The castle of Tremontes stands in
a wood of oaks, a little way off the high-road; it
takes its name from the three mounds that rise in
the castle yard, covered now with turf and daisies,
but piled together within of stones, which cover,
so the legend says, the bodies of three Danish knights
killed in a skirmish long ago; the river that runs
in the creek beside the castle is joined to the sea
but a little below, and the tide comes up to Tremontes;
when the sea is out, there are bare and evil-smelling
mudbanks, with a trickle of brackish water in the
midst. But at the time of which I write, the channel
was deeper, and little ships with brown sails could
be seen running before the wind among the meadows,
to discharge their cargoes at the water-gate of the
castle. It was a strong place with its leaded
roofs and its tower of squared stone, very white and
smooth. There was a moat all round the wall,
full of water-lilies, where the golden carp could be
seen basking on hot days; there was a barbican with
a drawbridge, the chains of which rattled and groaned
when the bridge was drawn up at sunset, and let down
at sunrise; the byre came up to the castle walls on
one side; on the other was a paved walk or terrace,
and below, a little garden of herbs and sweet flowers;
within, was a hall on the ground floor, with a kitchen
and buttery; above that, a little chapel and a solar;
above that again, a bower and some few bedrooms, and
at the top, under the leads, a granary, to which the
sacks used to be drawn up by a chain, swung from a
projecting penthouse on the top. From the castle
leads you could see the wide green flat, with dark
patches of woodland, with lines of willows marking
the streams; here and there a church tower rose from
the trees; to the east a line of wolds, and to the
south a glint of sea from the estuary.
Inside, the castle was a sad place
enough, dreary and neglected. Marmaduke, the
Lord of Tremontes, had been a great soldier in his
time, but he had received a grievous wound in the head,
and had been carried to Tremontes to die, and yet
lingered on; his wife had long been dead, and he had
but one son, a boy of ten years old, Robert by name,
who was brought up roughly and evilly enough; he played
with the village boys, he lived with the half-dozen
greedy and idle men-at-arms who loitered in the castle,
grumbling at their lack of employment, and killing
the time with drinking and foolish games and gross
talk. There was an old chaplain in the house,
a lazy and gluttonous priest, who knew enough of his
trade to mumble his mass, and no more; women there
were none, except an old waiting-woman, a silent faithful
soul, who loved the boy and petted him, and mourned
in secret over his miserable upbringing, but who,
having no store of words to tell her thoughts, could
only be dumbly kind to him, and careful of his childish
hurts and ailments; the boy ate and drank with the
men, and aped their swaggering and blasphemous ways,
which made them laugh and praise his cunning.
The Lord Marmaduke had been nursed back into a sort
of poor life, and sate all day in a fur gown in the
solar, with a velvet cap on his head to hide his wound,
which broke out afresh in the month of May, when he
had been wounded; when he was in ill case, he sate
silent and frowning, beating his hands on the table;
when he was well he muttered to himself, and laughed
at Heaven knows what cheerful thoughts, and would
sing in a broken voice, fifty times on end, a verse
of a foul song; and he would suddenly smite those that
tended him, and laugh; sometimes he would wander into
the chapel, and kneel peeping through his fingers;
and sometimes he would go and stroke his armour, which
lay where he had put it off, and cry. The only
thing he cared for was to have his keys beside him,
and he would tell them one by one, and curse if he
could not tell them right. And so the days dragged
slowly by. He cared nothing for his son, who never
entered the solar except for his own ends. And
one of these was to steal away his father’s
keys, and to unlock every door in the castle; for he
was inquisitive and bold; he knew the use of all the
keys but one; this was a small strong key, with a
head like a quatrefoil; and though he tried to fit
it to every cupboard and door in the house, he could
never find its place.
But one day when his father was ill
and lay abed, staring at the flies on the ceiling,
the boy came to the solar, and slipped in behind the
dusty arras that hung round the room, making believe
that he was a rabbit in its burrow; he went round
with his face to the wall, feeling with his hands;
and when he came to the corner of the room, the wall
was colder to his touch, like iron; and feeling at
the place, he seemed to discover hinges and a door.
So he dived beneath the arras, and then lifted it
up; and he saw that in the wall was a small iron door
like a cupboard. Something in his heart held him
back, but before he had time to listen to it he had
opened the little door, for the keys lay on the table
to his hand; and he was peering into a small dark
recess of stone, which seemed, for the wail that the
little door made on its hinges, not to have been opened
for many years.
