CHAPTER XX. THE MONASTERY AMONG THE HILLS.
When I awoke in the morning the sun was already high in the heavens andit was considerably past my usual hour of rising. I jumped out of bed atonce and began my toilet. I had scarcely finished my bath when there camea loud tap at the door.
"Hallo!" I cried out. "Anything the matter?"
"Yes, sir. Please, sir, John wants to know whether you locked anything upin the coach-house last night. There was----"
"Yes, I did," I interrupted quickly. "Tell him not to go there till Icome down."
"Please, sir, it's too late," the girl answered, in a frightened tone."It's got away, whatever it is."
I dropped the towel with which I had been rubbing myself and hurried onmy clothes. In a few minutes I was down in the yard, where several menwere standing together talking. John left them at once and came to me.
"Why did you want to go to the coach-house so early?" I exclaimed,glancing at the wide-open door and empty interior. "I had an awful job toget that man in there last night, and now you've let him go."
"Well, sir, it was a fearful row he was a-making," explained John. "Soonas I came this morning, about five o'clock, I was passing through thestack-yard when I heard an awful thumping at the coach-house door fromthe inside. Of course, I knew nowt about there being anyone theer, so Ijust goes straight up and opens the door, to see what was the matter,like, and, lor, I did 'ave a skeer, and no mistake! It wur quite dark,and I could see nowt but a pair o' heyes a-glaring at me as savage as awild animal's. 'Coom out o' this 'ere and let's ha' a look at yer,' Isays, for, d'ye see, I thought as it wur someone who had crept inunbeknown in the daytime and got locked in by mistake. There warn't noanswer, and I wur just about to strike a match and 'ave a look at 'im,when he springs at me like a wild cat. I tried to hold him and I'm darnedif he didn't nearly make his teeth meet through my hand."
He touched his right hand lightly, and I noticed for the first time thatit was bandaged up.
"He got away from you, then?" I remarked.
"Got away from me?" John repeated, in a tone of utter disgust. "He warn'tsuch a sweet-looking object, or sweet-tempered 'un either, that I wurover-anxious for the pleasure of his company, he warn't! I just got myhand out of his jaws and let him go as fast as he liked, with a jollygood kick behind to help him on, too. You see, sir, I didn't know asyou'd anything to do with putting him in there," the man addedapologetically. "I thought he'd got in quite promiscuous-like."
To tell the truth, although I had been alarmed at first, I did notparticularly regret what had happened. At any rate, it saved me thebother of going over to the police-station at Mellborough. Still, thethought that he might even now be lurking about in the vicinity, withplenty of opportunities to provide a weapon for himself, was notaltogether a pleasant one.
"Who might he have been, sir?" John inquired curiously.
"Just what I should like to know," I answered. "He's a lunatic and adangerous one, that's certain--escaped from some asylum, I should think."And I told him of my adventure on the previous night, to which the wholegroup listened open-mouthed.
"I'm thinking, sir," John remarked, when I had finished, "that it'd be aswell for Foulds and I to have a scour round and see if we can't find him,or he'll be doing someone a mischief."
"If you are not very busy I wish you would," I said. "I don't feel quiteeasy at the thought of his wandering about round here. If you do findhim, lock him up and send word to the police-station at Mellborough."
After breakfast that morning my mother made a request which startled mealmost as much it delighted me.
"I am going to walk over to the monastery, Philip," she said quietly."Will you come with me?"
"Of course I will, mother," I answered promptly. "Nothing could give megreater pleasure. When will you start?"
"I shall be ready in half an hour," she said, with a faint smile, asthough she were pleased at my ready acquiescence. Then she left the roomto get ready.
In about the time she had mentioned she came into the garden to me and westarted on our walk. It was a very uneventful one, but I don't think thatI shall ever forget it. My mother seemed, after her brief relapse intocomparative kindness, to have become more inaccessible than ever; and shewalked along by my side, with downcast eyes and a nervous, thoughtfulexpression on her pale face.
