Chapter XIV: The Hermitage

Nothing is more incomprehensible to the Christians of the nineteenth century than the lives of the hermits, and the general verdict passed upon them is, that they were useless, idle men, who fled from the world to avoid its work, or else were possessed with an unreasoning superstition which turned them into mere fanatics.

But this verdict is one-sided and unjust, and founded upon ignorance of the world of crime and violence from which these men fled,--a world which seemed so utterly abandoned to cruelty and lust that men despaired of its reformation; a world wherein men had no choice between a life of strife and bloodshed, and the absolute renunciation of society; a world wherein there was no way of escape but to flee to the deserts and mountains, or enter the monastic life, for those, who, as ancient Romans, might have committed suicide, but as Christians, felt they _must_ live, till God in His mercy called them hence.

And so while the majority of those who sought God embraced what is commonly called, _par excellence_, the religious life, others sought Him in solitude and silence; wherein, however, they were followed by that universal reverence which men, taught by the legends of the Church, bestowed on the pious anchorite.

Poverty, celibacy, self-annihilation, were their watchwords; and in contemplation of death, judgment, Hell, and Heaven, these lonely hours were passed.

Such a man was Meinhold, with whom the youthful sons of Brian Fitz-Count had found refuge. From childhood upwards he had loathed the sin he saw everywhere around him, and thence he sought the monastic life; but as ill-hap would have it, found a monastery in which the monks were forgetful of their vows, and slaves of sin, somewhat after the fashion of those described in Longfellow's "Golden Legend," for such there were, although, we believe, they were but exceptions to the general rule--

"Corruptio optimi est pessima."

The corruption of that which is very good is commonly the worst of all corruption: if monks did not rise above the world, they fell beneath it. Meinhold sternly rebuked them; and, in consequence, when one day it was his turn to celebrate the Eucharist, they poisoned the wine he should have used. By chance he was prevented from saying the Mass that day, and a poor young friar who took his place fell down dead on the steps of the altar. Meinhold shook off the dust of his feet and left them, and they in revenge said a Mass for the Dead on his behalf, with the idea that it would hasten his demise; for if not religious they were superstitious.

Then he determined that he would have nought more to do with his fellow-men, and sought God's first temples, the forests. In the summer time he wandered in its glades, reciting his Breviary, until he found out a place where he might lay his head.

A range of limestone hills had been cleft in the course of ages by a stream, which had at length scooped out a valley, like unto the "chines" in the Isle of Wight, and now rushed brawling into the river below, adown the vale it had made. In the rock, on one side of the vale, existed a large cave, formed by the agency of water, in the first place, but now high and dry. It had not only one, but several apartments; cavern opened out of cavern, and so dark and devious were their windings, that men feared to penetrate them.

Hither, for the love of God, came Meinhold. He had found the place he desired--a shelter from the storms of Heaven. In the outer cave he placed a rude table and seat, which he made for himself; and in an inner cavern he made a bed of flags and leaves.

In the corner of the cell he placed his crucifix. Wandering in the woods he found the skeleton of some poor hapless wayfarer, long since denuded of its flesh. He placed the skull beneath the crucifix as a _memento mori_, not without breathing a prayer for the poor soul to whom it had once belonged.

Here he read his Breviary, which, let the reader remember, was mainly taken from the Word of God, psalms and lessons forming three-fourths of the contents of the book, arranged, as in our Prayer Book, for the Christian year. It was his sole possession,--a bequest of a deceased friend, worth its weight in gold in the book market, but far more valuable in Meinhold's eyes.

Here, then, he passed a blameless if monotonous existence, to which but one objection could be made--it was a _selfish_ life. Even if the selfishness were of a high order, man was not sent into the world simply to save, each one, his own soul. The life of the Chaplain at Byfield lazar-house showed how men could abjure self far more truly than in a hermitage.

Sometimes thoughts of this kind passed through the mind of our hermit and drove him distracted, until his cry became,

"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"

And while he thus sought to know God's Will, the two poor fugitives, Evroult and Richard, came into his way.

Poor wounded lambs! no fear had he of their terrible malady. The Lord had sent them to him, and the hermit felt his prayers were answered. Wearied out and tired by their long day's journey, the poor boys passively accepted his hospitality; and they ate of his simple fare, and slept on his bed of leaves as if it had been a couch of down; nor did they awake till the sun was high in the heavens.

The hermit had been up since sunrise. He had long since said his Matins and Lauds from his well-thumbed book; and then kindling a fire in a sort of natural hearth beneath a hole in the rock, which opened to the upper air, he roasted some oatmeal cakes, and went out to gather blackberries and nuts, as a sort of dessert after meat, for the boys. It was all he had to offer.