In the cupboard, which had no shelves,
lay some dark objects.
The boy took out the largest, looping
the arras up over the little door; it was a rudely
made spiked crown or coronet of iron, with odd devices
chased upon it; the boy replaced it and drew out the
next; this was a rusted iron dagger with torn leather
on the hilt. The boy did not care for this there
were many better in the castle armoury. There
seemed to be nothing else in the cupboard. But
feeling with his hand in the dark corners, he drew
out a stone about the size of a hen’s egg.
This he thought he would take, so he locked the cupboard,
let the arras fall, and stood awhile to consider.
On the arras opposite him, over the door, was the
figure of a man embroidered in green tunic and leggings
with a hat drawn over his face and with a finger laid
on his lip, as though he had cause to be silent, or
to wish others so. The man had a forked beard
and a kind of secret smile, as if he mocked the onlooker;
and he seemed unpleasantly natural to the boy, as
though he divined his thought. He was half minded
to put the stone back; but the secrecy of the thing
pleased him. Moreover as he held the stone to
the light, it seemed half transparent, and sent out
a dull red gleam.
So the boy put the stone in his pouch,
and soon loved it exceedingly, and desired to keep
it with him. He often thrust it in secret places
inside and outside the castle, in holes in a hollow
elder tree, or chinks of the wall, and it pleased
him when he lay in bed on windy rainy nights, to think
of the stone lying snug and warm in its small house.
Soon he began to attribute a kind of virtue to the
thing; he thought that events went better when he
had it with him; and he named it in his mind The
Wound, because it seemed to him like the red and
jewelled wound in the side of the figure of Our Saviour
that hung in coloured glass over the chapel altar.
One day he had a terrible shock; he
was lying on the terrace, spinning the stone, and
watching the little whirling gleams of red light it
made on the flags, when a man-at-arms stole upon him,
and in wantonness seized the stone, and flung it far
into the moat, where it fell with a splash. The
boy was angry and smote the man upon the face with
all his might, and was sorely beaten for it for
they had no respect for the heir, and indeed there
was no one to whom he could complain but
he held his peace; and a week after the stone was
restored to him in a way that seemed miraculous; for
they ran the water of the moat off, to mend the sluice,
so that the water-lilies sank in tangles to the bottom
and the carp flapped in the mud; but the boy found
the stone lying on the pavement of the sluice.
But the fancy for the stone soon came
to an end, as a boy’s fancies will; and he carried
it with him, or put it into one of his hiding-places
and thought no more of The Wound.
Suddenly the peaceful, idle and evil
life came to a close. One day he had heard the
tinkle of the sacring bell in the chapel, and had
slipped in and found the priest at mass the
boy had a curious love for the mass; he liked to see
the quaint movements of the priest in his embroidered
robe, and a sort of peace settled upon his spirit and
this day he knelt near the screen and sniffed the incense,
when he heard a sound behind him, and turning, saw
a man booted and cloaked as though from a journey,
standing in the door with a paper in his hand, beckoning
him. Even as he rose and went out, it came into
his mind that this was in some way a summons for him;
the letter was from his mother’s brother, the
Lord Ralph of Parbury, a noble knight; he had been
long away fighting in many wars, but on his return
heard tell of the illness of Marmaduke, and wrote
to bid him send his son to him, and he would train
him for a soldier. They had great ado to read
the letter, and there was much putting of heads together
over it; but the messenger knew the purport, and the
boy made up his mind to go, for he felt, he had said
to himself, like one of the silly and lazy carp sweltering
in the castle moat; so he dressed himself in his best
and went. The men-at-arms were sorry to see their
playmate go, though they had done him little but evil;
and the old priest, half in tears, brought a small
book and gave it to the boy; the old nurse clung to
him and cried bitterly; but the boy felt nothing but
a kind of shame at the thought how glad he was to
go; indeed he would hardly have gone to wish farewell
to his father, who was in one of his fits, and lay
muttering on his bed; but the boy went, and, the door
being ajar, he looked in and saw him, pale and fat,
gibbering at his fingers, and almost hated him.
And so he mounted and rode away, on a hot still summer
afternoon, and was glad to see the castle tower sink
down among the oaks, as they rode by green tracks
and open heaths, little by little into the unknown
land to the south.
