The first sensation had been one of deliverance. The second was more
like despair.
The waves breaking against rocks and shore looked more terrible than out
in the open sea, and this sudden rush for safety on the part of the men
had something about it so cowardly that it produced in Stephen a
wretched sense of desolation. He supposed that in another moment Andrew
would have followed his fellow sailors, and they would be left alone.
Andrew had in fact rushed to the bows as the men leaped over, and
Stephen, bitter in spirit at such a cruel desertion, strained his boy in
his arms so that, if he could do no more, he might at least hide death
from him.
He almost started when he heard a voice. The master was standing over
him with a face full of rage.
"The cowardly loons!" he cried; "I would the waves had choked them! No
Devon man would have played such a trick. I knew they were helpless
oafs, but to save their skins like that! If they had stopped it would
have been easy enough, but now we must think how to get thee on shore."
Stephen sprang up.
"Think not on me. My life is nothing. Save Hugh, and I ask no more."
Andrew stared at him and began to laugh.
"Prithee, dost thou suppose I should leave thee here to drown? Why one
of thy precious drones' hive would scarce be so unmanly, though, in
truth, I can say nought against them after those base knaves of mine.
But now, see here, if I fasten a rope round the mast--which will hold
yet awhile--and go ashore with the other end, canst thou find thy way?"
"The boy first."
"Ay, the boy first, and the monkey with him, if the beast has the sense
to hold on. Thou wilt want both hands for thyself, Hugh."
"I will tie him to me," cried the boy, hopefully. His hopes had risen
with Andrew's cheerfulness, and as for Bassett, with the revulsion of
feeling, a new and extraordinary strength seemed to have come to him; he
helped the master to fasten the rope securely, and stood, unheeding the
buffet of wind and waves, watching the sailor when he had cast himself
into the sea, and was fighting his way towards the shore. Once or twice
he was sucked back by the retreating water and nigh overwhelmed, and the
time seemed endless before they made out that he had gained a footing,
and was with the other men on the beach. His shout only faintly touched
their ears.
"Now, Hugh," said Bassett firmly.
They had bound poor Agrippa as closely to him as they could, while round
his own neck the carver had disposed a bag with money and such small
specimens of his workmanship as were portable. His tools he was
reluctantly obliged to leave behind him; his breathing could bear no
further weight.
"Thou wilt be sorely scratched by Agrippa," he said. He was so hopeful
he could smile. But the monkey was so cowed that he only clung closely,
turning his head piteously from side to side, and realising that
something terrible was about to happen. Hugh bore himself manfully.
One or two of the sailors who had escaped, finding themselves safe, were
ready to help Andrew with the rope, and though the boy was half choked
and sorely beaten by the waves, he held on, reaching the shore after a
tremendous tussle, by the end of which he was so spent that he fancied
he must drop, when he felt himself clutched by Andrew and drawn through
the remaining waves. He lay for a time exhausted on the beach; but life
was young and strong in him, and he staggered to his feet, tried to
comfort and warm the poor monkey, and to watch for his father's coming.
Andrew had scarcely thought that Bassett would have the strength to bear
the passage through the surf. It relieved him greatly to find that the
carver was slowly nearing the shore. Now and then he disappeared under
the crest of a great wave, but he always reappeared, holding on with a
tenacity which was little less than miraculous. Andrew, though even his
strength was pretty well spent, again cast himself into the sea to help
him in his last struggle, and the carver by his aid managed to reach the
shore, but in so terrible a plight that Hugh cried out and flung himself
by his side.
And now a very dreadful thing happened, for, as Stephen lay there like a
log and Hugh knelt calling on him to look up, the waves, which had but
just had their prey snatched from them, as if they meant to show that in
another case they had had their way, brought up something large and dark
and motionless, and flung it at their very feet; and while Hugh,
scarcely recognising what it was, yet shrank from it as from some
fearful thing, two of the men ran hastily down and seized and dragged it
beyond the water's reach. Hugh caught the face then, and gave a cry of
horror; it was the boy Jakes--dead.
