it was from the friends with whom he was supposed to be staying asking
the reason of his non-arrival; Perry was going over to play in a
cricket match; hence their agitation. March rode over to them at once.
Perry had not arrived; inquiries on the road gained no tidings of him.
Search was made for him throughout that day and through the night and
through the next day and still there was no news of Perry.
For the first time in his life March was shaken to the finest fibre
of his soul. His son was the apple of his eye, the best beloved of
all his children. He felt a tremor of the nerves which he would have
called weakness and affectation in another. When on the third night the
searchers returned with no tidings of the young man, March went to his
room with a grey-hued face and eyes that were glazed with agony and
suspense. He sat at his table and bowed his head upon it. He tried to
pray――March was a somewhat conventionally religious man――but he could
only groan. In the room above where was the green and yellow curtain
the child knelt by the side of the bed shaking from head to foot, the
drops of agony standing on his forehead. The soul which was so much
older than the little body was wrestling in the throes of a complex
passion of love and personal cowardly dread; the poor little ten-year
old body could scarcely support the strain.
In the afternoon, two hours after Perry had left, Dennis knelt by the
little pool and chanced to look therein. Before his eyes a picture
grew. It was Perry stunned and lifeless lying in a hollow, the mouth
of which was hidden by elder bushes with their luscious black berries.
It was a narrow rocky crevasse formed by the rending slipping land.
Everything about the picture was very clear; on the hill above the
hollow was an old pine tree twisted into a strange shape; there was a
bent bough on it on which a human form dangled――a dead man hanged by
the neck to the bent tree. This was the vision that had driven Dennis
to his uncle’s room; since then the picture appeared to him again and
yet again. Sometimes the hanged man was not there, but the scene was
always the same point for point. Even now as he knelt it formed itself
between him and the green and yellow curtain.
The child sobbed and twisted his fingers in his hair. In his ears rang
the stern words: “If I hear a whisper of this again I shall write very
strongly to Mr. Brownlow and warn him of your untruthfulness.”
Mr. Brownlow was Dennis’s future schoolmaster and poor Dennis pictured
himself as being pilloried and held up for execration before a whole
community of youthful devotees of truth. But then there was Perry.
Perry had been kind to him; Perry had banished the terrors of the
green and yellow curtain; had tried to screen him from wrath. If
only some one else could see! His Highland nurse had told him “the
sight” was God’s gift. If only He would give that gift to some one
else; to some one who would not be punished and scolded because of
his possession. Dennis had prayed on this subject with a child’s
unreasoning and sometimes unreasonable faith, and now he once more
extended his clasped hands and sobbed into the darkness:
“O do-do-do make some one else see instead of me.”
But no one else saw, and the burden, responsibility, and terror of a
gift, whatsoever be its nature, lay heavily on the slender shoulders
of Dennis. Therefore the end was inevitable. All strong powers lie
upon the men who possess them like mighty compelling forces unless
the man be stronger than the gift. To Dennis and to no other was the
vision; as he closed his streaming eyes it slowly formed itself once
more. He staggered to his feet and made for the room below; the force
was stronger than he, or else he was stronger than his weak nerves
and trembling body. Though March should beat him within an inch of
his fragile life he must tell that which he saw. He did not hesitate
now; he opened the door and went straight in. March raised his head,
started, and stood up.
“Dennis! Bless my soul, child, what are you doing at this hour? Not
undressed. Are you ill.”
“Uncle Hugh,” said Dennis, steadying himself by the table edge, “I――I
know where Perry is. At least I think so.”
“You know where Perry is. What do you mean?”
The child began to describe the place of his vision and March listened
with growing interest and excitement; when Dennis spoke of the pine and
the dangling figure he sprang up:
“It’s the highwayman’s pine,” he almost shouted; “they say a man was
hanged there a hundred years ago. But I’ll take my oath you’ve never
been there. How do you know the place?”
“I s-saw it,” faltered Dennis, and having thus betrayed his evil-doing
he swung forward and fainted. When he recovered he was lying on a sofa
and March was pouring water on his face.
“Lie still,” he said kindly. “Don’t be frightened. You must have been
dreaming, you know. I――I think I’ll go to this place you dreamed of. It
is superstition, of course, but er――er――――”
March called a maid to tend the child; then he summoned the men who had
been searching through the day and led them on another quest. This time
they found the missing lad. He was insensible and his leg was broken.