The years flew fast away with the
Lord Ralph; and Robert learnt to be a noble knight.
It was hard at first to change from the old sluggish
life, when he had none but himself to please; but something
caught fire within Robert’s soul, and he submitted
willingly and eagerly to the discipline of Parbury,
which was severe. He grew up strong and straight
and fearless, and worthy of fame, so that Ralph was
proud of his nephew; two things alone made him anxious;
Robert was, he thought, too desirous of praise, too
much bent upon excelling others, though Ralph tried
to make him learn that it is the doing of noble things
in a noble way, for the love of the deed done, and
for the honour of it, that makes a worthy knight and
not the desire to be held worthy. Moreover, Robert
had but little chivalry or tenderness of spirit; he
was not cruel, for he disdained it; but he was hard,
and despised weakness and grace; cared not for child,
or even horse or hound, and held the love of women
in contempt, saying that a soldier should have no
time to marry until he was old and spent; and that
then it was too late. It even made Ralph sorry
that Robert had no love for Tremontes or for his father,
or for any of those whom he had left behind; for a
knight’s face, said Ralph, should be set forward
in gladness, but he should look backward in love and
recollection. But Robert understood nothing of
such talk; or cared not; and indeed there was little
to blame in him; for he was courteous and easy in
peace; and he was strong and valiant and joyful in
war. He made no friend, but he was admired by
many and feared by some.
Then, when Robert was within a few
days of twenty-five, came a messenger, an old and
gross man-at-arms with rusty armour, riding on a broken
horse; he was one of the merry comrades of Robert’s
childhood; but Robert seemed hardly to know him, though
he acknowledged his greeting courteously, and stayed
not to talk, but opened the letter he had brought,
and read gravely; and when he had read he said to the
messenger, “So my lord is dead.” And
the messenger would have babbled about the end that
the Lord Marmaduke had made, which indeed had been
a bitter one, but Robert cut him short, and asked him
a plain question or two about affairs, and frowned
at his stumbling answers; and then Robert went to
his uncle, and after due obeisance said, “Sir,
my father, it seems, is dead, and with your leave
I must ride to Tremontes and take my inheritance.”
And the Lord Ralph, seeing no sign of sorrow, said,
“Your father was a great knight.”
“Ay, once,” said Robert, “doubtless,
but as I knew him more tree than man.” And
presently he took horse and rode all night to Tremontes;
and when the old man-at-arms would have ridden beside
him, and reminded him with a poor smile of some passages
of his childhood, Robert said sourly, “Man,
I hate my childhood, and will hear no word of it; and
you and your fellow-knaves treated me ill; and your
kindness was worse than your anger. Ride behind
me.”
So they rode sadly enough, until at
evening, with a great red sunset glowing in the west,
and smouldering behind the tree-trunks, he saw the
dark tower of Tremontes looking solemnly out above
the oaks. Then the man-at-arms asked humbly that
he might ride forward and announce the new lord’s
coming; but Robert forbade him, and rode alone into
the court.
He gave his horse to the man-at-arms
and walked into the house; in the hall he found a
drunken company and much ugly mirth. He surveyed
the scene awhile in disgust, for they cried out at
first for him to join them, till it came upon them
who it was that looked upon them; so they stumbled
to their feet and did him obeisance, and slunk out
one by one upon some pretence of business, leaving
him alone with the old priest, who was heavier and
grosser than before. But he had his wits as well
as he ever had, and would have told Robert how his
father had made a blessed end, with holy oil and sacraments
and all due comfort of Mother Church, but Robert cut
him short; and after a lonely meal in the great hall,
turned to look at such few parchments that there were
in the house, and sent for the steward to see how his
inheritance stood. It was a miserable tale he
had to tell of neglect and thriftlessness; and Robert
said very soon that he could only hope to save his
estate by living poorly and giving diligence and
that he had no mind to do; so he resolved that if
he could find a purchaser, he would sell the home
of his fathers, and himself set out into the world
he loved, to carve out a fortune, if he might, with
his sword.
Among the parchments was one that
was closely sealed; it bore a date before his birth;
he read it at first listlessly enough, but presently
he caught sight of words that made his heart beat faster.
