The House of Walderne. A. D. Crake
sight of the earthly Jerusalem, and I trust has found admittance into the Jerusalem which is above; he committed the boy to my care--
"But let them bring young Hubert hither."
The prior tinkled a silver bell, which lay upon the table, and a lay brother appeared, to whom he gave the necessary order. A knock at the door was soon heard, and a lad of some fourteen years entered in obedience to the prior's summons, and stood at first abashed before the great earl.
Yet he was not a lad wanting in self confidence; he was tall and slender, his features were regular, his hair and eyes light, his face a shapely oval; there was a winning expression on the features, and altogether it was a persuasive face.
"Dost thou remember me, my son?" asked the earl, as the boy knelt on one knee, and kissed his hand gracefully.
"It seems many years since thou didst leave me here, my lord."
"Ah! thy memory is good--hast thou been happy here? hast thou done thy duty?"
"It is dull for an eaglet to be brought up in a cave."
"Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie! Hubert."
"My father was a soldier of the cross."
"And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory often lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here; thou wilt perhaps be prior some day."
"I covet not safety, my lord. If my father loved thee, and thou didst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. There are no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which booms all day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext; vespers and compline; and masses between whiles."
"My son, be not irreverent."
The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.
"Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou grieve over the loss of this sweet peace."
"I love not peace--it is dull."
"How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father's tastes with his form," said the earl to the prior. "When this lad's sire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the same restless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a soldier's grave. Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh.
"Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and stern school for thee; there are no idlers there."
"I am not an idler, my good lord."
"Only over his books," said the prior.
"That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and hangers on parchment."
The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child. Yet he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom.
"Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for the present," said the earl; "and tomorrow, perchance, I may take thee with me, if the storm abate.
"And now," said the earl, when Hubert was gone, "send for the other lad; the waif and stray from the forest."
So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means an uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike the features of Hubert--a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines of the other--with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment. Poor boy! he had just parted from his mother.
"Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?"
"Yes," said he sadly, "since she told me to go; but I love her."
"Thy name is Martin?"
"Yes; they call me so now."
"What is thy other name?"
"I know not. I have no other."
"Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?"
"Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans."
"And how was that?"
"Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did scream!"
"What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?"
"Yes," said Martin innocently; "why shouldn't I?"
There was a pause.
"Poor child," said the prior.
"My boy, thou should say 'my lord,' when addressing a titled earl."
"I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my lord."
"Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of 'my lords.'"
"You will not let them get me again, my lord?"
"They couldn't get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father."
The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.
Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true greatness--the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were fortunate in their new lord.
"There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?" said the prior.
Thither both earl and prior proceeded. It was Wednesday evening; the psalms were then apportioned to the days of the week, not of the month, and the first this night was the one hundred and twenty-seventh:
Except the Lord build the house,
their labour is but vain that build it.
Except the Lord keep the city,
the watchman watcheth but in vain.
And again:
Lo, children and the fruit of the womb
are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord.
The two boys whom he had so strangely adopted came to the mind of the earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be "an heritage and gift of the Lord." And as the psalms rose and fell to the rugged old Gregorian tones--old even then--their words seemed to Simon de Montfort as the voice of God.
Oh! how rough, yet how grand that old psalmody was! Modern ears call its intervals harsh, its melodies crude, but it spoke to the heart with a power which our sweet modern chants often fail to exercise over us, as we chant the same sacred lays.
Nightfall--night hung like a pall over the island, over the moat, over the silent heath and woods; the snow kept falling, falling; the fires kept blazing in the huge hearths; and the bell kept tolling until curfew time, by the prior's order, that if any were lost in the wild night they might be guided by its sound to shelter.
The earl slept soundly in his little monastic cell that night, and in the morning he perceived the light of a bright dawn through the narrow window; anon the winter's sun rose, all glorious, and the frost and snow sparkled like the sheen of diamonds in its beams. The bell was just ringing for the Chapter Mass, the mass of obligation to all the brotherhood, and the only one sung--during the day--in contradistinction to the low, or silent, masses--which equalled the number of the brethren in full orders, of whom there were not more than five or six.
The earl, his squire, and the two boys were there. The prior was celebrant. The manner of Hubert showed his distraction and indifference: it was like a daily lesson in school to him, and he gave it neither more nor less attention. But to Martin the mysterious soothing music of the mass, like strains from another world, so unlike earthly tunes, came like a new sense, an inspiration from an