The next day the doctor spoke gravely of the condition of his patient.
“I am very much afraid his condition is serious,” he said. “If he had
been cared for at once recovery would have been quite certain; but he
has been lying there half-stunned and without food, drink, or care four
days and nights.”
March did not speak; possessed by a sudden thought he sought his nephew.
“Dennis, child,” he said, “when did you first see the place where we
found Perry?”
“The day he left.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at once what you saw? Perry’s very ill from
lying there four days.”
“I’m sorry,” murmured Dennis, “I――I thought you’d, you’d――――”
“You thought I should be angry?”
“Y-yes, I was afraid.”
He did not know how innocently he avenged himself and paid off old
scores. March was silent for a minute, then he said in a low voice:
“It’s just. It’s my own fault.”
He stooped and took the child’s face gently between his hands, kissed
his forehead and went out alone to wrestle with his pain and anxiety.
* * * * *
As this tale began so it ends at the pool in the landslip. Perry lay
beside the stream apparently none the worse for his fall of the year
before. Dennis sitting cross-legged beside the little rock basin
watched the water. March was talking with his son; following the
direction of Perry’s smiling eyes he saw Dennis. Dennis’s pictures were
less frequent now and his “stories” were less marvellous. The press of
outer interest which crowded in was doing its work. March looked at the
boy as he rose and stood beside him and laid his hand on his head:
“Seeing pictures?” he asked with a half-mocking laugh. March’s position
was a very illogical one and he was semi-conscious of the fact. The
child looked up and nodded.
“What nonsense,” said March, “it’s all fancy. If there was anything to
see why shouldn’t I see it?”
“Come, father,” said Perry laughing, “why can’t I tell ‘Rule Britannia’
from ‘God save the King?’”
“Nonsense! I tell you it’s a rampant medieval superstition that’s got
hold of you. As for Denny he’s a little donkey.”
But he laughed and pulled the boy’s hair with a gentle hand; which
seems to prove that one is not necessarily incapable of learning even
after one has “come to forty years.”
_Note._――This story is founded on fact. That is to say, although it is
mine as regards characters and incidents, the _motif_, the clairvoyance
of the child, is true. The drastic methods which were employed for the
repression of the gifts of the luckless little seer are also facts, and
that is the reason I wrote the story.
THE MYSTERY OF THE SON
OF MAN
Lord God of Glory, Pow’r of Perfect Light,
Look on Thy little children of the wild,
In whose frail souls the Son of Man is born
Thine is the pow’r of pain and anguish, Lord,
Thine is the chrysm of the agony,
The bitter wisdom born within the soul
That knows the sorrow of sin’s piteous load.
Father in Heaven, blessed be the hour
When in the beast-soul rises the sad voice
Of human shame, crying: “I will arise,
And seek my Father’s feet, and mourn my sin.”
Blessed the hour when the dread scourge of pain
Is gladly borne by some poor tortur’d soul,
Because it sees its foulness before Thee
By the white light of Christ, Who dwells within
The outrag’d temple of humanity.
There was wrath and distress in the House of the Cold Strand by reason
of the sin of Brother Gorlois. He was the child of the Holy House,
taken into the pious nurture of the brethren, from the dead breast of
his murdered mother, a heathen woman, found by Brother Pacificus lying
dead in the undergrowth of the great forest nigh the House of the Cold
Strand. The pious company of Christian monks, who had built their
house of prayer in that land, baptised the babe, and reared him by
the precepts of Solomon, by the rule of their House, and by the wisdom
which flowed from their hearts. And when the Brother Gorlois was twelve
years old he entered his noviciate, and when he was fifteen he took
upon him the vows of a monk, namely, the vows of poverty, chastity, and
obedience. He had little wit, and was not studious; nor was he called
to the way of contemplation, but he was strong, and waxed mighty of
muscle. As he grew to manhood the good gift of comeliness was bestowed
upon him by the Hand of God, and the thick crisp waves of his curly
yellow hair rose up like billows around his head.
He liked to trap and fish for the Holy House, but when the glee of
sport was passed he was lazy and loved to sleep. He gave the first
occasion for scandal during a fast of twice forty days, wherein the
brethren ate no flesh. This Brother Gorlois, stealing forth on the
eighth day, slew a coney, and was taken in the wood, having built a
fire in order that he might cook and devour it to the gratification of
his body, and the peril of his soul; moreover, he lied concerning his
sin, scandalously, and indeed foolishly, for it was manifest to the
simplest, and denial was vain.