It seemed from the script that his father, as a young
man, had served for awhile with a great Duke of Spain,
the prince of a little kingdom, and that he had even
saved his life in battle, and would have been promoted
to high honour, but that he had been recalled home
to take his inheritance; but the Duke, so said the
writing, had given him the iron crown and dagger that
the Lord of the Marches wore, and with them the great
ruby of the dukedom, that was worth a king’s
ransom. And the parchment said that it was pledged
by the Duke, by all the most sacred relics of Spain,
bones of saints and wood of the True Cross, that should
he or any of his heirs come before the Duke with these
tokens, the Duke would promote him to chief honour.
Here then was the secret of the iron
door and his father’s constant fingering of
the keys; and this was the plaything of his youth,
The Wound, as he had called it. Robert
bowed his head upon his hands and tried to recollect
where he had thrust it last; but though he thought
of a score of hiding-places where it might be, he could
not remember where it certainly lay. Could he
have thrown away by his childish folly a thing which
would give him, if he cared to claim it, high honour
and great place? and if he cared not to
claim that boon, but only sold the jewel, which was
undoubtedly his own, he might be a great lord, among
the wealthiest in the land.
Robert sate long in thought in the
silent solar, with a candle burning beside him; once
or twice his old nurse came in upon him, and longed
to kiss him and clasp her child close; but he looked
coldly upon her and seemed hardly to remember her.
At last the day began to brighten
in the east; and Robert cast himself for awhile upon
his father’s bed to sleep, and slept a broken
sleep. In the morning he first went to the cupboard
and found the crown and dagger as he had left them;
but though he searched high and low for the jewel,
he could not find it in any of the secret places where
he used to lay it; and at last he took the crown and
dagger in despair, turned adrift the men-at-arms,
and left none but the old nurse in the house.
The priest asked for some gift or pension that would
not leave him destitute, but Robert said, “Go
to, you have lived in gluttony and sloth all the years
at the expense of my estate; and now that you have
nearly beggared me, you ask for more you
are near your end; live cleanly and wisely for a few
years, ere you depart to your own place.”
“Nay,” said the priest
whimpering, and with a miserable smile, “but
I am old, and it is hard to change.”
“So said the carp,” quoth
Robert with a hard smile, “when they dangled
him up with a line out of the moat. Change and
adventure are meet for all men. And I look that
I do a good deed, when I restore a recreant shepherd
to the fold.” The priest went off, crying
unworthy tears and cursing the new lord, to try and
find a priest’s office if he could; and Robert
rode grimly away, back to his uncle, and told him all
the tale.
His uncle sate long in thought, and
then said that his resolve to sell the castle of Tremontes
and the estate was, he believed, a wise one; and it
should be his care to find a purchaser. “I
myself,” he said, “have none nearer than
yourself to whom to leave my lands;” and then
he advised Robert, if he would try his fortune, to
take the crown and dagger, and to seek out the Duke
or his heir, and to tell him the whole story, and
how the precious jewel was lost.
So Robert rode away to London; and
his uncle was sad to see him go so stonily and sullenly,
with a mind so bent upon himself, and, it seemed,
without love for a living thing; and as Robert rode
he pondered; and it seemed to him a useless quest,
because he thought that the giving back of the jewel
was part of the terms, and that the Duke would not
promote a man who brought him nothing but a memory
of old deeds; and moreover, he thought that the Duke
would not believe the story, but would think that
he had the jewel safe at home, and wished to gain
fortune in Spain, and keep the wealth as well.
And as he rode into London, it seemed to him as though
some wise power put it into his heart what he should
do; for he rode by the sign of a maker of rich glass
for church windows; and at once a thought darted into
his mind; and going in, he sought out the master of
the shop, and told him that he had lost a jewel from
a crown, a jewel of price, and that he was ashamed
that the crown should lack it; and he asked if he could
make him a jewel of glass to set in its place; and
he described the jewel, how large it was and how dull
outside, and its fiery heart; and the craftsman smiled
shrewdly and foxily, and told him to return on the
third day, and he should have his will. On the
third day he came again; and the craftsman, opening
a box, took from it a jewel so like The Wound,
that he thought for a moment that he must have recovered
it; so he paid a mighty price for it, and set off light-hearted
for Spain.
After weary wandering, and many strange
adventures by sea and land, he rode one day to the
Duke’s palace gate. It was a great bare
house of stone, within a wall, at the end of a little
town. It was far larger and greater than he had
dreamed; he was stayed at the gate, for he knew as
yet but a few words of the language; but he had written
on a parchment who he was, and that he desired to
see the Duke. And presently there came out a
seneschal in haste, and he was led within honourably,
and soon he was had into a small room, richly furnished.
