“But that might be the sea, Father Wilfred, or the traitors’ elms (Tyburn.) by London, or the plague dead-pit.”
“Child! when the Lord cometh with all His saints, there will be no labels on the raised bodies, to note where the dust was found lying.”
And Wilfred turned back to his desk, and took up his pen. Both were silent for a time; but it was the old monk who resumed the conversation.
“Thou wouldst fain attain greatness, Bertram,” he said. “Shall I tell thee of two deeds done but this sennight past, that I saw through yonder lattice as I sat at my painting? Go to! I saw, firstly, a poor shepherd lad crossing the green one morrow, on his needful toil, clad in rough russet; and another lad lesser than he, clad in goodly velvets and brave broidery, bade him scornfully thence out of his sight, calling him rascal, fool, lither oaf, and the like noisome words—the shepherd lad having in nowise offended save by his presence. And I say, lad, that was a little deed—the deed of a little soul; a mean, base deed; and he that did it, except God touch his heart, will never be a great man.”
“But, Father Wilfred! I saw it—it was the Lord Edward; and he is great even now, and like to be greater.”
“Mark my words, lad,—he will never be a great man.”
Bertram looked as if he thought the proposition incomprehensible.
“Well, the day thereafter,” pursued Wilfred, “I was aware, in the very same place, of other two lads—bravely clad, though not so brave as he—bearing betwixt them a pail of water, for the easement of an halt and aged wife that might scarce lift it from the ground. And I heard the one say to the other, as they came by this lattice,—‘How if some of our fellows see us now?’—with his answer returned,—‘Be it so; we do no wrong.’ And I say, boy, that was a great deed, the deed of a great soul; and I look for both those lads to be great men, though I verily think the greater to have been he that was in no wise shamed of his deed.”
Bertram’s face was crimson, for he very well knew that on this occasion the heroes of Wilfred’s adventure were himself and his friend, Hugh Calverley. He remembered, moreover, that he had felt ashamed, and afraid to be seen, and had taken his share in the act, partly from his own kindness of heart, but partly from a wish to retain Hugh’s good opinion.
“Shall I tell thee another tale, lad?”