At last they awoke.

"Where are we, Evroult?"

It was some moments before they realised where they were--not an uncommon thing when one awakes in the morning in a strange place.

Soon, however, they bethought themselves of the circumstances under which they stood, and rising from their couch, arranged their apparel, passed their fingers through their hair in lieu of comb, rubbed their sleepy eyes, and came into the outer cave, where the hermit crouched before the fire acting the part of cook.

He heard them, and stood up.

"_Pax vobiscum_, my children, ye look better this morning; here is your breakfast, come and eat it, and then we will talk."

"Have you no meat?" Evroult was going to say, but the natural instinct of a gentleman checked him. They had fed well at the lazar-house, but better oaten cakes and liberty.

"Oh what nice nuts," said Richard; "and blackberries, too."

The hermit's eyes sparkled as he noted the sweet smile which accompanied the words. The face of the younger boy was untouched by the leprosy. They satisfied their hunger, and then began to talk.

"Father, how long may we stay here?"

"As long as you like--God has sent you hither."

"But we want to get to Wallingford Castle."

"No! no! brother: let us stay here," said the younger and milder boy; "think how every one hates us; that terrible day yesterday--oh, it was a terrible day! they treated us as if we had been mad dogs or worse."

"Yes, we will stay, father, at least for a while, if you will let us; we are not a poor man's sons--not English, but Normans; our father is----"

"Never mind, my child--gentle or simple is all one to God, and all one here. Did your father then send you to the lazar-house?"

"Yes, three years agone."

"And has he ever sought you since?"

"No, he has never been to see us--he has forgotten us; we were there for life; we knew and felt it, and only a week ago strove to drown ourselves in the deep pond."

"That was very wrong--no one may put down the burden of the flesh, till God give him leave."

"Do you think you can cure us?"

"Life and death, sickness and health, are all in God's hands. I will try."

Their poor wan faces lit up with joy.

"And this hole in my cheek?"

"But my poor fingers, two are gone; you cannot give them me back," and Richard burst into tears.

"Come, my child, you must not cry--God loves you and will never leave nor forsake you. Every cloud has its bright side; what if you have little part in the wicked world?"

"But I _love_ the world," said Evroult.

"Love the world! Do you really love fighting and bloodshed, fire and sword? for they are the chief things to be found therein just now."

"Yes I do; my father is a warrior, and so would I be," said the unblushing Evroult.

"And thou, Richard?"

"I hardly know," said he of the meeker spirit and milder mood.

"Come, ye children, and hearken unto me, and I will teach you the fear of the Lord."

"Slaves fear."

"Ah, but it is not the fear of a _slave_, but a _son_ of which I speak--that fear which is the beginning of wisdom; and which, indeed, every true knight should possess if he fulfil the vows of chivalry. But I will not say more now. Wander in the woods if you like, just around the cave, or down in the valley; gather nuts or blackberries, but go not far, for fear ye meet men who may ill-treat you."

Then the hermit went forth, and threw the crumbs out of his cave; the birds came in flocks. Evroult caught up a stone.

"Nay, my child, they are _my_ birds; we hurt nothing here. See! come, pet! birdie!" and a large blackbird nestled on his shoulder, and picked at a crust which the hermit took in his hand.

"They all love me, as they love all who are kind to them. Birds and beasts are alike welcome here; some wolves came in the winter, but they did me no harm."

"I should have shot them, if I had had a bow."

"Nay, my child, you must not slay my friends."

"But may we not kill rabbits or birds to eat?"

"No flesh is eaten here; we sacrifice no life of living thing to sustain our own wretched selves."

"No meat! not of any kind! not even on feast-days!"

"My boy, you will be better without it--it nourishes all sorts of bad passions, pride, cruelty, impurity, all are born of the flesh; and _see_, it is not needed. I am well and strong and never ill."

"But I should soon be," said Evroult.

"Nay, I like cakes, nuts, and blackberries better," said Richard.

"Quite right, my son; now go and play in the valley beneath, until noonday, when you may take your noon meat."

They lay in the shade of a tree. It was one of the last days of summer, and all seemed pleasant--the murmur of the brook and the like.

"I can never bear this long," said Evroult.

"I think it very pleasant," said Richard; "do not ask me to go away."

Evroult made no reply.

"It is no use, brother," said Richard, "_no_ use; we can never be knights and warriors unless we recover of our leprosy; and so the good God has given us a home and a kind friend, and it is far better than the lazar-house."

"But our father?"

"He has forsaken us, cast us off. We should never get out with his permission. No! be content, let us stay here--yesterday frightened me--we should never reach Wallingford alive."

