CHAPTER IX THE LEPERS
The scene was the bank of a large desolate pond or small lake in Northamptonshire. It was on high table-land, for the distant country might be seen through openings in the pine-trees on every side: here and there a church tower, here and there a castle or embattled dwelling; here and there a poverty-stricken assemblage of huts, clustering together for protection. In the south extended the valley of the Cherwell, towards the distant Thames; on the west the high table-land of North Oxfordshire sank down into the valley of the Avon and Severn.
It was a cold windy autumnal morning, the ground yet crisp from an early frost, the leaves hung shivering on the trees, waiting for the first bleak blast of the winter wind to fetch them down to rot with their fellows.
On the edge of a pond stood two youths of some fifteen and thirteen years. They had divested themselves of their upper garments—thick warm tunics—and gazed into the water, here deep, dark, and slimy. There was a look of fixed resolution, combined with hopeless despair, in their faces, which marked the would-be suicides.
They raised their pale faces, their eyes swollen with tears, to heaven.
"O God," said the elder one, "and ye, ye Saints—if Saints there be—take the life I can bear no longer: better trust to your mercies than those of man—better Purgatory, nay, Hell, than earth. Come, Richard, the rope!"
The younger one was pale as death, but as resolved as the elder. He took up a rope, which he had thrown upon the grass, and gave it mechanically, with hands that yet trembled, to his brother.
"One kiss, Evroult—the last!"
They embraced each other fervently.
"Let us commend ourselves to God; He will not be hard upon us, if He is as good as the Chaplain says—He knows it all."
And they wound the rope around them, so as to bind both together.
"We shall not be able to change our minds, even if the water be cold, and drowning hard."
The younger shivered, but did not falter in his resolution. What mental suffering he must have gone through; for the young naturally cling to life.
But the dread secret was all too visible.
From the younger boy two fingers had fallen off—rotted away with the disease. The elder had a covering over the cheek, a patch, for the leprosy had eaten through it. There was none of the spring and gladness of childhood or youth in either; they carried the tokens of decay with them. They had the sentence of physical death in themselves.
Now they stood tottering on the brink. The wind sighed hoarsely around them; a raven gave an ominous croak-croak, and flew flapping in the air. One moment—and they leapt together.
There was a great splash.
Was all over?
No; one had seen them, and had guessed their intent, and now arrived panting and breathless on the brink, with a long rope, terminated by a large iron hook, in his hand. Behind him came a second individual in a black cassock, but he had girded up his loins to run the better.
The man threw the rope just as the bodies rose to the surface—it missed and they disappeared once more. He watched—a moment of suspense—again they rose; he threw once more. Would the hook catch? Yes; it is entangled in the cord with which they have bound themselves, and they are saved! It is an easy task now to draw them to the land.
"My children! my children!" said the Chaplain, "why have ye attempted self-murder; to rush unsummoned into the presence of your Judge? Had we not been here ye had gone straight to eternal misery."
The boys struggled on the shore, but the taste of the cold water had tamed them. The sense of suffocation was yet upon them; they could not speak, but their immersion was too brief to have done them much harm, and after a few minutes they were able to walk. No other words were said, and their rescuers led them towards a low building of stone.
It was a building of great extent—a quadrangle enclosing half an acre, with an inner cloister running all round. In the centre rose a simple chapel of stern Norman architecture; opening upon the cloister were alternate doors and unglazed windows, generally closed by shutters, in the centre of which was a thin plate of horn, so that when the weather necessitated their use, the interiors might not be quite destitute of light. On one side of the square was the dining-hall, on the other the common room; these had rude cavernous chimneys, and fires were kindled on the hearths; there was no upper story. In each of the smaller chambers was a central table and three or four rough wooden bedsteads.
In the cloisters were scores of hapless beings, men and boys, some lounging about, some engaged in games now long forgotten; some talking and gesticulating loudly. All races which were found in England had their representatives—the Norman, the Saxon, the Celt.
It was the recreation hour, for they were not left in idleness through the day; the community was mainly self-supporting. Men wrought at their own trades, made their own clothes and shoes, baked their own bread, brewed their own beer, worked in the fields and gardens within the outer enclosure. The charity of the outside world did the rest, upon condition that the lepers never strayed beyond their precincts to infect the outer world of health.
The Chaplain, himself also enclosed, belonged to an order of brethren who had devoted themselves to this special work throughout Europe—they nearly always took the disease.[13] Father Ambrose quite understood, when he entered upon his self-imposed task, that he would probably die of the disease himself, but neither priests, physicians, nor sisters were ever wanting to fulfil the law of Christ in ministering to their suffering brethren, remembering His words: "Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
The day was duly divided: there was the morning Mass, the service of each of the "day hours" in the chapel, the hours of each meal, the time of recreation, the time of work; all was fixed and appointed in due rotation, and could the poor sufferers only have forgotten the world, and resigned themselves to their sad fate, they were no worse off than the monks in many a monastery.
But the hideous form of the disease was always there; here an arm in a sling, to hide the fact the hand was gone; here a footless man, here an eyeless one; here a noseless one, there another—like poor Evroult—with holes through the cheek; here the flesh livid with red spots or circles enclosing patches white as snow—so they carried the marks of the most hideous disease of former days.
