CHAPTER XXI. THE OLD, OLD STORY
The scourge had passed. It had swept over the length and breadth of theregion of which Guildford formed the centre, and had done its terriblework of destruction there, leaving homes desolated and villages almostdepopulated. It was still raging in London, and was hurrying northwardand eastward with all its relentless energy and deadliness; but in mostof the places thus left behind its work seemed to be fully accomplished,and there were no fresh cases.
People began to go about their business as of old. Those who had fledreturned to their homes, and strove to take up the scattered threads oflife as best they might. In many cases whole families had been swept outof existence; in others (more truly melancholy cases), one member hadescaped when all the rest had perished. The religious houses werecrowded with the helpless orphans of the sufferers in the epidemic, andthe summer crops lay rotting in the fields for want of labourers to getthem in.
John's house in Guildford had by this time reassumed its normal aspect.The last of the sick who had not been carried to the grave, but hadrecovered to return home, had now departed, with many a blessing uponthe master, whose act of piety and charity had doubtless saved so manylives at this crisis. The work the young man had set himself to do hadbeen nobly accomplished; but the task had been one beyond his feeblestrength, and he now lay upon a couch of sickness, knowing well, ifothers did not, that his days were numbered.
He had fallen down in a faint upon the very day that the last patienthad been able to leave his doors. For a moment it was feared that thepoison of the distemper had fastened upon him; but it was not so. Theattack was but due to the failure of the heart's action -- nature, triedbeyond her powers of endurance, asserting herself at last -- and theylaid him down in his old favourite haunt, with his books around him,having made the place look like it did before the house had been turnedinto a veritable hospital and mortuary.
When John opened his eyes at last it was to find Joan bending over him;and looking into her face with his sweet, tired smile, he said:
"You will not leave me, Joan?"
"No," she answered gently; "I will not leave you yet. Bridget and I willnurse you. All our other helpers are themselves worn out; but we haveworked only a little while. We have not borne the burden and heat ofthat terrible day."
"You came in a good hour -- like angels of mercy that you were," saidJohn, feeling, now that the long strain and struggle was over, awonderful sense of rest and peace. "I thought it was a dream when firstI saw your face, Joan -- when I saw you moving about amongst the sick,always with a child in your arms. I have never been able to ask how youcame hither. In those days we could never stay to talk. There are manythings I would fain ask now. How come you here alone, save for your oldnurse? Are your parents dead likewise?"
"I know not that myself," answered Joan, with the calmness that comesfrom constantly standing face to face with death. "I have heard naughtof them these many weeks. William goes ofttimes to Woodcrych to seek fornews of them there. But they have not returned, and he can learn nothing."
And then whilst John lay with closed eyes, his face so white and stillthat it looked scarce the face of a living man, Joan told him all hertale; and he understood then how it was that she had suddenly appearedamongst them like a veritable angel of mercy.
When her story was done, he opened his eyes and said:
"Where is Raymond?"
"They told me he was sleeping an hour since," answered Joan. "He hassore need of sleep, for he has been watching and working night and dayfor longer than I may tell. He looks little more than a shadow himself;and he has had Roger to care for of late, since he fell ill."
"But Roger is recovering?"
"Yes. It was the distemper, but in its least deadly form, and he isalready fast regaining his strength.
"Has Raymond been the whole time with you? I have never had the chanceto speak to him of himself."
And a faint soft flush awoke in Joan's cheek, whilst a smile hoveredround the corners of her lips.
"Nor I; yet there be many things I would fain ask of him. He went forthto be with Father Paul when first the Black Death made its fatal entryinto the country; and from that day forth I heard naught of him until hecame hither to me. We will ask him of himself when he comes to join us.It will be like old times come back again when thou, Joan, and he and Igather about the Yule log, and talk together of ourselves and others."