And so Evroult gave way, and tried his best to be content--tried to learn of Meinhold, tried to do without meat, to love birds and beasts, instead of shooting them, tried to learn his catechism; yes, there was always a form of catechetical instruction for the young, taught generally _viva voce_, and the good hermit gave much time to the boys and found delight therein.

Richard consented to learn to read and write; Evroult disdained it, and would not learn.

So the year passed on; autumn deepened into winter. There was plenty of fuel about, and the boys suffered little from cold; they hung up skins and coverings over the entrances to the caves, and kept the draught out.

There was a mystery about those inner caves; the hermit would never let them enter beyond the two or three outer ones--those dark and dismal openings were, he assured them, untenanted; but their windings were such that the boys might easily lose their way therein, and never get out again--he thought there were precipitous gulfs into which they might fall.

But sometimes at night, when all things were still, the strangest sounds came from the caves, like the sobbings of living things, the plaintive sigh, the hollow groan: and the boys heard and shuddered.

"It is only the wind in the hollows of the earth," said Meinhold.

"How does it get in?" asked the boys.

"There are doubtless many crevices which we know not."

"I thought there were ghosts there."

"Nay, my child. It is only the wind: sleep in peace."

But as the winter storms grew frequent, these deep sighs and hollow groans seemed to increase, and the boys lay and shuddered, while sometimes even the hermit was fain to cross himself, and say a prayer for any poor souls who might be in unrest.

The winter was long and cold, but spring came at last. The change of air had worked wonders in the general health of the boys, but the leprosy had not gone: no, it could not really be said that there was any change for the better.

Only the poor boys were far happier than at Byfield; they entered into the ideas and ways of the hermit more and more. Evroult at last consented to learn to read, and found time pass more rapidly in consequence.

But he could not do one thing--he could not subdue those occasional bursts of passion which seemed to be rooted in the very depths of his nature. When things crossed him he often showed his fierce disposition, and terrified his brother; who, although brave enough,--how could one of such a breed be a coward,--stood in awe of the hermit, and saw things with the new light the Gospel afforded more and more each day.

One day the old hermit read to them the passage wherein it is written, "If a man smite you on one cheek, turn to him the other." Evroult could not restrain his dissent.

"If I did that I should be a coward, and my father, for one, would despise me. If _that_ is the Gospel, I shall never be a real Christian, nor are there many about."

"I would, my son, that you had grace, to think differently. These be counsels of perfection, given by our Lord Himself to His disciples."

"I could not turn the other cheek to my enemy to save my life."

"Then let him smite you on the _same_ one."

"I could not do that either," said Evroult more sharply.

"If you cannot, at least do not return evil for evil."

"I should if I had the power."

"My child, it is the devil in you which makes you say that."

Evroult turned red with passion, and Richard began to cry.

"Nay, my child, do not cry; that is useless. Pray for him," said the hermit.

Another time Evroult craved flesh.

"No, my son," said Meinhold, "when a man fills himself with flesh, straightway the great vices bubble out. I remember a monk who one Lent went secretly and bought some venison from a wicked gamekeeper, and put it in his wallet; when lo! as he was returning home, the dogs, smelling the flesh, fell upon him, and tore him up as well as the meat."

"Why is it wrong to eat meat? The Chaplain at Byfield told me that the Bible said it was lawful at proper times, and this is not Lent."

"It is always Lent here,--in a hermit's cell,--and it is a duty to be contented with one's food. I knew a monk who grumbled at his fare and said he would as soon eat toads; and lo! the just God did not disappoint him of his desire. For a month and more his cell was filled with toads. They got into his soup, they jumped upon his plate, they filled his bed, until I think he would have died, had not all the brethren united in prayer that he might be free from the scourge."

Evroult laughed merrily at this, and forgot his craving. In short, the old man was so loving and kind, and so transparently sincere, that he could not be angry long.

Another fault Evroult had was vanity. Once he was admiring himself in the mirror of a stream, for he really was, but for the leprosy, a handsome lad. "Ah, my child," said Meinhold, "thou art like a house which has a gay front, but the thieves have got in by the back door."

"Nay," said poor Evroult, putting his hand to his hollowed cheek, "they have broken through the front window."

"Ah, what of that; the house shall be set in order by and by, if thou art a good lad."

He meant in Heaven. But Evroult only sighed. Heaven seemed to him far off: his longings were of the earth.

And Richard: well, that supernatural influence we call "grace" had found him in very deed. He grew less and less discontented with his lot; murmured no more about the lost fingers; scarcely noticed the fact that the others were going; but drank in all the hermit's talk about the life beyond, with the growing conviction that there alone should he regain even the perfection of the body. One effect of his touching resignation was this, that the hermit conceived so much love towards him, that he had to pray daily against idolatry, as he fancied the affection for an earthly object must needs be, and so restrained it that there was little fear of his spoiling the boy.

