It was this reverence of his that set the minds of Father and Mother Sprigg instantly at rest about Zachary and Stella. That he loved the little girl and found her the delight of his life it was plain to see, and she followed him about like his gleeful shadow, yet the daily companionship bred no carelessness in him. Father and Mother Sprigg marveled a little at the companionship between the two. They had only just come together, yet they seemed now not properly themselves when they were apart. There was something here that went deeper than the normal affection of two young things for each other, and it puzzled Father and Mother Sprigg.
It did not puzzle Dr. Crane, aware that he was in the presence of Shakespeare’s marriage of true minds, yet he observed this rare thing with interest, never to his knowledge having met it before. Shakespeare was right, it had nothing to do with the body, and undoubtedly it was true in the sense of being a thing that could not pass. As to the why of it, that was beyond him. A man might as well ponder the "why" of the dawn and the spring. The element of eternity in these things stood as a witness to something. Better leave it at that. He did so, meanwhile perceiving with delight how the various contrasts in the disposition of these two locked one into the other, built firmly upon the foundation of their unities. Stella’s fearlessness and Zachary’s fear, her love of adventure and his of security, her serenity and his anxiety, she with her extern’s sensitiveness to the suffering of others and he with the intern’s power of suffering unduly in his own mind and body. And both of them with their gift, perhaps quite natural in two whose vocation it seemed to be to shadow forth the timelessness of love, of apprehending and making contact with that which exists behind the appearance of things. And both of them, too, with the artist’s love of beauty and the scholar’s love of learning that are a part of that gift.
Dr. Crane refused to teach them together; he did not want Stella’s mind strained by trying to catch up with Zachary, or his kept back by trying to keep her company on her level. He still taught Stella on two mornings a week, when Zachary was working at the farm, and Zachary’s education was carried on ruthlessly in the evenings. No fatigue on the part of either of them was allowed to interfere with it, though for both of them physical fatigue was likely to vanish with the opening of a book. The doctor and the boy were utterly happy together. Neither of them had known that the relationship of father and son could be so good as this.
But on Fridays, when Father and Mother Sprigg drove to market and Zachary's work at the farm finished early, he and Stella both had dinner with the doctor, and for an hour before the meal he would read aloud to them, delighting in the contrasts and aflinities of their minds and the happiness of their comradeship in the world of books. Then when dinner was over, Zachary would take Stella home, and before the daylight faded they would ramble ’round the farm together, Hodge and Daniel at their heels, and what they said to each other then the doctor did not know, for they did not tell him, and he did not ask.
2
Friday, November 2 3, 1804, a still and beautiful blue day, was the last of these Fridays, but the doctor did not read to them that day. When Zachary and Stella arrived they found the gig at the door, the doctor struggling enthusiastically into his great-coat, and Tom Pearse in a similar state holding the head of an equally excited Aesculapius.
"Fleet’s in!" cried Tom to Zachary. "The Brest fleet. Admiral Cornwallis. Reddleman brought the news. What about dinner, Sir?"
"Dinner be damned!" said the doctor, slapping his beaver hat on the side of his head. "We’ll be off down to the shore while the light’s good. Up with you, Zachary and Stella. You come along too, Tom. You can hold on behind."
He lifted the excited Stella off her jigging toes and swung her up, climbing up after her. Zachary stood where he was, his head bent, kicking at a stone. The very mention of the Brest fleet had made him turn suddenly cold. His old ship had been, was, part of it .... The eyes of the ship would be on him.
"Coming, Zachary?" asked the doctor.
Zachary looked up and smiled. "Could I stay at home, Sir? You know, today you were to have read to us from Hippolytus. May I stay and read to myself?"
The doctor began to quote from Hippolytus.
“Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding,
In the hill tops where the sun scarce hath trod;
Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding,
As a bird among the bird droves of God.
