the chapel. Not a sound throughout these simple ceremonies, save the busy notes of the swallows. The Christian Vagabond sate apart, and alone, in a corner of the refectory, with his book, vellum-bound, and umber-edged, lying open upon his knees. His head was thrown back; his arms were crossed; and he was looking at the brightening of another day. "God, in thy mercy," he said, "grant that it was not the painful pilgrimage I have been dreaming. More than eighty years since, for the second time I was permitted to take up my staff anew, and bare my breast to the wind; worlds and centuries lie between the Now and Then, and yet this night I strode over them as over a brook, and stood, early, and at home, on the other side. That was the face then the spring of this hoar winter, the bud of this mould-the beginning of this end! "What has lain between? Eighty summers, and winters: eighty springs, and autumns! It is a long time, and yet not so long; for many tempests must have wrought such havoc. That was the picture, nearly finished at the time since perfected by the painter's cunning hand, willingly running over the fairness again, and yet again. But thenceforward, through the eighty years! I see driving clouds of tears. Wailing floats through the air. My ears are shells with sad, low murmurs in them, of prison tones. In my dream the click of chains, not the electric points of anchor weighing; but the rusty clank of gaol fetters, disturbed me. In the cruellest dungeon there is a thread of light; but I was hurried to utter blackness, to a night with heaven bricked wholly out! "I pray, I implore thee, O my God, that it was not quite this. The heart was noble in the main, in youth; that I know, that I feel, as I feel the throbbing of my temples. Those virgin hands sought the innocence of flowers, and were shaped for buds like these which are passing softly as heaven's lambs are flocking past the window. In all the shameless, glittering wickedness, there was a good heart, upon whom the story of the poor smote, as it never smote upon the king's. "Given, like a pulseless thing of prettiness, to the vilest of the spangled brutes who laughed at the famine in the land, with the best part of a fat capon duly placed within his own diseased anatomy; made president of his orgies, chief at his board; his, like his ancestral plate, shimmering over the broad expanse of the buffets in his hall of riot-how did the tragedy come to a violent end-for the The Germans call the white summer clouds thus, end was violence? Did she fall to the share of one less brutal, or as brutal, but artfuller? Did he fall in a quarrel flamed with wine? Did the blinded Poor, reckoning consequences no further with God nor man, rise and put his mocking, purple face for ever out of their sight? And then, I remember all I dreamed last night; but O, my God, that cannot be true! "Yet, This was the completest wreck and defacement of That. It happened that the world stood all against her. She was of a company to whom she did not belong, a strayed Innocence amongst wild beasts. Her father: a grim, lean, lithe wolf, with lamb for fosterbirth. "And he gave her, in his sulky pride, to the thing that had a name, for sacrifice; in satisfaction of his own lust after bloodpolluted it might be, blue it must be. "There was another with lineage rarer, and more subtly threaded through the centuries, by alliances with knightly races, than the soiled mannikin, most jewelled of the court, whom Lady Rebecca called lord, and obeyed as master, till her spirit broke, or "The cloud presses upon the rest, and shall never be lifted! And this uncouth, misshapen creature who wails in his chamber over Rebecca's death, and will not be comforted! This dwarfed Caliban, blundering about the sweet house of Charity, and thrusting his hideous visage under the hoods of the sisters! her son! And through what darkness did she fall to this? The Lady Rebecca, who scattered sunshine where she walked, and cleared the surrounding atmosphere of poison where she stood; to be the mother of this dolorous confusion of physique and brain! He hath not the commonest human voice! "Driven forth or thrust forth? confounded in the tumult of Hunger making itself a new regime with the heartless leaven of the aristocrats --so she dwindled, dipping ever into the slough of the murky valley; from cottier's honest, cleanly hospitality, to the windward bank of the hedge thence to the gipsy's tent, and thence-to his couch of skins! "And so, this-I hear breaking the holy silence of the corridors. on this solemn morning! But he has a heart lying in the jumble of his flesh, as the Lady Rebecca had that portrait set about with gold in her wanderer's rags!" The Christian Vagabond folded his hands upon the open book, and bent his head in silent abstraction. And while he was withdrawn from the world, far back into the past, snatching and catching at landmarks; the dwarf appeared at the door of the refectory, with wild, scared, horrid face, and stared at him. He stuck his bony forefinger through the meshes of his beard into his mouth, and contemplated the chapel. Not a sound throughout these simple ceremonies, save the busy notes of the swallows. The Christian Vagabond sate apart, and alone, in a corner of the refectory, with his book, vellum-bound, and