He must have swooned after this, for when he came to himself again he
was lying higher up, at the mouth of a small natural cave formed in the
sandstone rock. His father sat by him, and in the cave a fire of
brushwood had been lit, close to which crouched Agrippa, munching black
rye bread soaked in sea water, and jabbering with satisfaction.
"Father," said the boy, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "are we safe?"
"Saved by a miracle, my little lad."
"But Jakes--his face--what was it!"
"He was drowned," said Bassett, gravely; "he never got to land with the
others. Eat some of this bread; I had it in my pocket."
"Is anyone else drowned?" asked Hugh, shuddering.
"No, thank Heaven! And the master has gone off to see if perchance
there might be some hut or cottage near where we can get lodging for the
night and means of reaching Exeter."
"Father, you must be spent. Think no more of me. Sit by the fire, and
take off your clothes to dry."
Hugh was almost himself again, although evidently deeply shocked at the
death of Jakes, and with the burden on him of remorse for unkind
thoughts which is hard to bear. But fire and food comforted them all in
some measure, and Andrew came back before long to tell them that he had
been lucky enough to reach a serf's hut not far away, where they could
at least find shelter, with hope of a horse.
"You have done everything for us, and have lost more than any," said
Bassett, gratefully.
"Nay, I know not what I have lost yet," returned the sailor. "The bales
of silk and woollen are spoiled; no hope for them. But maybe, if the
gale goes down, I may have my boat again. I can put up with the rest."
When they had rested awhile they made their way up through a sort of
gully piercing the red cliffs. This same redstone amazed Hugh, for the
pools of rain were crimson to look at, and he had never seen anything
like it before. But glad enough he was to turn his back on the wild
sea.
"I hate it! I would I might never see it again."
"Thou wouldst be a poor crusader," panted Stephen, whose breath was
sorely tried by the ascent.
They stumbled on through tussocks of grass until they reached the top,
where trees grew thickly, though somewhat one-sided and windblown with
south-west gales. Andrew was not with them, but he had directed them
fully, and they soon came upon a rough hovel, built of a mixture of mud
and straw called cob, and coarsely thatched. A wild-looking herd and a
wilder-looking woman stared at them from the doorway; but though uncouth
they were not unkindly, and had got a fire of logs burning, together
with bread and bacon and a large tankard of cider on the table.
As usual, the monkey caused the greatest astonishment, and Hugh dared
not loosen his hold of him because of a sheep-dog, who growled angrily
at the strange party. The other sailors were already there, eating and
drinking and drying their clothes, and presently Andrew came in. He was
very short and surly with the men, though, as he told Stephen
afterwards, unable to cast them off altogether, as he would willingly
have done, because, if there were a chance of saving the boat, he would
need their help in getting her off and in sailing her. All depended
upon the abatement of the gale. If the wind went down with the tide
there was a chance of floating her in calmer weather and of repairing
damages. She was strongly built, and, so far, showed no signs of
breaking up.
To Hugh's eyes his father seemed scarcely worse or more feeble than he
had often been before. He was very pale it is true, his breathing was
laboured, and he had a short, sharp cough, which scarcely ceased; but he
was keen to push on, and would not rest until he had urged the herd to
go that evening to the sheep-farm where he worked, and where he thought
a horse might be bought. They were, as Stephen ascertained, not more
than fifteen or sixteen miles from Exeter, the spot where they were
wrecked being a little north of the mouth of the Teign; and this he was
feverishly anxious to declare they could ride in a day. A strong horse
could easily carry two; it was madness for him to think of remaining
where he was for rest, since if he became worse there was no means of
procuring a leech.
"E'en go thy way," said Andrew, half angrily, half sadly, for he had
done enough for his passengers to feel a sincere liking for them.
The hut, as usual, consisted of but one smoky room, in which they all
bestowed themselves for the night. Andrew saw that Stephen had the best
of the miserable accommodation; but little rest came to him owing to the
constant torment of his cough, and he was up as soon as the sailor and
out in the air, though not strong enough to go down to the cove. But
what a change was there since the former night! The wind had shifted to
the south-west, and blew as softly as if it had never known violence.