"By all means, boy. Stay in the cavern if you like." He spoke kindly but Zachary saw something almost like contempt in his eyes-or what might have been contempt, had the doctor been a man capable of feeling such a thing. And on Stella’s little face was a look of comical dismay. A wonderful junketing like this and Zachary not to come, too? Without a word he swung himself up beside her, smiling down at her suddenly dimpling face, rosy with delight now inside the scarlet hood. Tom Pearse leaped up like a monkey behind and they were off, Aesculapius. going like the wind.
"I wish it was Admiral Nelson, not Admiral Cornwallis," said Stella. "I wish Admiral Nelson would come to Torquay."
"He’s been, my honey," said the doctor. "But you were too little a maid to take much interest in admirals at that time. That was three years ago, when the Earl of St. Vincent was a guest at Torre Abbey and the little Admiral came from Plymouth to visit him. There were grand doings at that time. A most elegant ball and supper and masquerade at the Abbey, and your humble servant, being an old Agamemnon man, actually invited."
He smiled in delight at the memory and launched into reminiscences as they bowled along. He told them of the tumultuous welcome which had greeted Admiral Nelson when he arrived to hoist the flag on the San Josef at Plymouth. As he passed through the fleet the yards were manned, bands played, guns roared and the cheering rolled like thunder. When he drove through the streets in an open carriage with Captain Harvey, in full uniform, with blazing stars and gold medals on his breast, the crowds in the streets nearly went wild with delight. When the carriage stopped, sailors ran to grasp his one hand, and men and women knelt on the cobbles of the streets crying, "God bless your honor!"
"Why do they love him so much?" wondered Stella. A low growl came from Tom Pearse behind them, a growl comprised of deep hatred of unnamed persons and even deeper appreciation of Admiral Nelson. "Cares if ye live or die!" he rumbled. "Men are men to Admiral Nelson, not cannon fodder. ‘My poor fellows he calls ’em. Did ye hear what Nelson said of the men who mutinied at Spithead, and were hung from the yard arm or flogged for asking to have their wages paid and to be given food that wasn’t more maggots than meat? Said they were right! Took their part, an’ he an Admiral! ‘We’re a neglected set, we sailors,’ he said. It’s a wonder the bloody government didn’t hang him for it. There’s never a man who’s once sailed with Lord Nelson who wouldn’t give his poor soul to sail with him again, even to hell, knowing he’d be damned when he got there."
"That’ll do, Tom," chuckled the doctor, and began to tell them about Nelson’s flagship, the great San Josef. He told them about the battle of Cape St. Vincent, fought with such valor against the combined fleets of France and Spain, by a small company of men who only a short while ago had been through the bitterness of the mutiny, and how Nelson and Collingwood had covered themselves with glory by the fury with which they faced and fought the two noble battleships of the Spanish fleet, the Salvador del Mundi and the San Josef. Nelson had brought the two Spanish ships into Plymouth, the San Josef with her sails in ribbons, and her masts all blown away. Later he had cruised in her around the Devon coast with his fleet, and the Devon men and women had crowded down to the shore to see the sight. Stella could dimly remember that. She could remember sitting on Father Sprigg’s shoulder on the cliffs at Livermead and watching the white sails passing by, and of how the names of the great ships, spoken by the men and women about her, sounded like music.
What was the matter with him, Zachary wondered, that he could not thrill to the music of great names, and the splendor of great deeds? Why was it
that for him the horror of war completely overlaid the glory? It was not so for other men. To them it was all worth while, because of the glory. And what was glory? What did they mean by this glory that was something more than the love of country? He had the love of country, but it was not enough. He had not this other love, that seemed for most men to be interwoven with the first. He did not know what it was.
They had reached the low stone wall where the doctor and Stella had paused before to look at Torbay spread out below them, and they stopped here again. The ships of the Brest fleet were at anchor in the bay, their gilded carving and bright paintwork gleaming in the sun, their sails hanging loose to dry, their reflections mirrored in the calm sea as though they were swans resting quietly upon the water. The scene was so still, so peaceful, that it was like a painted picture. It seemed impossible at this moment, to imagine those ships in action, fire blazing from their gun ports and the great hulls rocking to the concussion and reverberating din.