He was left alone, and the seneschal showed him through
which door the Duke would come.
Presently a door opened, and there
came in an old shrunken man, in a furred gown, very
stately and noble, holding the paper in his hand.
Robert did obeisance, but the Duke raised him, and
spoke courteously to him in the English tongue, and
desired to see his tokens.
Then Robert brought forth the crown
and the dagger and the jewel, and the Duke looked
at them in silence for awhile, shading his eyes.
And then he praised the Lord Marmaduke very nobly,
saying that he owed his life to him. And then
he told Robert that he would be true to his word,
and promote him to honour; but he said that first he
must abide with him many days, and go in and out with
his knights, and learn the Spanish tongue and the
Spanish way of life; so Robert abode with him in great
content, and was treated with honour by all, but especially
by the Duke, who often sent for him and spoke much
of former days.
Then at last there came a day when
the Duke sent for him and in the presence of all his
lords told them the story and passed the crown and
the dagger and the jewel from hand to hand; and the
lords eyed the stone curiously and handled it tenderly;
and then the Duke said that the knight who could,
for the sake of honour, restore a jewel that could
buy a county there was not the like of it
in the world, save in the Emperor’s crown was
a true knight indeed; and therefore he made Robert
Lord of the Marches, put the crown on his head, and
a purple robe with a cape of miniver on his shoulders,
and commanded that he should be used by all as if
of royal birth.
The greatness of his reward was a
surprise to Robert, and he had it in his heart to
tell the Duke the truth. But the lords passed
before him and did obeisance, and he put the good
hour aside.
Very soon Robert set out for the Castle
of the Marches; and he found it a marvellous house,
fit for a king, with wide lands. And there he
abode for several years, and did worthily; for he was
an excellent knight, and a prudent general; moreover
he was just and kind; and the people feared and obeyed
his rule, and lived in peace, though none loved Robert;
but he made the land prosperous and great, and cleared
it of robbers, and raised a mighty revenue for the
Duke, who praised him and made him great presents.
One day he heard that the Duke was
ill; the next a courier came in haste to summon him
to the Duke’s presence; he wondered at this;
but went with a great retinue. He found the Duke
feeble and bent, but with a bright eye; he kissed
Robert, like a brother prince, and as they sate alone
he opened his heart to him and told him that he had
done worthily; he had none of his kin, or none fit
to hold his dukedom after him; but that all he desired
was that his people should be well ruled, and that
he had determined that Robert should succeed him.
“There will be envious and grasping hands,”
he said, “held out but you are strong
and wise, and the people will be content to be ruled
by you,” and then he showed him a paper that
made him a prince in title, and that gave him the
Dukedom on his own death.
Now there lived in the Duke’s
house a wise and learned man named Paul, an alchemist,
who knew the courses of the stars and the virtues
of plants, and many other secret things; and the Duke
delighted much in his conversation, which was ingenious
and learned. But Robert heard him vacantly, thinking
that such studies were fit only for children.
And Paul being old and gentle, loved not Robert, but
held that the Duke trusted him overmuch. And
one night, when Robert and other lords were sitting
with the Duke, Paul being present, the talk turned
on the virtues of gems; and Paul, as if making an
effort that he had long prepared for, told the Duke
of a curious liquor, an aqua fortis, that he
had distilled, which was a marvellous thing to test
the worth of gems, and would tell the true from the
false; and the Duke bade him bring the liquor and
show him how the spirit worked. And it seemed
to Robert that, as Paul spoke, a shadowy hand came
from the darkness and clutched at his heart, enveloping
him in blackness, so that he sate in a cold dream.
And Paul went out, and presently returned bringing
a small phial of gold for the liquor, he
said, would eat its way through any baser metal and
in the other hand a little dish of gems. Some
of them, he said, were true gems, others of them less
precious, and others naught but sparkling glass; and
he poured a drop on each; the true gems sparkled unhurt
in the clear liquid, the less precious threw off little
flakes of impurity, and the glass hissed and melted
in the potent venom. And Robert, contrary to his
wont, came and stood, sick at heart, feeling the old
man’s eyes fixed on him with a steady gaze.
