“Ah, well,” returned the Abbot cheerfully, “God’s times are not always as ours. You will at least wait till I send food to you here. You have fasted long enough, methinks. Blackberries make but poor sustenance. You may rest assured of the boy’s welfare. You did good service when you rescued him. Farewell, my son, and God speed you on your quest.” He paused a moment, looked at him very searchingly. “An’ I were to prophesy,” he said smiling, “I should tell of your coming to your goal e’er long. Fare you well.” He passed across the courtyard, his hand on the child’s shoulder.
Anon, with a well-filled wallet, Peregrine turned his back on Dieuporte, made his way adown the valley.
CHAPTER XXIV
AT DIEUPORTE
E’ER we follow Peregrine in his further wanderings, it were well, methinks, to remain a brief space at Dieuporte. To leave on the instant the child committed by him to Abbot Hilary’s care, were to my mind to leave him somewhat summarily. An’ you are of my way of thinking, have found interest in the boy, you would know something of his further welfare. Having brought him to harbourage, it is restful to dwell a short time with him.
You may be sure the child found the Abbey restful. In the first place, it held a rare atmosphere of sanity and homeliness. Herein it differed from the dwelling he had left as greatly as good wheaten bread differs from tainted dishes. In the second place, he experienced safety in the presence of the big Abbot and his colleagues. This he felt without fully realizing that he did so. His mind, hitherto tensioned to an unwholesome strain by the very evil will of Menippus, now found entire relaxation. He slept, ate, and slept again, his strength vastly recuperating thereby.
He spent long hours in the sunny garden, mainly in company with young Brother Francis, to whose charge the Abbot had specially allotted him. Here, in spite of his blindness, he became aware of the beauty around him. He felt the soft wind, heard its rustling in the trees; heard also the low notes of the wood pigeons; smelt the sweet scent of the flowers. In the quiet orderliness of the place, its stateliness, yet its simplicity and its homely happiness, his rightful heritage of childhood, long denied him, came to birth. He lost his furtive look, ceased to start at sudden sounds; his peaked face grew to plumpness, a delicate colour tinged his cheeks. Anon, he was heard to laugh. This sound pleased Brother Francis vastly, and the Abbot no less.
Having good care for his body, they forgot not his soul. There was no proof he was a Christian. Having been in the charge of Menippus from babyhood the Abbot saw the matter more than doubtful. Gentle questioning of the child led him to pretty full knowledge of the manner of place from which Peregrine had rescued him, and the corruption in it. Of the truths of Christianity he was entirely ignorant. Here the Abbot took instruction upon himself. This required careful handling, since to bring knowledge of truth home to him was at the same time to show him more fully the evil by which he had been surrounded. What Menippus had taught most foully must now be taught in its full beauty. Briefly, to bring him to the sunlight were at the same time to make him aware of the darkness of the pit he had left.
Figuratively speaking we see the Abbot holding him in strong arms while he looked backward on the horror. The tears that came at the knowledge of it Abbot Hilary dried; the shuddering he stilled. He told him an ancient history. This was the story of the Three Holy Children cast into a fiery furnace. He told him they had walked the flames unscathed, since One was with them; their garments,—even the hair upon their heads,—escaping the smallest scent of fire. From it he drew a moral bearing on the boy’s own case. The child listened wondering, and greatly comforted. The horror of uncleanness fell somewhat from him at the tale. Also, for his further comfort, the Abbot told him of Baptism, and Forgiveness for past wrong.
The boy drank in his teaching eagerly. The very sensitiveness of his mind, which Menippus had used for his own ends, made him the more open to present influence. Body and soul, he expanded, like a bud in the sunlight; it needed but the seal of pardon, like the kiss of the sun at noontide, to bring his soul to full flower.