A common and deadly peril binds very closely together those who havefaced it and fought it hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder; and inthose days of divided houses, broken lives, and general disruption ofall ordinary routine in domestic existence, things that in other timeswould appear strange and unnatural were now taken as a matter of course.It did not occur to Joan as in any way remarkable that she should remainin John's house, nursing him with the help of Bridget, and playing asister's part until some of his own kith or kin returned. He had beendeserted by all of his own name. She herself knew not whether she hadany relatives living. Circumstances had thrown her upon his hospitality,and she had looked upon him almost as a brother ever since the days ofher childhood.
She knew that he was dying; there was that in his face which told asmuch all too well to those who had long been looking upon death. To haveleft him at such a moment would have seemed far more strange andunnatural than to remain. In those times of terror stranger things weredone daily, no man thinking aught of it.
So she smiled as she heard John's last words, trying to recall the daywhen she had first seen Raymond at Master Bernard's house, when he hadseemed to her little more than a boy, albeit a very knightly andchivalrous one. Now her feelings towards him were far different: notthat she thought less of his knightliness and chivalry, but that she washalf afraid to let her mind dwell too much upon him and her thoughts ofhim; for of late, since they had been toiling together in thehand-to-hand struggle against disease and death, she was conscious of afeeling toward him altogether new in her experience, and his face wasseldom out of her mental vision. The sound of his voice was ever in herears; and she always knew, by some strange intuition, when he was near,whether she could see him or not.
She knew even as John spoke that he was approaching; and as the latch ofthe door clicked a soft wave of colour rose in her pale cheek, and sheturned her head with a gesture that spoke a mute welcome.
"They tell me that thou art sick, good John," said Raymond, comingforward into the bright circle of the firelight.
The dancing flames lit up that pale young face, worn and hollow withlong watching and stress of work, and showed that Raymond had changedsomewhat during those weeks of strange experience. Some of thedreaminess had gone out of the eyes, to be replaced by a luminoussteadfastness of expression which had always been there, but was nowgreatly intensified. Pure, strong, and noble, the face was that of a manrather than a boy, and yet the bright, almost boyish, alertness andeagerness were still quickly apparent when he entered into conversation,and turned from one companion to another. It was the same Raymond -- yetwith a difference; and both of his companions scanned him with somecuriosity as he took his seat beside John's couch and asked of hiscousin's welfare.
"Nay, trouble not thyself over me; thou knowest that my life's sands arewell-nigh run out. I have been spared for this work, that thou, myRaymond, gavest me to do. I am well satisfied, and thou must be thesame, my kind cousin. Only let me have thee with me to the end -- andsweet Mistress Joan, if kind fortune will so favour us. And tell us nowof thyself, Raymond, and how it fared with thee before thou camesthither. Hast thou been with Father Paul? And if so, why didst thou leavehim? Is he, too, dead?"
"He was not when we parted; he went forward to London when he bid mecome to see how it fared with thee, good John, and bring thee hisblessing. I should have been with thee one day earlier, save that Iturned aside to Basildene, where I heard that the old man lay dying alone."
"Basildene!" echoed both his hearers quickly. "Has the Black Death beenthere?"
"Ay, and th
e old man who is called a sorcerer is dead. To me it wasgiven to soothe his dying moments, and give him such Christian burial asmen may have when there be no priest at hand to help them to their lastrest. I was in time for that."
"Peter Sanghurst dead!" mused John thoughtfully; and looking up atRaymond, he said quickly, "Did he know who and what thou wert?"
"He did; for in his delirium he took me for my mother, and his terrorwas great, knowing her to be dead. When I told him who I was, he wasright glad; and he would fain have made over to me the deeds by which heholds Basildene -- the deeds my mother left behind her in her flight,and which he seized upon. He would fain have made full reparation forthat one evil deed of his life; but his son, who had held aloofhitherto, and would have left his father to die untended and alone --"
Joan had uttered a little exclamation of horror and disgust; now sheasked, quickly and almost nervously:
"The son -- Peter Sanghurst? O Raymond, was that bad man there?"