The second scandal was when the Brother Gorlois was found in the
refectory drunk with wine; for this offence he did penance, being
scourged, and sorely rebuked by the brethren. But the third and
most grievous scandal was when he was taken in the forest with the
swineherd’s daughter; whereupon the brethren placed him in ward, whilst
they debated whether or no a monk who had broken his vows to the shame
of his House, should not lie within a narrow cell, the entrance whereof
should be securely barred by mortised stones, that soul and body might
part slowly in the terrors of a death by hunger and by thirst. Such was
the fate adjudged to Brother Gorlois, who was then but a young man of
twenty years, and he was brought forth, bound, to hear the same.
The Brother Gorlois was, as aforesaid, young and lusty, comely and
of great stature; he looked sullen, but he was less fearful and less
ashamed than might have been expected. God had granted to him vigorous
youth, health, and a person as goodly to behold as those He had given
to the great stags on the moor, and the mighty milk-white bulls which
crashed through the forest, leading a drove of their kind; but He in
His Wisdom had not yet given to Brother Gorlois the blessing (or
curse) of a lively power of imagery, and a sensitive memory.
Still he had been taken, as he knew, in what the brethren denounced as
sin, and he knew they were so made that they visited sin by fasting,
and by the scourge, to the Brother Gorlois’ great dis-ease; for he
loved food, and he esteemed the scourge to be a needless discomfort.
Therefore he looked very sulky, and stood gazing upon his feet, and
wishing vaguely that his arms were free.
Then he who was Head of the lonely little House of the Cold Strand
rose to pronounce the doom of Brother Gorlois, when the aged Brother
Pacificus uplifted his voice. It was the Brother Pacificus who had
found Brother Gorlois a young babe upon the dead breast of the
half-savage heathen woman, his mother.
Brother Pacificus was very old, and a reputed seer; esteemed as a saint
was he; twenty years had he travelled over Europe carrying the Gospel
of the Christ among heathen people; founding many a Holy House, but
never taking the Headship of any; thirty years lived he as a hermit,
supplicating God for the world; ten years he had dwelt at the House
of the Cold Strand, speaking little and praying much; but during the
last year he spoke more frequently and more freely, and the Head of the
House of the Cold Strand consulted him reverently as his soul-friend,
what though in that House he was his superior in religion.
“It is in my mind, holy father,” said Brother Pacificus, “that we have
sinned greatly against our Brother Gorlois, and owe him amends.”
“Speak thy mind, my brother, therefore,” said he who was the Head of
the House. “Make plain to us wherein we have sinned, and he shall live.”
“My father,” said the Brother Pacificus, “this, our young brother, so
lusty in his youth, is not bound by his vows, seeing that in truth he
took them not upon him.”
“Who then took them, venerable brother?”
“Verily, that did we,” said Brother Pacificus; “for we knew their
meaning, our Brother Gorlois did not so. He, obeying babe-like those
who nurtured him, uttered words of which his heart knew not the
meaning. For it is written that once a man of God made a religious
house in the wilderness and bound by vows Brother Fox, binding him to
a religious life, and to eat no flesh; the which vow he broke, adding
to this offence the sin of theft, for so mightily desired he to eat
flesh that he ate the leathern shoe-straps of his superior in religion,
namely, the holy saint; whereupon the holy man rebuked him for conduct
unbefitting a monk, when it was revealed to him that no vow can make
a religious of a beast of the field; the blame is his who bindeth a
little brother by a harsh rule against which the nature which God hath
given constraineth him. Wherefore let our Brother Gorlois abide with
us in peace, doing such tasks as his youth and great thews and sinews
make very fitting for him; but do not bind him to eat no flesh, nor
drink wine, nor even forbid him to seek the love of a maid, for to
these things the youth’s nature mightily constraineth him; nor doth
he perceive in any measure the beauty of holiness, nor desireth he to
enter into the secrets of the Kingdom of Heaven. Behold! he is no monk;
though his lips spake vow on vow, God would not register them in Heaven
as we foolish men do on earth; this Brother Gorlois is but a lad, and
in his heart a heathen, like the woman who bore him. Nevertheless he is
the child of our House. His hour is not yet. Spare him, my father, and
let us not――we who follow Him who bade the woman go unhurt and sin no
more――give our child to a cruel death. For we took him in God’s name,
and in the Power of that Name shall he dwell amongst us unhurt and
forgiven.”
