they had both imbibed those
thoughts and aspirations which had been the first link drawing them
together, and which had culminated in an act of the highest
self-sacrifice and devotion. And now it seemed to him, as he lay there
looking at them, the two beings upon earth that he loved the best (for
Raymond was more to him than a brother, and Joan the one woman whom, had
things gone otherwise with him, he would fain have made his wife), that
he might well leave his work in their hands -- that they would carry on
to completion the nameless labour of love which he had learned to look
upon as the highest form of chivalry.
"Raymond," he said faintly.
Raymond came and bent down over him.
"I am close beside thee, John."
"I know it. I feel it. I am very happy. Raymond, thou wilt not forget me?"
"Never, John, never."
"I have been very happy in thy brotherly love and friendship. It has
been very sweet to me. Raymond, thou wilt not forget thy vow? Thou wilt
ever be true to that higher life that we have spoken of so oft together?"
Raymond's face was full of deep and steadfast purpose.
"I will be faithful, I will be true," he answered. "God helping me, I
will be true to the vow we have made together. Joan shall be my witness
now, as I make it anew to thee here."
"Not for fame or glory or praise of man alone," murmured John, his voice
growing fainter and fainter, "but first for the glory of God and His
honour, and then for the poor, the feeble, the helpless, the needy. To
be a champion to such as have none to help them, to succour the
distressed, to comfort the mourner, to free those who are wrongfully
oppressed, even though kings be the oppressors -- that is the true
courage, the true chivalry; that is the service to which thou, my
brother, art pledged."
Raymond bent his head, whilst Joan's clasp tightened on his hand. They
both knew that John was dying, but they had looked too often upon death
to fear it now. They did not summon any one to his side. No priest was
to be found at that time, and John had not long since received the
Sacrament with one who had lately died in the house. There was no
restlessness or pain in his face, only a great peace and rest. His voice
died away, but he still looked at Raymond, as though to the last he
would fain see before his eyes the face he had grown to love best upon
earth.
His breath grew shorter and shorter. Raymond thought he made a sign to
him to bend his head nearer. Stooping over him, he caught the
faintly-whispered words:
"Tell my father not to grieve that I did not die a knight. He has his
other sons; and I have been very happy. Tell him that -- happier, I
trow, than any of them --"
There were a brief silence and a slight struggle for breath, then one
whispered phrase:
"I will arise and go to my Father --"
Those were the last words spoken by John de Brocas.