The sun, though not yet showing much face through misty grey clouds,
filled the air with delightful promise. All the land colouring was rich
and varied, for the trees, though shaken by the past storm, were in
their fullest and most gorgeous autumnal colouring, and the deep red of
the soil, the vivid green of the grass, and the brown of the bracken
made a splendid harmony of tint.
The sailors followed the master to the cove; the herd went off to his
work, promising that the horse should come when the morning was a little
advanced, after the nine o'clock dinner; the wife made much of Hugh; and
Stephen, looking and feeling wretchedly ill, tried to wear off his
restlessness by wandering towards the edge of the cliff, but his
strength giving out he was forced to crawl back and sit quiet. The
horse arrived, and proved a strong, serviceable beast.
Stephen could scarce touch the coarse food, being too feverish. Andrew
came up quite hopeful, and laden with the carver's tools and other
possessions, which, though somewhat marred by the salt water, he was
thankful to see again. The woman of the house dried the clothes; all
the gear was securely strapped on the horse, and then came the
farewells. The master would not consent to receive a penny for the cost
of the voyage.
"Nay," he said, "we feasted on the grey brothers' good cheer, and, by my
troth, I shall never have the heart to call it a drones' hive again.
One of these days Moll and I will go and have speech with Friar Luke,
and let him know what befell. Nay, I tell you, I can be obstinate too,
though with no hope of evening thy powers in that matter. Wonderful it
is that so little mischief has been done with all that turmoil; if the
poor fool Jakes had but stayed on board he would have saved his skin."
"Have a mass said for his soul," said Stephen, pressing a little money
into his hand. "Nay, thou must not refuse, it is conscience money."
"Well, it shall go to the grey brothers," said Andrew, who seemed to
limit his new-born tolerance to the one monastery. "Hearken, Hugh, if
thy father is spent, get him to stop for a night on the road. Some day
I shall come to see thee at Exeter."
The kind-hearted sailor stood watching the pair when they had started,
Stephen riding, Hugh stepping manfully through the bracken, and both
turning back and waving their hands until they were lost in the thicket
of underwood through which they had to pass before reaching the road.
Road, indeed, it could scarce be called, for at this season the best
were in some places nigh impassable, and Devonshire mud when it is left
to follow its own will cannot easily be beaten. In sortie parts the
road was little more than a channel worn by constant running of water,
and leaving banks on either side; and, owing to the rain of the day
before, the water flowed down these banks in little runnels, and rushed
cheerfully along the course at the foot. Hugh, however, found it
amusing enough to splash through these streams, or to leap from bank to
bank, and clamber along through ivy and long grasses and briars and
nut-bushes; such a thicket of greenery as he had never seen before.
When he was tired he would scramble up behind his father, the stout grey
making light of his double burden; and he was untroubled by Stephen's
anxiety lest these narrow lanes should offer opportunity for thieves and
outlaws.
They met no such dangerous folk. A ploughman passed and looked
curiously at them, and a priest carrying a staff, and on his way to a
sick parishioner, stopped and inquired whither they were bound.
Bassett's evident illness made the good man uneasy, and he would have
had him rest at his house until better able to go on; indeed, pressed it
on him. The carver shook his head.
"I thank you heartily, sir priest, but I must push on, having, as you
may judge, but little time before me. If, of your courtesy, you will
point out the shortest and safest road, you will be doing us a
kindness."
The old man, who had a very pleasant and earnest face, assured him that,
so far as he could tell, the country for some miles round was tolerably
free from rogues, though he could not answer for the neighbourhood of
Exeter. He himself went a little way with them, and directed them the
shortest path along the rocks, where the sea stretched on one side,
softly grey, and only a little stirred with remembrance of yesterday's
gale, and pointed out Exmouth, which he said had an ill character for
pirates, and then showed them the Exe stretching away, and told them how
they should leave it on their right and take the inland road, and so
left them with his blessing.
It was all that Stephen could do to hide his increasing weakness from
Hugh. There were times when he felt that he must give it all up, drop
from the horse, and let himself die by the road-side. Only a will
strong for his boy's sake could have given him strength to sit upright.