umber-edged, lying open upon his knees. His head was thrown back; his arms were crossed; and he was looking at the brightening of another day. "God, in thy mercy," he said, "grant that it was not the painful pilgrimage I have been dreaming. More than eighty years since, for the second time I was permitted to take up my staff anew, and bare my breast to the wind; worlds and centuries lie between the Now and Then, and yet this night I strode over them as over a brook, and stood, early, and at home, on the other side. That was the face then the spring of this hoar winter, the bud of this mould-the beginning of this end! "What has lain between? Eighty summers, and winters: eighty springs, and autumns! It is a long time, and yet not so long; for many tempests must have wrought such havoc. That was the picture, nearly finished at the time: since perfected by the painter's cunning hand, willingly running over the fairness again, and yet again. But thenceforward, through the eighty years! I see driving clouds of tears. Wailing floats through the air. My ears are shells with sad, low murmurs in them, of prison tones. In my dream the click of chains, not the electric points of anchor weighing; but the rusty clank of gaol fetters, disturbed me. In the cruellest dungeon there is a thread of light; but I was hurried to utter blackness, to a night with heaven bricked wholly out! "I pray, I implore thee, O my God, that it was not quite this. The heart was noble in the main, in youth; that I know, that I feel, as I feel the throbbing of my temples. Those virgin hands sought the innocence of flowers, and were shap are passing softly as heaven's lamb In all the shameless, littering upon whom the stor happened to wa beasts biri a rare famed with wine? sequences no further with God ice for ever out of their creamed last night; but O, my reck and defacement of That. It unst her. She was of a company strayed Innocence amongst wild em the wolf, with lamb for foster pens sulky pride, to the thing that had a sustaction of his own lust after blood-net must be. + There was another with lineage rarer, and more subtly threaded tim te cases by alliances with knightly races, than the soiled mander 2005 Beveled of the court, whom Lady Rebecca called lord we as master, till her spirit broke, or 30 "The cat presses upon the rest, and shall never be iner this mout, mustapen creature who wails in t Rebecca's feat. and will not be comforted! Thus m hindeng mow the sweet house of Charity. air hidassage under the hoods of the sisters: erst wie: darkness did she fall to this? The Lady Revers sunshine where she walked, and cleared the surroun of poison where she stood; to be the mother of of pique and brain! He hath not the comme Diven forth or thrust forth? confounded in the two of us making itself a new regime with the heartless of the wint e dwindled, dipping ever into the dough the sourky valley the bowed figure. At intervals, wide as the passages of the passing bell, a sob shook through his being; and the tears beaded his hatry face. He was trying with his half-wits, yet with a whole heart, to form some purpose or plan, of which the Christian Vagabond should be the motive power. His finger was withdrawn sharply from his mouth, and raised and shaken towards the corridor, in the direction where the Sisters moved in busy silence around his mother's rest. He crept (every motion of his limbs appeared to express pain) with gentleness, to the side of the ancient man, who had buried his brain too deep to be aroused by a light footfall. When near the Vagabond's knees, and touching the blue folds of his robe or cloak, the dwarf halted irresolute; not daring to open his appeal. The working of his agonised face was tumultuous; the tears rained from his poor, red eyes; and the gaunt figure of the tramp remained motionless and vast as a saint in marble by an ancient hand. A sob, that almost rooted his heart from its cavity, brought the dwarf in a heap to the Christian Vagabond's feet. The dreamer was, on the instant, a wakeful man. "The penalty is heaviest upon him," the Vagabond said, looking, with an angel's peace and kindness in his expression, upon the prostrate mourner, who was now freely weeping, his head buried in the rushes. "And no share of the fault: no word in the bargain that disgraced her: no voice in the court, or the street tumult: but charged with the fardel, to the bending of his spine, and the abasing of his brain." As he spoke, the old man lifted the dwarf from the ground, having daintily laid his book aside. "Be comforted, boy: be comforted. Look into my face, and see that you are with a friend." The dwarf raised his hairy face, matted with his weeping, and looked into the Vagabond's meek eyes. Under their influence he crept closer to the old man's heart, and implored him without speaking. "What is the craving in your grief? Speak." The dwarf clutched the leather band that crossed the Vagabond's ample chest, and held his wallet, from which he was never parted. “Speak; I am your friend. I shall say—and remember me, boy, through the time we have to spend together on this earth-the best friend left to you. Speak." The dwarf hung upon the Vagabond's shoulders, and drew his lips close to his white beard. "Her face, her pretty face, give it to me!" |