Now no other voice in the Holy House would have been heard on behalf
of Brother Gorlois save only that of Brother Pacificus. But to his
voice the brethren listened with heed, and now his counsel prevailed,
and they spared the Brother Gorlois, and absolved him from his vows,
bidding him remain in the House of the Cold Strand, doing such work
as his youth and strength rendered fitting for him. Thus then Brother
Gorlois was pardoned by the holy father who ruled the brethren. This
holy father was a man of great zeal, and jealous for the fair repute of
the House, and often he mourned to Brother Pacificus because the soul
of the House was barren, and he knew not by what means the brethren
could make thereof a mightier power in the Hand of the Lord. But
Brother Pacificus said:
“The soul of a Holy House, my father, is like unto the Kingdom of God;
it cometh not with observation. It is from the beginning, and to hold
this diligently in our minds in all that is possible for us to do in
this matter. Let us then act as our nature constraineth us, under the
guidance of the Lord, remembering all natures are rooted in Him, and
it may ofttimes be our duty to suffer gladly, as His servant, one who
sorely opposes us; now this is hard for the natural man, but the Lord
from Heaven useth the one and the other for His service according to
the measure of their gifts, asking not wit from him who lacketh, nor
clerkly lore from the simple, nor the power of the spirit from him who
is yet a babe in Christ. Nor can we expect to know the subtle workings
of our brethren’s souls, and though it be our duty to dwell in sympathy
with them when we may, yet ofttimes it is our duty sweetly to resign
ourselves to dwell in ignorance of them. But the soul of a House of
Prayer is born from above, not from below, and this, meseemeth, is the
meaning of that Scripture which saith a man by taking thought can add
not a cubit to his stature.”
It was summer time when the sin of Brother Gorlois was judged by the
brethren; the following winter was very cold, and the Brother Pacificus
grew feebler. When the spring came he was very infirm; he slept little,
and it grew a custom that a brother should watch beside him to
minister to him in the night. On a moonlit night of May Brother Gorlois
was bidden to keep vigil by the old man’s side. Brother Pacificus slept
lightly during the first watch of the night. Brother Gorlois rose up
gently and looked from the little unglazed casement upon the forest.
It was a warm night, the glamour of the moon lay on the great silent
glades. Brother Gorlois felt restless, and upon him was a desire to
rove the forest. The oaks were in leaf, the smell of bluebells filled
the air, the fierce life of night and springtide was pulsing apace
through the dim sweet land; it was a night when all the beasts of the
forest did roam, seeking their bread from God.
Brother Gorlois leaned out, and smelled the night air and the earth;
then he drew back and sat by the old monk.
Something flew through the casement and hit Brother Gorlois on his
broad chest; it was a bunch of bluebells. Brother Gorlois looked out
once more. Below the window was the swineherd’s daughter; the night
was sultry, and her smock was open by reason of the heat; her skirt
was made of the stitched skins of beasts; about her neck was a garland
of blue flowers of the wood, swaying rope-like about her throat. When
she saw Brother Gorlois she laughed loudly and fled, but as she fled
she looked back. Then Brother Gorlois leaped from the window. When she
heard the beat of his feet behind her she ran faster; nevertheless, as
she ran she dragged the bluebells from about her throat and flung them
earth-wards to mark the way by which she went. Soon the thicket hid
her, and Brother Gorlois, flying in pursuit, was hidden too.
A little while after the flight of Brother Gorlois, the Brother
Pacificus stirred.
“My son,” he said faintly, “give me to drink, I pray thee.”
No one answered, and the old man murmured:
“He is young, he sleeps.”
He sighed, for his mouth was very parched and dry. After a while he
said again:
“My son, sleepest thou? Wake, I pray thee.”
But no one answered, and he said:
“My voice is weak, and the sleep of youth is heavy. O Lord, Thy chosen
slept in the hour of Thy agony; how didst Thou thirst, O Master, and
there was none to succour Thee, save with the bitter vinegar and gall!”
After a while the old monk’s thirst grew grievous, and he strove,
slowly and tremulously, to raise his aged limbs.
“It is but a little way to yonder jug,” he murmured, “I am a selfish
old man; the lad is tired with toil. I will seek the water for myself.”