"Yes; and he knows now who and what I am, whereby his old hatred to meis bitterly increased. He holds that I have hindered and thwarted himbefore in other matters. Now that he knows I have a just and lawfulclaim on Basildene, which one day I will make good, he hates me with atenfold deadlier hatred."
"Hates you -- when you came to his father in his last extremity? How canhe dare to hate you now?"
Raymond smiled a shadowy smile as he looked into the fire.
"Methinks he knows little of filial love. He knew that his father hadbeen stricken with the distemper, but he left him to die alone. He wouldnot have come nigh him at all, save that he heard sounds in the house,and feared that robbers had entered, and that his secret treasure hoardsmight fall into their hands. He had come down armed to the teeth toresist such marauders, being willing rather to stand in peril of thedistemper than to lose his ill-gotten gold. But he found none such as hethought; yet having come, and having learned who and what manner of manI was, he feared to leave me alone with his father, lest I should betold the secret of the hidden hoard, which the old man longed to tell mebut dared not. Doubtless the parchment he wished to place in my hands isthere; but his son hovered ever within earshot, and the old man darednot speak. Yet with his last breath he called me lord of Basildene, andcharged me to remove from it the curse which in his own evil days hadfallen upon the place."
"Peter Sanghurst will not love you the more for that," said John.
"Verily no; yet methinks he can scarce hate me more than he does and hasdone for long."
"He is no insignificant foe," was the thoughtful rejoinder. "His hatemay be no light thing."
"He has threatened me oft and savagely," answered Raymond, "and yet noharm has befallen me therefrom."
"Why has he threatened thee?" asked Joan breathlessly; "what hast thoudone to raise his ire?"
"We assisted Roger, the woodman's son, to escape from that vile slaveryat Basildene, of which doubtless thou hast heard, sweet lady. That wasthe first cause of offence."
"And the second?"
Raymond's clear gaze sought her face for a moment, and Joan's dark eyeskindled and then slowly dropped.
"The second was on thy account, sweet Joan," said Raymond, with acurious vibration in his voice. "He saw us once together -- it is longago now -- and he warned me how I meddled to thwart him again. I scarceunderstood him then, though I knew that he would fain have won this fairhand, but that thou didst resolutely withhold it. Now that I havereached man's estate I understand him better. Joan, he is still bentupon having this hand. In my hearing he swore a great oath that by fairmeans or foul it should be his one day. He is a man of resolutedetermination, and, now that his father no longer lives, of great wealthtoo, and wealth is power. Thou hast thwarted him till he is resolved tohumble thee at all cost. I verily believe to be avenged for all thouhast cost him would be motive enough to make him compass heaven andearth to win thee. What sayest thou? To withstand him may be perilous --"
"To wed him would be worse than death," said Joan, in a very low tone."I will never yield, if I die to save myself from him."
Unconsciously these two had lowered their voices. John had droppedasleep beside the fire with the ease of one exhausted by weakness andlong watching. Joan and Raymond were practically alone together. Therewas a strange light upon the face of the youth, and into his pale facethere crept a flush of faint red.
"Joan," he said, in low, firm tones that shook a little with theintensity of his earnestness, "when I saw thee first, and knew thee fora very queen amongst women, my boyish love and homage was given all tothee. I dreamed of going forth to win glory and renown, that I mightcome and lay my laurels at thy feet, and win one sweet answering smile,one kindly word of praise from thee. Yet here am I, almost at man'sestate, and I have yet no laurels to bring to thee. I have but one thingto offer -- the deep true love of a heart that beats alone for thee.Joan, I am no knightly suitor, I have neither gold nor lands -- thoughone day it may be I may have both, and thy father would doubtless driveme forth from his doors did I present myself to him as a suitor for thisfair hand. But, Joan, I love thee -- I would lay down my life to servethee -- and I know that thou mayest one day be in peril from him who isalso mine own bitter foe. Wilt thou then give me the right to fight forthee, to hold this hand before all the world and do battle for itsowner, as only he may hope to do who holds it, as I do this moment, bythat owner's free will? Give me but leave to call it mine, and I willdare all and do all to win it. Sweet Mistress Joan, my words are few andpoor; but could my heart speak for me, it would plead eloquent music.Thou art the sun and star of my life. Tell me, may I hope some day towin thy love?"