At last Paul said, “The Prince Robert” for
the Duke had told the lords of the honour he had given
him “seems to wonder more than his
wont at these simple toys and tricks; shall not the
Duke let us test the great ruby, that its worth may
be the better proven? perhaps too it has some small
impurity to be purged away, and will shine more bravely,
like a noble heart under affliction.” And
the Duke said, “Yes, let the ruby be brought.”
So the lord that had the charge of
the Duke’s jewels brought a casket, and there
in its place lay the great ruby, red as blood.
And Robert would have spoken, but the words died upon
his tongue, and he saw the shadow of the end.
Then Paul took the ruby and laid it
on his dish; and as he raised the phial to pour, he
looked at Robert, and said “But perhaps it is
shame to treat so great a gem so discourteously?”
And the Duke being old and curious said, “Nay,
but pour.” But then, as Paul raised the
phial, the Duke lifted his hand, and said very pleasantly,
“Yet after all, I hold not the jewel my own,
but the Lord Robert’s, who hath so faithfully
restored it to me. What will you, my lord?”
he said, turning with a smile to Robert. And
Robert, looking and smiling very stonily, said, in
a voice that he could scarcely command, “Pour,
sir, pour!” So Paul poured the liquor.
The great ruby flashed for a moment,
and then a thin white steam floated up, while the
gem rose in a blood-stained foam, hissing and bubbling.
Then there was a silence; and then Robert put his hand
to his heart and stood still; the Duke looked at him,
and Paul said in his ear, “Now, Lord Robert,
play the man! I knew the secret.”
Then Robert rising from his place
said that he would ask the Duke’s leave to speak
to him in private on this matter, and the Duke, coldly
but courteously, led the way into an inner room, and
there Robert told him all the story. Perhaps
a younger man might have been more ready to forgive;
but the Duke was old; and when Robert had done the
story, he sate looking so aged and broken, that a
kind of pity came into Robert’s mind, and crushed
the pity he felt for himself. But at last the
Duke spoke. “You have deceived me,”
he said, “and I do not know that I can even
think that your story is true; you can serve me no
longer, for you have done unworthily.” And
with that he tore the parchment across, and dropped
it on the ground, and then made a gesture of dismissal;
and Robert rose, hoping that the Duke would yet relent,
and said at last, “May I hope that your Grace
can say that you forgive me? I do not ask to
be restored but in all other things I have
served you well.” “No, my Lord Robert,”
said the Duke at last coldly and severely, “I
cannot forgive; for I have trusted one who has deceived
me.”
So Robert went slowly out of the room
through the hall; and no man spoke to him and he spoke
to none. Only Paul came to join him, and looked
at him awhile, and then said, “Lord Robert, I
have been the means of inflicting a heavy blow upon
you; but it was not I who struck, but God, to whom
I think you give no allegiance.” And Robert
said, “Nay, Sir Paul, trouble not yourself; you
have done as a faithful servant of the Duke should
do to a faithless servant; I bear you no malice; as
you say, it is not you who strike.”
Then the old man said, “Believe
me, Lord Robert, that the day will come, and I think
it is not far distant, when you will be grateful to
the stroke which, at the cost of grievous pain to yourself,
has revealed your soul to yourself. All men know
the worst that can be known of you; the cup is emptied
to the dregs; it is for you to fill it.”
Then he put out his hand, and Robert grasped it, and
went out into the world alone. That night he
sent a courier to his castle to say that he would
return no more, and that all things were the Duke’s;
and he sent back to the Duke, by a private messenger,
the crown and the dagger; and the Duke mourned over
the loss of his trusty servant, but could not forgive
him nor hear him spoken of.
Robert only kept for himself the sum
of gold with which he had come to the Duke’s
court; and he travelled into France, for he knew that
he would find fighting there, and took service in
the army of Burgundy; he was surprised within himself
to find how little he cared for the loss of his greatness;
indeed he felt that a certain secret heaviness and
blackness of spirit had left him, and that he was almost
light-hearted; but in one of the first battles he fought
in he was stricken from his horse, and trampled under
foot. And they took him for tendance to a monastery
near the field; and in a few weeks, when he came slowly
back to life, he knew that he could fight no more.
Then indeed he fell into a great despair
and darkness of spirit. It seemed as though some
cruel and secret enemy had struck him blow after blow,
and not content with visiting him with shame, had rent
from him all that made him even wish to live.