I, too, felt somewhat depressed at starting, but soon the fresh, pureair, becoming stronger and stronger as we left the road and followed thefootpath by Beacon Hill, had its invariable effect upon my spirits. Allperplexing thoughts and forebodings of trouble passed away from me likemagic, and my heart beat and the blood flowed through my veins with allthe impetuous ardour of sanguine youth.
At the top of the hill we paused, I to look round upon my favouritescene, my mother to rest for a moment. Then we saw how great had been thestorm of the night before.
Here and there were the bare trunks of trees and many a cattle-shed andbarn stood roofless. The storm seemed to have worked havoc everywhere,save where, on the summit of its wooded hill, Ravenor Castle, with itsgreat range of mighty battlements, its vast towers, and grey walls ofinvincible thickness, frowned down upon the country at its feet. Lookingacross at it, it seemed to me that the place had never seemed so imposingas then.
My mother stood by my side and noticed my intent gaze.
"You admire Ravenor Castle very much, Philip?" she said quietly.
I withdrew my eyes with an effort.
"I do, mother," I confessed; "very much indeed. The place has a sort offascination for me--and the man who lives there!"
My mother had turned a little away from me and stood with face upturnedto heaven and mutely moving lips. Out of her eyes I could see the tearsslowly welling, and her tall slim figure was convulsed with sobs. Isprang to her side and caught hold of her hand.
"What is it, mother?" I cried. "Tell me!"
She shook her head sadly.
"Not now, Philip--not now. Come, let us go!"
Side by side we began to descend the hill. Our path wound around severalfreshly-planted spinneys and then led through a plantation of pine-trees.
Then we turned with regret, so far as I was concerned, into the muddyroad again and walked for more than a mile between high, straight hedges.At last, soon after mid-day, we turned to the left, passed through afarmyard and along a winding path, which led us, now by the side ofturnip fields, now across bracken-covered open country, to the summit ofour last hill.
Here again we paused. Below us, close up against the background of thecolourless hills, drearily situated in the bleakest spot of the austerelandscape, the straight spires and severely simple buildings of themonastery were clustered together. A little above it, on an artificialeminence of rock, a rude cross stood out in vivid relief against the sky,and on this my mother's eyes were fixed with a sort of rapt wistfulness,as we stood side by side on the top of the hill looking downwards.
It was a fitting spot that these men--who counted it among their virtuesthat in their rigid self-immolation they had cut themselves off even fromthe beauties of Nature--had chosen for their habitation. But although theplace had a peculiar impressiveness of its own, which never failed toexercise a sort of fascination upon me, I was glad to-day when my mothermoved forward again.
As we neared the end of our journey and turned in at the long, straightavenue which led to the monastery doors, the strange agitation which Ihad noticed in my mother's manner during the earlier part of the dayvisibly increased. The cold inexpressiveness which had dwelt for so longin her face vanished, and into it there crept a look which, having onceseen, I cared not to look upon again. It seemed as though she wereendeavouring to brace herself up for some tremendous ordeal, and I wouldhave given anything to have been able to put into words the sympathywhich had risen up strongly within me.
Unnatural, cold, severe and, at the best of times, indifferent, as shehad lately been to me, she was still my mother and I loved her. B
ut Idared not break in with words upon the fierce anguish which was alreadybeginning to leave its marks upon her white, strained face. Only when westood before the bare stone front of the monastery, and with feeblefingers she had pulled the great iron bell, could I speak at all, andthen the words were not such as I wished to speak. Afterwards, when Ithought of them--and I often did think of them and of every triflingincident of that memorable walk--they seemed to me weak and ill-chosen.
But, such as they were, I am glad that I spoke them.
She listened as one whose thoughts were far away, but when I ceased,breathless, she laid her hand upon my arm and, with her dim, sad eyeslooking into mine, said simply:
"This is for your sake, Philip--for your sake!"
Then, before I could ask her what she meant, the great door slowly openedand the guest-master stood before us. She passed him with a silentsalutation and vanished on her way to the chapel; and, though I watchedher longingly, I dared not follow. Then, declining Father Bernard'sinvitation to go to his room and rest, I turned away from the door andwandered into the grounds.