Joan had readily surrendered her hand to his clasp, and doubtless thishad encouraged Raymond to proceed in his tale of love.
He certainly had not intended thus to commit himself, poor and unknownand portionless as he was, with everything still to win; but a powerstronger than he could resist drew him on from word to word and phraseto phrase, and a lovely colour mantled in Joan's cheek as he proceeded,till at last she put forth her other hand and laid it in his, saying:
"Raymond, I love thee now. My heart is thine and thine alone. Go forth,if thou wilt, and win honour and renown -- but thou wilt never win ahigher honour and glory than I have seen thee winning day by day andhour by hour here in this very house -- and come back when and as thouwilt. Thou wilt find me waiting for thee --ever ready, ever the same. Iam thine for life or death. When thou callest me I will come."
It was a bold pledge for a maiden to give in those days of harshparental rule; yet Joan gave it without shrinking or fear. That thisinformal betrothal might be long before it could hope to be consummated,both the lovers well knew; that there might be many dangers lying beforethem, they did not attempt to deny. It was no light matter to have thusplighted their troth, when Raymond was still poor and nameless, andJoan, in her father's estimation, plighted to the Sanghurst. But bothpossessed brave and resolute spirits, that did not shrink or falter; andjoyfully happy in the security of their great love, they could affordfor a time to forget the world.
Raymond drew from within his doublet the half ring he had always carriedabout with him, and placed it upon the finger of his love. Joan, on herside, drew from her neck a black agate heart she had always worn there,and gave it to Raymond, who put it upon the silver cord which hadformerly supported his circlet of the double ring.
"So long as I live that heart shall hang there," he said. "Never believethat I am dead until thou seest the heart brought thee by another. WhileI live I part not with it."
"Nor I with thy ring," answered Joan, proudly turning her hand abouttill the firelight flashed upon it.
And then they drew closer together, and whispered together, as loverslove to do, of the golden future lying before them; and Raymond told ofhis mother and her dying words, and his love, in spite of all that hadpassed there, for the old house of Basildene, and asked Joan if they twotogether would be strong enough to remove the curse which had been castover the place by
the evil deeds of its present owners.
"Methinks thou couldst well do that thyself, my faithful knight,"answered Joan, with a great light in her eyes; "for methinks all evilmust fly thy presence, as night flies from the beams of day. Art thounot pledged to a high and holy service? and hast thou not proved ere nowhow nobly thou canst keep that pledge?"
At that moment John stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes. There wasin them that slightly bewildered look that comes when the mind has beenvery far away in some distant dreamland, and where the weakenedfaculties have hardly the strength to reassert themselves.
"Joan," he said -- "Joan, art thou there? art thou safe?"
She rose and bent over him smilingly.
"Here by thy side, good John, and perfectly safe. Where should I be?"
"And Raymond too?"
"Raymond too. What ails thee, John, that thou art so troubled?"
He smiled slightly as he looked round more himself.
"It must have been a dream, but it was a strangely vivid one. Belike itwas our talk of a short while back; for I thought thou wast fleeing fromthe malice of the Sanghurst, and that Raymond was in his power, awaitinghis malignant rage and vengeance. I know not how it would have ended --I was glad to wake. I fear me, sweet Joan, that thou wilt yet have ahard battle ere thou canst cast loose from the toil spread for thee byyon bad man."
Joan threw back her head with a queenly gesture.