When they paused at a little hostelry for some food he did not dare get
off his horse, fearing that he might lack the resolution to mount again.
His suffering became so acute that he could not hide it from Hugh, and
though the boy dreaded nothing worse than one of those sharp fits of
illness which his father had weathered before, he did his best to induce
him to seek a night's lodging on the road. But Stephen refused almost
irritably.
Nor could he bear to follow where Hugh's remorse would have led him--
into talk of Jakes. It seemed as if he would put aside all that was
harsh and painful, and he was either silent or--as the boy afterwards
remembered--let fall words which showed that his thoughts were with the
wife he had lost, or dwelling upon some of the talks he had had with
Friar Luke. Once or twice Hugh was sorely perplexed by what he said,
fancying that he could not have heard rightly; but Stephen seemed unable
or unwilling to repeat the sentence, and murmured something else. Once
they fell in with a gay party going to a neighbouring castle; there was
a minstrel, and two or three glee maidens were of the company. When
they overtook Stephen and Hugh they were making a great noise and
merriment, and the boy wondered why, on seeing them, all their jests
died away and they looked almost frightened. They made haste, too, to
part company, saying they had no time to spare; and Hugh saw them
looking back and pointing as at some strange sight.
He was beginning to be alarmed himself, though not knowing why, perhaps
chiefly because his father seemed to heed him so little, no longer
asking if he were not tired, or noticing Agrippa's merry pranks, but
riding bent upon the horse's neck, and seeming only to keep his seat
with difficulty. Hugh called gladly to him when he saw before him a
town which he guessed to be Exeter, lying on a hill above the river,
with the fair cathedral standing in a very beautiful position about
half-way up, and Stephen so far roused himself as to clasp his hands and
to murmur, "God be thanked!" but with that fell back into silence.
It was well that the road was plain enough to need no consultation; and
poor little Hugh, wearied out, for he had ridden but little of late,
thinking it oppressed his father, struggled manfully on, hoping to get
in before sunset. It was well, too, that the last mile or two was of a
tolerable flatness, and the road wider and less heavy, though always
bad; for Stephen grew more and more bowed, and Hugh became so fearful
lest he should fall that he had to steady him as he walked by his side.
Thankful he felt when he came upon a few scattered hovels while the sun
was yet some quarter of an hour from setting, at which time the town
gates would be shut, and presently he saw the river running swiftly,
swelled by the autumn rains, and spanning it a brave new bridge of
stone, with houses and a chapel upon it.
"Father, father, here is Exeter!" cried Hugh, with anxious longing for
some reassuring word.
But he got no answer, and not daring to pause lest the gates might be
shut, he joined the throng of citizens who were pressing in for the same
good reason, and passed through the gate before setting himself to ask
any questions. The first person he addressed gave him a shove and told
him to get out of his way; but the second, who by his dress and bearing
might have been some kind of trader, stopped at once, and having
satisfied his own curiosity as to who they were and where they came
from, showed himself of a most friendly nature.
"We are in the Western or High Street," he said; "we have come through
the West Gate, and the Franciscans have their house between this and the
North Gate. But thou art a little varlet to have so much on thy hands,
and thy father looks in a sore plight. A monkey, too! How far have you
come?"
"Some sixteen miles, noble sir."
"Nay, I am no noble; only plain Elyas Gervase. Sixteen miles, and a
dy--a sick man who can scarce keep on his horse! What doth he work at?"
"He is a wood-carver, sir."
"Why, that is somewhat my own craft, since I am a stone-cutter. Have
you friends in this fair town?"
"Father has a letter to the prior, and I am to seek out a cousin of my
mother's, Master James Alwyn," said poor Hugh wearily.
"The child himself is almost spent," muttered the good citizen to
himself. "Prothasy would make them welcome, and we are surely bidden to
entertain strangers. Thou and thy father shall come home with me," he
added aloud, laying his hand kindly on Hugh's shoulder. "My house is
nigher than the monastery, and I will speak to a learned leech as we
pass. Both of ye need a woman's care."
If the boy was a little bewildered at this change of plan he could not
oppose it, nor had he any desire to do so. There was something in
Master Gervase's honest face which instinctively inspired confidence.