For Zachary, the thought of the fighting that he had not yet seen and so much dreaded, robbed the scene of all its beauty. They drove slowly down the hill, the doctor and Tom trying to pick out the different ships. There was the Admiral’s flagship with St. George’s banner flying from her fore-gallant masthead, and there was the Goliath, there the Impetueux, and there the Venerable. Driving through the lanes at the bottom of the hill they could no longer see the ships, but at Livermead they saw them again from a different angle.
"They’ll be off when the wind shifts," said Tom Pearse.
He regarded the sky, where a few silver mackerel clouds were floating in the blue, and sniffed knowingly. "Maybe tomorrow. There’s a change comin’. Saint Michael, see how clear he stands. He’s whistlin’ up a wind for ’em."
They followed the direction of his glance. The Chapel of St. Michael upon its rock, was extraordinarily clear against the sky. The blue and silver and gold of this perfect day seemed to have sunk into the rock and to have colored it. Stella, half-shutting her eyes, could almost imagine a great angelic figure standing there, wings spread, sword in hand, whistling up a wind to carry the fleet away to fight the French.
"Let’s climb up to the chapel!" she cried impulsively.
"It’s long past dinner time, Stella," said Zachary.
The doctor looked at Zachary’s set face, and this time he administered no flick of the whip. He was not going to force the boy a second time. Once was enough. Besides, his own rheumatic legs and Tom Pearse’s were not as good at scaling heights as they had been. "We’ll keep the chapel for another day, my honey," he said to Stella. "But I’ll tell you the story of the chapel as we drive home. Then when you do go, you will know whom to expect to meet there."
Stella was instantly enthralled, her momentary disappointment forgotten. To meet there? She had felt before that she and the chapel belonged to each other in some special way, but she had not known she was to meet people inside. What people?
"Angels?" she demanded.
"Sit still and listen," said the doctor, turning the gig and heading Aesculapius for home. And Zachary and Stella listened with all their ears, as children will when their instinct tells them that some story has a special significance for them, but Tom Pearse turned his head towards the sea and never heard a word; he was intent not to miss one single last glimpse of those great ships upon the quiet sea.
3
It was not a quiet sea, but a storm, with which the doctor began his story, and it had raged live centuries ago. The monks of Torre, saying complin within the Abbey church that night, could scarcely make their voices audible above the roar of the wind and the crashing of the great waves on the shore. In the middle of complin the west door opened suddenly, letting in a gust of wind that made the candles gutter in their sconces, and the abbot, turning round, saw the wild figure of one of their goatherds standing in the doorway.
"A ship in distress, Father!" he cried. "A large ship driving towards the rocks."
The monks did not finish complin. Living so near the shore, they were used to doing what they could for sailors in trouble. They lit the storm lanterns kept in the church for this very purpose, seized a coil of rope, and fought their way through the wind and rain, down to the shore where the waves were thundering in like mad horses. They could dimly see the great ship driving in upon the rocks, but the storm was so fearful that there was little they could do. With all their heroic effort they saved the life of only one man, and he was half dead when they pulled him to shore. They nursed him back to life in the Abbey infirmary, and then he told them that in the hour of his danger he had vowed, should his life be spared, to devote it to God. When he recovered he kept his vow. Helped by the monks he built a chapel upon the rocky summit of the hill close to the Abbey, and here, looking out over the sea where his ship had been wrecked and his friends drowned, he lived the life of a hermit until he died, saying the offices ordained by Holy Church and praying unceasingly for the living and the dead. And always, when a storm raged, his voice could be heard praying aloud in anguish for the safety of those at sea.
