Part 42 (2/2)

So they rode on through Kessland, which they reached as night was closing in, through Benacre and Wrentham, also past houses in which none seemed to dwell.

”Murgh has been here before us, I think,” said d.i.c.k at length.

”Then I hope that we may overtake him,” answered Hugh with a smile, ”for I need his tidings--or his rest. Oh! d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k,” he added, ”I wonder has ever man borne a heavier burden for all this weary while? If I were sure, it would not be so bad, for when earthly hope is done we may turn to other comfort. But I'm not sure; Basil may have lied. The priest by the pit could only swear to the red cloak, of which there are many, though few be buried in them. And, d.i.c.k, there are worse things than that. Perchance Acour got her after all.”

”And perchance he didn't,” answered d.i.c.k. ”Well, fret on if you will; the thing does not trouble me who for my part am sure enough.”

”Of what, man, of what?”

”Of seeing the lady Eve ere long.”

”In this world or the next, d.i.c.k?”

”In this. I don't reckon of the next, mayhap there we shall be blind and not see. Besides, of what use is that world to you where it is written that they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels? You'll make no good angel, I'm thinking, while as for the lady Eve, she's too human for it as yet.”

”Why do you think we shall see her on earth?” asked Hugh, ignoring these reflections.

”Because he who is called the Helper said as much, and whatever he may be he is no liar. Do you not remember what Red Eve told you when she awoke from that dream of hers, which was no dream? And do you not remember what Sir Andrew told you as to a certain meeting in the snow--pest upon it!” and he wiped some of the driving flakes from his face--”Sir Andrew, who is a saint, and, therefore, like Murgh, can be no liar?”

”If you think thus,” said Hugh in a new voice, ”why did you not say so before?”

”Because I love not argument, master, and if I had, you would ever have reasoned with me from Avignon to Yarmouth town and spoilt my sleep of nights. Oh! where is your faith?”

”What is faith, d.i.c.k?”

”The gift of belief, master. A very great gift, seeing what a man believes is and will be true for him, however false it may prove for others. He who believes nothing, sows nothing, and therefore reaps nothing, good or ill.”

”Who taught you these things, d.i.c.k?”

”One whom I am not likely to forget, or you, either. One who is my master at archery and whose words, like his arrows, though they be few, yet strike the heart of hidden truth. Oh, fear not, doubtless sorrow waits you yonder,” and he pointed toward Dunwich. ”Yet it comes to my lips that there's joy beyond the sorrows, the joy of battle and of love--for those who care for love, which I think foolishness. There stands a farm, and the farmer is a friend of mine, or used to be. Let us go thither and feed these poor beasts and ourselves, or I think we will never come to Dunwich through this cold and snow. Moreover,” he added thoughtfully, ”joy or sorrow or both of them are best met by full men, and I wish to look to your harness and my own, for sword and axe are rusted with the sea. Who knows but that we may need them in Dunwich, or beyond, when we meet with Murgh, as he promised that we should.”

So they rode up to the house and found d.i.c.k's friend, the farmer, lying dead there in his own yard, whither his family had dragged him ere they determined to fly the place. Still, there was fodder in the stable and they lit a fire in the kitchen hearth and drank of the wine which they had brought with them from the s.h.i.+p, and ate of the bacon which still hung from the rafters. This done, they lay down to sleep a while. About one in the morning, however, Hugh roused d.i.c.k and David, saying that he could rest no more and that something in his heart bade him push on to Dunwich.

”Then let us follow your heart, master,” said d.i.c.k, yawning. ”Yet I wish it had waited till dawn to move you. Yes, let us follow your heart to good or evil. David, go you out and saddle up those nags.”

For d.i.c.k had worked late at their mail and weapons, which now were bright and sharp again, and was very weary.

It was after three in the morning when at length, leaving the heath, they rode up to Dunwich Middlegate, expecting to find it shut against them at such an hour. But it stood open, nor did any challenge them from the guardhouse.

”They keep an ill watch in Dunwich now-a-days,” grumbled d.i.c.k. ”Well, perchance there is one here to whom they can trust that business.”

Hugh made no answer, only pressed on down the narrow street, that was deep and dumb with snow, till at length they drew reign before the door of his father's house, in the market-place, the great house where he was born. He looked at the windows and noted that, although they were unshuttered, no friendly light shone in them. He called aloud, but echo was his only answer, echo and the moan of the bitter wind and the sullen roar of the sea.

”Doubtless all men are asleep,” he said. ”Why should it be otherwise at such an hour? Let us enter and waken them.”

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