The hermit, who, as we have seen, was a priest, had hitherto been restrained by the canons from saying Mass alone, and had sought some rustic church for Communion. Of course he could not take the young lepers there, so he celebrated the Holy Mysteries in a third cave, fitted up as best it might be for a chapel, and the boys assisted. One would think Nature had designed this third cave for a chapel. There was a natural recess for the altar; there were fantastic pillars like those in a cathedral, only more irregular, supporting the roof, which was lofty; and stalactites, graceful as the pendants in an ice-cavern, hung from above.

They never saw other human beings, save now and then some grief-stricken soul came for spiritual advice and assistance, always given without their dwelling, with the stream between the hermit and the seeker. For leprosy was known to be in the cave, and it was commonly reported that Meinhold had paid the natural penalty of his self-devotion.

It was too true.

One day Evroult saw him looking at a red burning spot on his palm.

He recognised it and burst into tears.

"Father, you have given yourself for us: I wish the dogs had torn me before I came here."

"Christ gave Himself for me," said Meinhold quietly.

"Did you not know it, Evroult? I knew it long ago," said Richard quietly. It seemed natural to him that one who loved the Good Shepherd should give his life for the sheep. But the sweet smile with which he looked into the hermit's face was quite as touching as Evroult's tears.

The hermit was quite indifferent to the fact.

"As well this as any other way," he said; yet the affection of the boys was pleasant to him.

They lacked not for food. The people of the neighbouring farms, some distance across the forest, sent presents of milk and eggs and fruit from time to time, and of other necessaries. They had once been boldly offered: now they were set down on the other side of the stream and left.

Occasionally hunters--the neighbouring barons--broke the silence with hound and horn. They generally avoided the hermit's glen--conspicuously devoted to the peace of God; but once a poor flying stag, pursued by the hounds, came tearing down the vale. Evroult glistened with animation: he would have rushed on in the train of the huntsmen, but the hermit restrained him.

"They would bid their dogs tear you," he said, "when they saw you were a leper." Then he continued, "Ah, my child, it is a sad sight: sin brought all this into the world,--God's creatures delighting to rend each other; so will the fiends hunt the souls of the wicked after death, until they drive them into the lake of fire."

"Ah, here comes the poor deer," said Richard, who had caught the hermit's love of all that moved. "See, he has turned: open the door, father."

The deer actually scaled the plateau, wild with terror,--its eyes glaring, the sweat bedewing its limbs; and it rushed through the opened door of the cave.

"Close the door--the dogs will be here."

The dogs came in truth, and raved about the closed door until the huntsmen came up, when the hermit emerged upon a ledge above.

"Where is our deer? hast thou seen it, father?"

"It has taken sanctuary."

They looked at each other.

"Nay, father, sanctuary is not for such creatures: drive it forth."

"God forbid! the shadow of the Cross protects it. Call off your dogs and go your way."

"Let us force the door," said a rough sportsman.

"Accursed be he who does so; his light shall be extinguished in darkness," said the hermit.

"Come, there are more deer than one;" and the knight called off his dogs with great difficulty.

"Thou hast done well: so shall it be for thy good in time of need, Sir Knight."

"I would sooner fight the deadliest fight I have ever fought than violate that sanctuary," said the latter; "a curse would be sure to follow."

When the hunters had at last taken themselves away, dogs and all, and the discontented whines and howls of the hounds and the crack of the huntsman's whip had ceased to disturb the silence of the dell, the hermit and the boys went in to look at the deer: he had thrown himself down, or fallen, panting, in the boys' bed of leaves, and turned piteous yet confiding eyes on them, large and lustrous, which seemed to implore pity, and to say, "I know you will not let them hurt me."

The better instinct of Evroult was touched.

"Well, my son," said the hermit, "dost thou still crave for flesh? Shall we kill him and roast some venison collops?"

"No," said Evroult, with energy.

"Ah, I thought so, thou art learning compassion: 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'"

"Brother," said Richard, "let us try and get that blessing."

Evroult pressed his hand.

And when it was dark and all was quiet, they let the deer go. The poor beast, as if it had reason, almost refused to depart, and licked their hands as if it knew its protectors, as doubtless it did.

But we must close this chapter, having begun the sketch of a life which continued uneventfully for two full years.

----

Here ends the first part of our tale. We must leave the boys with the good hermit; Osric learning the usages of war, and other things, under the fostering care of Brian Fitz-Count; Wulfnoth as a novice at Dorchester; and so allow a period to pass ere our scattered threads reunite.