But in the monastery lived a wise old monk, with whom
he had much talk, and in his weakness told him all
his life and his fall. And one day the two sate
together in the cloister, on a day in spring, while
a bird sang very blithely in a bush that was all pricked
with green points and shoots. And the old monk
said, “This is a strange tale, Lord Robert, that
you have told me; and the wonder grows as I think
of it; but it seems to me that God has led you in
a wonderful manner; He made you strong and bold and
self-sufficient; and then He has taken these things
from you, not gently, because you were strong to bear,
but very sternly; He has led you through deep waters
and yet you live; and He will set you upon the rock
that is higher, so that you may serve Him yet.”
And then it seemed, in a silence made
beautiful by the sweet piping of the bird, that a
little flower rose and blossomed in Robert’s
soul; he saw, in a sudden way that cannot be told
in words, that he was indeed in stronger hands than
his own; and there came into his mind that in following
after strong things, he had missed the thing that
was stronger than all Love, that holds the
world in his grasp.
So it came to pass that the Lord Robert
became the thing that he had most despised a
monk. And he found here that his courage, which
he had thought the strongest thing he had, was yet
hardly strong enough to bear the doing of mean and
sordid tasks, such as a monk must often do; but it
became to him a kind of fierce pleasure to trample
on himself, and to do humbly and severely all menial
things. He swept the church, he dug in the garden,
he fetched and carried burdens, and spared himself
in nothing.
But after a time he fell ill; he missed,
no doubt, the old activities of life; his days had
been full of business and occupation, and though he
did not look back indeed a deep trench seemed
to have been dug across his life, and he saw himself
across it like a different man, and he could often
hardly believe that he was the same yet
it seemed as though some spring had been broken in
his spirit. He fell into long sad musings, and
waters of bitterness flowed across his soul. The
monks thought that he would die, he became so wan and
ghost-like; but he never failed in his duty, and though
his life stretched before him like a weary road, he
knew that it would be long before he reached the end,
and that he had many leagues yet to traverse, before
the night fell cold on the hills.
Now, there was business to be done
for the House in England, and Robert was sent there,
the Prior hoping that the change and stir might lighten
the load upon his spirit.
It happened at last that he found
himself, in the course of his journeyings, not far
from Tremontes. His uncle, the Lord Ralph, he
heard, was dead, and his lands had gone to the nearest
of his kin. He knew nothing of what had befallen
Tremontes, but he made enquiries, saying that he had
seen the Lord Robert in Spain; he found that there
was great curiosity about him; he was plied with questions,
and he was forced to speak of himself, as in a strange
dream, and to hear the story of his disgrace told
with many wild imaginings. It seemed that Ralph
had himself undertaken the care of Tremontes, and had
turned it by diligence into a rich estate, hoping,
it was said, to hand it over to the Lord Robert on
his return; but that as he had disappeared and made
no sign, it was supposed that he had died fighting,
and the Lord Ralph having died suddenly, Tremontes
had passed with the rest of his estate.
Early one summer morning Robert set
off across the broad green flat, and trudged to Tremontes.
The country had hardly altered, and it was with a
strange thrill of delight that one by one the familiar
landmarks came into view; and at last he saw the castle
itself over the oaks. He had learnt that there
was a priest there as chaplain, a wise and sad man,
to whom he bore a letter. Twenty years had passed
since he saw the castle last, but it looked to his
eyes no older; the hens picked and cried in the byre;
the sun shone pleasantly as ever upon the lilied pool
and the warm terrace. Robert felt no sadness,
but a kind of hunger to be remembered, to be welcomed,
to be received with loving looks. The porter
led him in, up into the familiar hall, where sate
a few sober men-at-arms, who rose and made a seemly
obeisance; and he was presently sitting in a little
parlour that opened on the chapel, talking quietly
to the old priest, who seemed glad enough to have
his company. Robert told him that he had known
Tremontes in his youth; and after he had spoken of
many indifferent things, he asked that he might withdraw
for a little into the chapel, and say a silent prayer
for those who were departed.
The old priest understood him and
led the way; and in a moment Robert found himself
seated by the little arcade, looking at the dim figure
that hung in the window, where he had sate as a boy,
when the messenger had come to summon him away.
How it all came back to him! The years were obliterated
in a flash; he put out his hand idly to the arcade,
where the pillars stood out from the wall, and his
fingers touched a small dusty thing that lay between
a pillar and the stones. It was hardly with surprise
that he raised it, and saw that he held the ruby,
where he had put it in that careless hour.