He rose slowly, groped a pace or two, stumbled, and fell to the
floor of his cell. He lay there, moaning a little now and then, and
shivering. Thus did he lie during two hours of the night; and thus
Brother Gorlois found him when he slunk back, just as day broke. In
great terror he called the brethren, praying God that the old man
had not known his absence, or at least would be speechless till the
end. But Brother Pacificus, though all might see his death was near,
recovered speech and clearness of mind, and received the last rites of
the Church. Then said he:
“My brethren, ye are weary. Leave me to await the coming of my Lord and
Master. I shall die this night when midnight strikes. Wherefore at that
hour go ye to the chapel, and speed my soul with songs of holy joy; and
leave with me, I pray you, Brother Gorlois.”
Then they obeyed, weeping; but the Head said:
“Dare we trust thee, beloved brother, with this youth?” and sternly he
said to Brother Gorlois:
“Slept ye not, nor had left our holy brother when this sickness
increased upon him?”
Then Brother Gorlois lied; and Brother Pacificus smiled very tenderly
upon him and said:
“Nay, ye shall leave me, my father, with the babe I found.”
When the brethren were gone, Brother Pacificus said:
“Come near to me, my child, and lift me in thy arms, for I breathe
hardly.”
Brother Gorlois obeyed, and Brother Pacificus said:
“Wherefore left ye me, my son and little brother? The pain was sore as
I lay yonder; and that ye might have spared me. But in truth I sinned
in lack of patience; nevertheless, the thirst which was upon me was
great when I strove to fetch the water, that I might drink a little to
cool my tongue.”
The old man spoke very feebly, a word or two and then a long pause;
but when he had spoken Brother Gorlois knew Brother Pacificus had
perceived his absence. He said no word, but hung his head. He
perceived there was no fear that Brother Pacificus would betray him.
And yet he hung his head; there grew up about his heart a feeling new
and strange, and he felt very wroth with the swineherd’s brown daughter.
“See thy penance, child,” said Brother Pacificus. “Hold me in thy arms;
thus I breathe more freely.”
Brother Gorlois said nothing, not even when the cramp in his arms grew
great.
The old man fell into a stupor; but sometimes he wandered a little. He
would moan and say:
“My son――Gorlois――my son――where are thou?”
Sometimes he would say:
“I thirst――alone――Thou, Lord, wast left――――”
And Brother Gorlois, albeit dull of wit, saw he was living through the
pain and loneliness of the past night. Brother Gorlois did not ask the
old monk’s pardon; he did not know he wanted him to forgive; he knew
his heart felt heavy; he began to wish the Head might find out what he
had done, and have him flogged; and he felt more and more wroth with
the swineherd’s daughter, who was the cause of his discomfort.
In the chapel the brethren began to sing, Brother Pacificus could not
hear them. The hour of midnight was near.
Dies iræ, dies illa,
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sybilla.
Brother Pacificus waxed heavier in the strong arms of his “little
brother;” his breathing grew slower, and more slow.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis.
Brother Pacificus shuddered once with a great shudder, and his
breathing ceased; then he breathed once more, opened his eyes, and
smiled.
“Jhesu!” he said, “Jhesu! Jhesu! Jhesu!” Then he laughed softly and
gladly, as a lover at the sight of his beloved, or as an exile when he
sees again the land he loves.
The hour was midnight; a light like moonlight flickering upon blue
steel flashed through the room, and Brother Pacificus died.
Then as Brother Gorlois laid him down, and slowly rubbed his cramped
arms, there flew through the casement a bunch of blue flowers; they
smote him on the chest, and dropped upon the dead man’s breast.
Brother Gorlois gave a cry that was like unto a human sob of pain, but
liker still to the cry of an angry beast that has been hurt. He leaped
through the unglazed casement; in the silent wood below there was the
shriek of a woman in a swiftly stilled anguish of bodily fear.
From the chapel, when the day broke, the weeping brethren came. They
found Brother Pacificus dead, and on his breast a bunch of blue
sweet-smelling flowers; under the window on the dew-drenched forest
turf, there lay a half-clad girl; a bunch of blossoms like those on the
dead saint’s breast was in her stiffened hand; there was a wound in her
throat that an arm nerved by savage rage had given; in the tangle of
her rough hair was the knife that had killed her. It was the Brother
Gorlois’ hunting knife; but he had fled, and the House of the Cold
Strand knew him no more from the hour when the Son of Man was born in
him, in the throes of a first “conviction of sin,” the passing anguish
of a first remorse.
THE EXCELLENT VERSATILITY
OF THE MINOR POET