_ PART II. THE FLOWER
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 God! 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 passed 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 passed 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 God-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 God; 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.
"Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his and mine. Some hold 'tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of it this evil hath fallen upon me."
She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and shrunk with the stress of its short life.
Hilarius spoke gently:-
"It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to live together out of holy wedlock, and perchance 'tis true that for this very thing thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. But since thou didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent me to serve thee in thy sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady herself showed me where the coney lay snared. Let us pray God by His dear Mother to forgive us our sins and to have mercy on these little ones."
And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father for his new-found family.
Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at last the pinch came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the babe scarce in life--there could be no thought of flight--and the little maid grew white, and wan and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that he would once again beg food in the village where he had sought help before.
He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the better fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he found his errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming from many parts, and each man feared for his own skin. At every house they questioned him: "Art thou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?" and when he answered "Yea," the door was shut.
Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. He gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the Saviour and His holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and her mother. Let them set it in the street, he would take it and cross no man's threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child die of want?
"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe," cried a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with blows and curses.
Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge.
A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were not his nestlings agape?
Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape and gaily painted.
He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in his awful need.
The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the sack and the hen had changed owners--but not unobserved; a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway--a thief.
"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply.
Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him.
"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis a rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?"
But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.
When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother stood watching him.
"Fetch bread and wine," said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to speak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten."
Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-
"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?"
Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of his little maid, and his were not the only tears.
The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder.
"But, Gia," grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us to- night."
"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry," she retorted, and filled a small sack with the victuals.
Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to him: "Now up and off to thy little maid."
Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed them.
"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!"
"Nay," she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her."
Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God.
When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely eat. Then he went out to find the woman.
He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried to him to keep back.
"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. As for thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; so maybe God will spare the innocent."
Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to bring her food, but she would not.
"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone that I may die the sooner."
Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child awake.
He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was peace.
Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his fatherless, motherless maid.
She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tender arms; and he fought with death for his little maid.
Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke and the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came to pass that when the light kissed her little white face she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.
The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he was standing by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no question. _