He was a man of about forty-five, somewhat light as to complexion and
hair, his beard was forked, his eyebrows were straight, marking a kindly
temper, and his eye was clear and open. He wore an under tunic of blue
cloth, with buttons closely set from the wrist to the elbow of the tight
sleeve, tight pantaloons, and low boots with long pointed toes. His
hair hung a little below his ears, and was covered by a cap. He walked
up the steep Western Street by the side of the horse, passing his strong
arm round poor Stephen's bowed form so as in some measure to support
him, and he paused presently before a door, and sent in a boy to say
that Master Gervase prayed Master Miles to come without delay. A few
minutes after this they stopped again before a timbered house projecting
far into the narrow street. Without a moment's delay Gervase had lifted
Stephen from the horse, and rather carried than led him in.
"Prothasy!" he called, the moment he was in the passage.
"I am coming!" answered a voice, and, following the sound, a young woman
ran in, small, dark, bright-eyed, and scarcely more than a girl in
appearance. "How late thou art, Elyas! And whom have we here?"
starting back.
"A sick man for thee to nurse. Nay, thou shalt hear more later, when we
have got him to bed. Wat! Where's Wat? Wat," as a lad hastily
appeared, "go out to the door and take the horse, and see that he has
good food and litter. Send the boy that is there in here."
It was evident that Prothasy Gervase was a capable woman. She asked no
questions, made no difficulties, but ran to see that all was right, and
Stephen, too much exhausted to be aware of what was happening, was got
into his crib-like bed in a little room overlooking the street, and
Mistress Gervase had brought up some hot spiced wine and bidden Hugh
take a drink of it before the doctor came. Then Elyas took the boy down
to the common room, and asked him a number of questions. He was one of
the burgesses who, by a recent law, was responsible for the good conduct
of twelve--some say ten--citizens, and would have to furnish an account
of the strangers, so that besides the call of natural curiosity, to
which he was not insensible, it was necessary that he should know
something of their history. He listened attentively to the story of the
shipwreck.
"And what brought thy father here?" he asked at last.
"He thought," faltered Hugh, for his spirits had sunk low, never having
seen his father in such sore plight before, "that our cousin, Master
Alwyn, might help him to get work in the great church of St Peter's."
"James Alwyn is dead," said Gervase, gravely. Hugh's face quivered. He
seemed more lonely than ever.
"He died a year ago, come Martinmas. What was thy mother's name?"
"Alice Alwyn."
"I mind me there was one of that name lived out by Clyst. And--but I
warrant me thou wilt say, ay--is thy father a good craftsman?"
"There is no better work," said Hugh, proudly. "He will show it you,
gentle sir, and you will see."
"Ay," said Gervase, hesitatingly, "and thou wilt follow his craft?"
"I would carve in stone," muttered Hugh, turning away that his
questioner might not see the tears which sprang into his eyes. He was
tired, and his heart seemed strangely heavy.
"Sayest thou so!" eagerly. "Thou art right, there is nought like it.
We must see what can be done for thee, perchance--" he checked himself.
"I must talk with Prothasy," he added, under his breath.
He was very good to the boy, leaving him to make a good meal while he
went out to meet the doctor, a gaunt, melancholy man, dressed in bluish
grey lined with thin silk, who spoke with bent head and joined
finger-tips.
"By virtue of the drugs I administered," he began, "my patient hath
revived a little, but Is in evil case."
"How long will he live, sir leech?" demanded Elyas bluntly.
"Scarce more than a few days. I am going home to prepare a cordial, and
I shall cast his horoscope to-night, when I doubt not to find evil
influences in the ascendent."
"You may take that for granted without seeking to find out whether it is
so," said the other, with a short laugh. "However, let him want no
care. Will you be back before curfew?"
The doctor promised and kept his word. By eight o'clock all lights were
out; Hugh was stretched on a rough pallet in his father's room with
Agrippa, at whom Mistress Prothasy looked askance, by his side, and all
was silent, indoors and out, save for the quick laboured breathing of
the sick man.