Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 9

Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evil liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending her to her own place. He crossed himself piously at the thought of the near neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-d.a.m.ned soul.

Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar clung to him like a little child, for the strength of his vision was spent. They lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only one slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet- smelling hay, and dreamt of Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrous pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine forest at home swept across his quiet sleep.

On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar at least as far as Norwich.

"As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another's bidding,"

he said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never to meet again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to Yarmouth, not Norwich, and there they perished among the first when the east wind swept the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. And Hilarius--once again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path of his desires.

CHAPTER VII--THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE

Hilarius fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in good weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!--that was a time to commend oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, picking his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which was all that remained to show where the piety of the past once kept a road. The low land to his left was submerged, a desolate tract giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a sunken ship broke the waste of waters.

The sight brought Hilarius' thoughts sharply back to the events of the evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of G.o.d! A witch--plainly proved to be such--had been struck dead in the midst of her sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap of graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the justice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, there to learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt would joyfully hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery.

Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a small hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp- set, for the shepherd's fare had been meagre; and so turned aside in the hope of an ale-house. There was no side road visible, and he struck across the dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude track which led to the group of cottages. The place struck him as strangely quiet; no smoke rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously at a stranger's advent. The first hovel he pa.s.sed was empty, the open door showed a fireless hearth. At the second he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within. As no one answered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; the low room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from a corner,-- 'twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his heart, and pa.s.sed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence.

Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat larger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the door: it was the ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he would find some one. As he came up he heard a child crying, and lo! on the doorstep sat a dirty little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear life.

Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the grimy tears.

The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill cry of joy, she held out her thin arms.

At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a little babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to her in the doorway, waved him away.

"Stand off, fool!--'tis the Plague."

Hilarius shrank back.

"And thy neighbours?" he asked.

"Nay, they were light-footed eno' when they saw what was to do, and left us three to die like rats in a hole." Then eagerly: "Hast thou any bread?"

He shook his head.

"Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?"

She threw out her hands.

"'Tis two days sin' I had bite or sup."

"Where lies the nearest village? and how far?"

"A matter of an hour, over yonder."

"See, goodwife," said Hilarius, "I will go buy thee food and come again."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"So said another, and he never came back."

"Nay, but perchance some evil befell him," said gentle Hilarius.

"Well, I will trust thee." She went in and returned with a few small coins. "'Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, else they will hunt thee from their doors."

Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in the direction of the village.

The woman watched him.

"Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?" she muttered, as she sat down to wait.

It was love.

Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little money he had to the woman's scanty store, bought bread, a flask of wine, flour and beans, and a jug of milk.

"'Tis for a sick child," he said when he asked for it, and the woman pushed back the money, bidding him G.o.d-speed.

The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of his precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a snare, lay a fine coney.

"Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!" cried Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store.

When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving up the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with her fast-failing babe in her arms.

Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine--not for nothing had he served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe for some weak Brother--and then turned his attention to the little maid who sat patient, eyeing the food.

For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking the child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth.

At last the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen head against her nurse's shoulder, and fell fast asleep.

Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to her, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little sister, the child he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had guided him to her, and her great Mother-love would shield this little one from a foul and horrid death. In that dirty, neglected room, the child warm against his breast, Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his life.

Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed eyes, and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother.

The woman was half-asleep, but started awake.

"Art thou going?" she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes.

"Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together," he said soothingly. "I would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter."

Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth.

The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her tale.

"'Twas Gammer Harden's son who first heard tell of a strange new sickness at Caxton's; and then Jocell had speech with a herd from those parts, who was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill he had done. Next day Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out of boils, and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden fell sick and died likewise. Then one cried 'twas the Plague, and the wrath of G.o.d; and they fled--the women to the nuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; but us they left, for I was with child."

"And thy husband?' said Hilarius.