Generally they were the objects of pity, but also of abhorrence and dread. The reader will hardly believe that in France, in the year 1341, the lepers were actually burnt alive throughout the land, in the false plea that they poisoned the waters, really in the cruel hope to stamp out the disease.[14]
Outside the walls were all the outhouses, workshops, and detached buildings, also an infirmary for the worst cases; within the enclosure also the last sad home when the fell destroyer had completed his work—the graveyard, God's acre; and in the centre rose a huge plain cross, with the word Pax on the steps.
It was a law of the place that no one who entered on any pretence might leave it again: people did not believe in cures; leprosy was incurable—at least save by a miracle, as when the Saviour trod this weary world.
The Chaplain took the poor boys to his own chamber, a little room above the porch of the chapel, containing a bed, over which hung the crucifix, a chair, a table, and a few MS. books, a gospel, an epistle, a prophetical book, the offices, church services; little more.
He made them sit in the embrasure of the window, he did not let them speak until he had given each a cup of hot wine, they sat sobbing there a long time, he let nature have its way. At length the time came and he spoke.
"Evroult, my dear child, Richard, how could you attempt self-murder? Know you not that your lives are God's, and that you may not lay them down at your own pleasure."
"Oh, father, why did you save us? It would have been all over now."
"And where would you have been?"
The boy shuddered. The teaching about Hell, and the horrors of the state of the wicked dead, was far too literal and even coarsely material, at that time, for any one to escape its influence.
"Better a thousand times to be here, only bear up till God releases you, and He will make up for all this. You will not think of the billows past when you gain the shore."
"But, father, anything is better than this—these horrid sights, these dreadful faces, and my father a baron."
"Thou art saved many sins," said and felt the priest; "war is a dreadful thing, strife and bloodshed would have been thy lot."
"But I loved to hunt, to fight; I long to be a man, a knight, to win a name in the world, to win my spurs. Oh, what shall I do, how can I bear this?"
"And do you feel like this, Richard," said the priest, addressing the younger boy.
"Indeed I do, how can I help it? Oh, the green woods, the baying of the hounds, the delightful gallop, the sweet, fresh air of our Berkshire downs, the hall on winter nights, the gleemen and their songs, their stories of noble deeds of prowess, the——"
"And the tilt-yard, the sword and the lance, the tournament, the melée," added the other.
"And Evroult, so brave and expert; oh what a knight thou wouldst have made, my brother."
"And our father loved to see us wrestle and fight, and ride, and jump, and called us his brave boys; and our mother was proud of us—oh, how can we bear the loss of all?"
What could be said: nature was too strong, the instincts of generations were in the boys, the blood of the sea-kings of old ran in their veins.
"Oh, can you not help us? we know you are kind; shall we never get out? is there no hope?"
The tears streamed down the venerable man's cheeks.
"We know you love us or you would not be here; they say you came of your own accord."
He glanced at a glowing circle of red on his right hand, encircling a spot of leprous flesh as white as snow.
"Ah, my dear boys," he said, "I had your feelings once; nay, I was a knight too, and had wife and children."
"Do they live?"
"Yes, but not here; a neighbour, Robert de Belesme, you may have heard of him——"
"As a cruel monster, a wicked knight."
"Stormed my castle in my absence, and burnt it with all therein."
"And did you not avenge them?"
"I was striving to do so, when the hand of God was laid upon me, and I woke from a burning fever to learn that He has said, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay.'"
"And then?"
"I came here."
"Poor Father Ambrose," said Richard.
"If I could get out I would try to avenge him," said Evroult.
"The murderer has gone before his Judge; leave it," said the priest; "there the hidden things shall be made clear, my boys, noblesse oblige, the sons of a baron should keep their word."
"Have we ever broken it?"
"Not so far as I am aware, and I am sure you will not now."
"What are we to promise?"
"Promise me you will not strive to destroy yourselves again."
They looked at each other.
"It is cowardly, unworthy of gentlemen."
"Cowardly!" and the hot blood rose in their faces.
"Base cowardice."
"None ever called me coward before; but you are a priest."
"My children, will you not promise? Then you shall not be confined as you otherwise must be——"
"Let them confine us; we can dash our heads against the walls!"
"For my sake, then; they hurt me when they hurt you."
They paused, looked at each other, and sighed.
"Yes, Evroult?" said Richard.
"Yes, be it then, father; we promise."
But there was another thought in Evroult's mind which he did not reveal.
The bell then rang for chapel, but we fear the boys did not take more than their bodies there; and when they were alone in their own little chamber—for they were treated with special distinction (their father "subscribed liberally to the charity")—the hidden purpose came out.
"Richard," said Evroult, "we must escape."
"What shall we do? where can we go?"
"To Wallingford."
"But our father will slay us."
"Not he; he loves us too well. We shall recover then. Old Bartimœus here told me many do recover when they get away, and live, as some do, in the woods. It is all infection here; besides, I must see our mother again, if it is only once more—MUST see her, I long for her so."
"But do you not know that the country people would slay us."
"They are too afraid of the disease to seize us."
"But they keep big dogs—mastiffs, and would hunt us if they knew we were outside."
"We must escape in the night."
"The gates are barred and watched."
"A chance will come some evening, at the last hour of recreation before dark, we will hide in the bushes, and as soon as the others go in make for the wall; we can easily get over; now, Richard, are you willing?"
"Yes," said the younger, who always looked up to his elder brother with great belief, "I am willing, but do not make the attempt yet; let us wait a day or two; we are watched and suspected now."