Three hundred years later, a young boy of the neighbor hood was in trouble. One day he climbed to the chapel and knelt and prayed there. He had been told the story of the hermit, and when his prayer was finished, he stayed on in the chapel thinking about the story and wondering if it were true. And then he must have slept a little and dreamed a dream, for it seemed to him that it was night in the chapel, with two lamps burning in the recesses in the north wall, and looking towards the east he saw a rough stone altar there and an old white-haired man kneeling in prayer before it. He heard the words of the old man’s prayer and he prayed for all those enduring storm, darkness, and fear, whether in the mind or in the body. And then the old man raised his head and looked at the boy, their eyes met, and the old man smiled. And then it seemed that the old man came to him and that they talked a little. And then it was once more daylight in the chapel, and there was no one there but the boy alone, and he could not remember what it was that he and the old man had said to each other.
He spoke to no one of this dream or vision, except to a young girl called Rosalind whom he loved, and to her he spoke of it one evening when they sat together outside the chapel. He was saying good-by to her there, for he was setting out upon a long journey in search of wisdom, a journey that would take him across the sea. But he promised he would return, and she promised to visit the chapel on every anniversary of his departure. They would never forget each other, they said. Then he went away.
Three years passed and he had not returned. Rosalind kept her promise. She did not forget her lover, and on each anniversary of his departure she visited the chapel. On the third anniversary she still kept her word, though the night was cold, dark, and stormy. Climbing up to the chapel, she was surprised to see a light inside, and when she came to the door, she saw two lamps burning in the alcoves in the north wall, and an old white-haired man kneeling at prayer. He got up when he saw her, and smiled, and came to her. He told her that her lover was on board a ship that was even now out in the bay, driven by the rising storm, and that his safety depended upon her courage. He said, "Since these strong walls were raised, no storm has swept along this coast liked this which comes tonight."
Together they went down to the shore, and there in the fury of the storm that followed, Rosalind stood steadfast, refusing to be driven away by wind or rain. It was she who first saw the great ship driving towards the rocks, as long ago the monks of Torre had seen another ship, and she who dragged from the water the body of her lover, brought almost to her feet by a great wave. She and the old man carried him to the nearest house, where he was skillfully cared for and brought back to life again. By the morning the storm had ceased and Rosalind, looking at the door, saw the old man lingering there. She left her lover and went to say good-by to the old man, and he told her that as long as the chapel stood it would always hold help and comfort for those who prayed there. Then he blessed her and left her, and neither she nor her lover
ever saw him again. But they did not forget him, and the chapel was a holy place to them both until they died. The doctor told the legend of the old hermit as well as he could, because he loved it, as he loved all the legends of this country, and when he had finished Stella had eager questions to ask. Where did Rosalind live when she was a little girl? What was her lover’s name? Where had he been across the sea? Where did they live when they got married? What did they do? The doctor said he did not know, and he refused to concoct imaginative answers. Perhaps one day Stella would find out for herself. Zachary had smiled at parts of the story, told so simply to please Stella, but he did not smile as he put his one question, and the doctor answered it with equal seriousness.
"Did the fellow' find the wisdom he was looking for?"
"Yes, he found it."
4
The next day, Saturday, November the 24th, the wind changed and freshened as Tom Pearse had foretold. Clouds had come up before the wind and it was quite dark when the doctor got back from his rounds, and he and Zachary sat down rather late to their evening meal. The Admiral had signaled an immediate departure just before five o’clock, Tom Pearse told them as he handed the vegetables. They did not ask how he knew this. He always knew everything. News traveled among the country people with quite miraculous rapidity, and if it had anything to do with the fleet, Tom Pearse seemed to be able to smell it in the mind of a man a mile off.
"It’ll be a job to work out of the bay in this darkness, Sir," he said to the doctor. "Dirty weather on the way, too. Better to have waited till morning." The doctor looked at the opaque blackness outside the window, and in the little pause they could hear the moan of the rising wind. ·