"Fear not for me, kind John, for now I am no longer alone to fight mybattle. I have Raymond for my faithful knight and champion. Raymond andI have plighted our troth this very day. Let Peter Sanghurst do hisworst; it will take a stronger hand than his to sunder love like ours!"
John's pale face kindled with sympathy and satisfaction. He looked fromone to the other and held out his thin hands.
"My heart's wishes and blessings be with you both," he said. "I have somany times thought of some such thing, and longed to see itaccomplished. There may be clouds athwart your path, but there will besunshine behind the cloud. Joan, thou hast chosen thy knight worthilyand well. It may be that men will never call him knight. It may be thathe will not have trophies rich and rare to lay at thy feet. But thou andI know well that there is a knighthood not of this world, and in thatorder of chivalry his spurs have already been won, and he will not, withthee at his side, ever be tempted to forget his high and holy calling.For thou wilt be the guiding star of his life; and thou too artdedicated to serve."
There was silence for a few moments in the quiet room. John lay back onhis pillows panting somewhat, and with that strange unearthly light theyhad seen there before deepening in his eyes. They had observed that lookoften of late -- as though he saw right through them and beyond to aglory unspeakable, shut out for the time from their view. Joan put outher hand and took that of Raymond, as if there was assurance in the warmhuman clasp. But their eyes were still fixed upon John's face, which waschanging every moment.
He had done much to form both their minds, this weakly scion of the DeBrocas house, whose life was held by those who bore his name to benothing but a failure. It was from him they had both imbibed thosethoughts and aspirations which had been the first link drawing themtogether, and which had culminated in an act of the highestself-sacrifice and devotion. And now it seemed to him, as he lay therelooking at them, the two beings upon earth that he loved the best (forRaymond was more to him than a brother, and Joan the one woman whom, hadthings gone otherwise with him, he would fain have made his wife), thathe might well leave his work in their hands -- that they would carry onto completion the nameless labour of love which he had learned to lookupon as the highest form of chivalry.
"Raymond," he said faintly.
Raymond came and bent down over him.
"I am close beside thee, John."
"I know it. I feel it. I am very happy. Raymond, thou wilt not forget me?"
"Never, John, never."
"I have been very happy in thy brotherly love and friendship. It hasbeen very sweet to me. Raymond, thou wilt not forget thy vow? Thou wiltever be true to that higher life that we have spoken of so oft together?"
Raymond's face was full of deep and steadfast purpose.
"I will be faithful, I will be true," he answered. "God helping me, Iwill be true to the vow we have made together. Joan shall be my witnessnow, as I make it anew to thee here."
"Not for fame or glory or praise of man alone," murmured John, his voicegrowing fainter and fainter, "but first for the glory of God and Hishonour, and then for the poor, the feeble, the helpless, the needy. Tobe a champion to such as have none to help them, to succour thedistressed, to comfort the mourner, to free those who are wrongfullyoppressed, even though kings be the oppressors -- that is the truecourage, the true chivalry; that is the service to which thou, mybrother, art pledged."
Raymond bent his head, whilst Joan's clasp tightened on his hand. Theyboth knew that John was dying, but they had looked too often upon deathto fear it now. They did not summon any one to his side. No priest wasto be found at that time, and John had not long since received theSacrament with one who had lately died in the house. There was norestlessness or pain in his face, only a great peace and rest. His voicedied away, but he still looked at Raymond, as though to the last hewould fain see before his eyes the face he had grown to love best uponearth.
His breath grew shorter and shorter. Raymond thought he made a sign tohim to bend his head nearer. Stooping over him, he caught thefaintly-whispered words:
"Tell my father not to grieve that I did not die a knight. He has hisother sons; and I have been very happy. Tell him that -- happier, Itrow, than any of them --"
There were a brief silence and a slight struggle for breath, then onewhispered phrase:
"I will arise and go to my Father --"
Those were the last words spoken by John de Brocas.
In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince Page 21