Then there beat upon his mind a great
wave of thought, and he saw how gentle had been the
hand that led him, and how surely he had been guided;
he looked into the depth of his soul, and saw the very
secret counsels of God. That was an hour full
of a strange and marvellous happiness, when he felt
like a child leaning against a father’s knee.
He had no longer any repining or any questioning; but
he knelt, full of a mysterious peace, resigning himself
utterly into the mighty hands of the Father.
Presently the waning light warned
him that the day was turning to the evening; and he
came out and spoke to the priest, but with such a
solemn and tranquil radiance of mien that the priest
said to him, “I thought, brother, when you came
to me, that you had a strange thing to tell me; but
now you seem like one who has laid his very self down
at the foot of the Cross.” And Robert smiled
and said, “I think I have.”
Presently he set off; and a foolish
fancy came and fluttered in his mind for a moment,
that he ought not to come like a thief and steal so
rich a thing away; till he reflected in himself that
he had but to speak the word and the whole was his.
The old priest had told him that the
Lord of Tremontes, Richard, was a just man, and ruled
the estate well and bountifully; that he would have
none but honest men to labour for him, and that he
was liberal and kind. Just as Robert went out
of the gate he met a grave man, in rich but sober
attire, riding in, who drew aside to let the monk pass
and put off his hat to him. Then it came into
Robert’s mind to speak to him, and he said,
“Do I speak with the Lord Richard of Tremontes?”
“Richard of Parbury, father,”
said the Lord. “Tremontes is indeed held
by me, but I have no lordship here. The Lord Robert
of Tremontes may yet be living; we know not if he
be alive or dead; and I but hold the estate for him
and administer it for him; and if he returns he will
find it, I believe, not worse than he left it.”
Then Robert made up his mind and said,
“Lord Richard, I have a message for you from
the Lord Robert but for your ears alone.
I have seen him and know him. You have doubtless
heard of his disgrace and his fall; and he will not
return. He was but anxious to know that the estate
was justly ruled and administered, and he resigns
it into your hands.”
Then the Lord Richard dismounted from
his horse, and bade the monk enter and speak with
him at large; but he would not. Then the Lord
Richard said, “This is not a light matter, father;
a great estate, craving your pardon, cannot thus pass
by word of mouth.”
“And it shall not,” said
the monk, “the Lord Robert shall send you due
quittance.”
Then the Lord Richard said, “Father,
be it so, then; but should the Lord Robert return
and claim the estate, it is his.”
Then the monk said, “He will
not return; he is dead to the world.” And
then he added, for he saw that the Lord Richard was
pondering the matter, “I that speak with you
am he.” Then he blessed the Lord Richard,
and departed in haste and so solemn was
his face and manner, that the Lord Richard did not
stay him, but went within in wonder and awe.
Then Robert returned to the monastery,
with a quiet joy in his heart; and he made a quittance
of the estate, and sent it secretly to the Lord Richard
by a faithful hand; and when the Lord Richard came
in haste to see the monk and speak with him, he had
departed for Spain.
Robert journeyed many days and came
at last again to the house of the Duke. And he
was then admitted, and bidden to dinner; so he sate
in the hall that he knew, and no man recognised him
in the thin and sunburnt monk that sate and spoke
so low and courteously; and afterwards he asked audience
of the Duke, who still lived, but was very near his
end; and when he was alone with him, he drew out the
stone and said, “My lord, your faithful and loving
servant has found the ruby and herewith restores it;
and he asks your forgiveness, for he loves you truly;”
and Robert knelt beside him, and wept, but not for
bitterness of heart.
Then said the Duke, speaking low,
“My son, I have need to be forgiven and not
to forgive.” And they had great joy together,
and Robert told him all that was in his heart.
“My lord,” he said, “God
hath led me by a strange path into peace; He saw the
evil strength of my heart, and smote me in my pride;
and He made me as a little child that He might receive
me; and I am His.”
And it came that the Duke was sick
unto death; and he sent for Robert, who abode in the
city, and would have given him the stone; but Robert
said with a smile that he would not have it, for he
had learnt at least the meaning of one text, that
the price of wisdom is above rubies. And he kissed
the hand of the Duke.
And the Duke died and was buried;
but of Robert’s life and death I know no more;
but in the High Church, near the altar, is a stone
grave, on which are the words “Brother Robert,”
and underneath the crown of a prince. So I think
he lies there, all of him that doth fade.