Hour after hour of the brief winter's day passed away. Father Bernardcame out in search of me and offered me refreshments; but I shook myhead. I could not eat, nor drink, nor rest. A strange but powerfulapprehension of some coming crisis in my life--some great evil connectedwith my mother's visit to this place--had laid hold of me, and all mystruggles against it were impotent.
It was late in the afternoon before she came. I had climbed up to the topof "Calvary" and, with sick heart and longing eyes, was watching the doorfrom which she must issue. Suddenly it was opened and she stood for amoment upon the threshold looking around for me. To my dying day I shallthink of her as I saw her then.
Her face was the face of a saint--calm, passionless, and happy, with agentle, chastened happiness. I knew, when I looked upon her, that she hadleft the burden of her great sorrow behind. But she had paid a price forit. Pale and fragile as she had always appeared, she seemed now to havebeen wasted by some fierce, scathing ordeal, which had driven out of herfeatures everything human and left only a spiritual life. As she movedslowly forward into the drive and I saw her even more distinctly, sheseemed to me to have gained a strange, new beauty; but it was a beautywhich made me look upon her with a sudden shuddering fear.
I hurried down to her side and she welcomed me with a smile such as I hadseldom seen on her face, and which was altogether in harmony with hersoftened expression. Then she took my arm and we turned towards home.
"You are happier now, mother?" I ventured to ask her, and she answered meby silently pressing my arm.
We passed down the avenue, thickly strewn with decaying leaves, along thewinding lane, and through the gate which led up to Ive's Head Hill. Onceor twice as we were making the ascent I fancied that she hung heavilyupon my arm and I asked if she were tired; but she only shook her head.We had reached the summit before the terrible fear which had been gnawingat my heart took definite shape. Then, for the first time since we hadstarted upon our return journey, I was able to look into her face, whichshe had been keeping averted from me, and when I saw the ghastly changewhich had crept into it, my heart stood still and all my senses seemednumbed with fear.
"Mother," I cried, "you are ill! What is the matter? Oh, speak tome--do!"
She had fallen into my arms, and her hands, which touched mine as theyfell to her side, were as cold as ice. Her face was like the face of onewho has already triumphed over the shadows of death. Far away at our feetthe Cross of Calvary was standing out with rugged vividness against thefast darkening sky and upon it her closing eyes were steadily fixed. Herlips were slightly parted in a happy, confident smile, and her wholebeing seemed absorbed in the most religious devotion. Once she whisperedmy name and faintly pressed my hand; then her lips moved again and Iheard the dread sound of the solemn prayer, faltered out in a brokenwhisper, "_In manus Tuas, Domine_!"
In my heart I knew that she was dying, and that human help would be of noavail. Yet I was loth to abandon all hope, and setting her gently down Ilooked anxiously around. On the summit of the next range of hills a manwas sitting on horseback, looking down upon the monastery--a motionlessfigure against the sky. I cried out to him, and at the sound of my voicehe started round and looked towards us; then, suddenly digging the spursdeep into the sides of his great black horse, he came thundering up theside of the hill at a pace which made the ground shake beneath my feetlike the tremblings of an earthquake.
"What is wrong?" he cried hoarsely; and, looking into his face, Irecognised Mr. Ravenor.
I pointed to my mother's prostrate figure, and, gazing at him with dryeyes, I answered mechanically:
"She is dying!"
The words had scarcely left my lips before he had leaped from his horse,and, passing his arm around her, bent over her pallid face.
"Oh, this is horrible!" he murmured. "You must not die--you must not die!I have----"
His voice seemed choked with emotion and he did not finish his sentence.She spoke to him, but so softly that I could not hear the words.
I walked a few yards away and once more looked wildly round. Far away onthe dark hillside I could see the white-robed figures of the lay brethrenbending over their labour. Nearer there was no one. The road below wasdeserted and a deep stillness seemed brooding over the bare, shadowylandscape. Sick at heart I turned back and fell on my knees by mymother's side.
We remained there, fearing almost to look into her face, until thetwilight deepened upon the hills and slowly blotted out from our vieweven the dark cross standing up against the grey sky. Then Mr. Ravenorleaned for a moment forward and a low groan escaped from his lips. Ittold me what I dreaded--that my mother was dead!