‘Untrue! Untrue! O morning star, mine!
That sitteth secret in a veil of light
Far up the starry spaces, say Untrue! '
E. B. BROWNING.
HUBERT BOHUN went sorrowfully forth upon the Mil. His heart, ever tenacious in affection, clung with all its strong fibers to the idol of his youth. To have heard that the great chancellor was dead would have been easy to him to bear. Though he hoped and dreamed that somehow, somewhere, he should see his face again, he could not but know how very uncertain of fulfillment was such a hope and dream. He would have surrendered it with resignation, only saying to himself, ‘He is gone whither he longed to go.' But to think him guilty of a baseness, to be forced to believe that he had broken faith with a helpless prisoner—that was agony indeed. Alone though he was, the bitter pain and shame of it mantled his cheek with crimson.
The thought of all Gerson's goodness towards himself came back upon him. ‘Like as a father pitieth his children,' so had he pitied the friendless, half-desperate orphan youth. With that almost unbearable reality with which a voice sometimes comes back to us unbidden (while, if we try to recall it, it will not come), he heard the chancellor say to him ‘My son!’ Perhaps the suggestion came, though he knew it not, from Chlum's having called him so today for the first time. But in his ears no voice would sound ever again like the voice of the great chancellor.
Now they were all speaking against him; they were calling him cruel, false, treacherous. No! he could not say the words even to himself. He had left the hall that he might not hear them; yet he knew them, everyone; they seemed to be sounding in his ears. Petr was going on declaiming, and the rest were striking in with their comments and exclamations, in a tongue which was not his, uttering thoughts and passions in which, after all, he had little share. They were very kind, very good to him; but, still, they were of other race than his. They told him so; the Pánna had said so very plainly, had made him conscious of a great gulf fixed between them. He was welcomed, he was trusted, he was thought for; but he was still a stranger in a strange land.
He was quite sure that, of all the voices raised against the chancellor, that of the Parma would be, not the loudest, for loud it never was, but the most severe and uncompromising. He almost heard her speak the words of blame, and he could not bear them. Not from her lips. Why? How was it that her words had such power over him? What business had he to care— to care so much, at least, if indeed he was, as he said, ‘A stranger in a strange land?’ He knew—and in that moment he recognized the fact, acknowledged it to himself, for the first time—he did care. He cared passionately—unutterably. What was the meaning of this folly?
Kepka was a good lord to him, but he was lord, and Hubert, squire, and a penniless squire too. Such thoughts as Hubert's do not run in regular grooves, nor follow a logical sequence, else he might have been surprised to find himself the next moment, without apparent reason, thinking of the broad lands of Hussenec̆, of his stately castles, and his pomp and wealth.
What had he to do with Hussenec̆, except to treat him with due respect should he ever cross his path? What had he to do with the Palma, except to serve and honor her as the daughter of his lord? What wild fancies had been rising within him unbidden and unchecked?
Now Petr Mladenowie had come back, and, although he would still be squire, his services as secretary would, he supposed, be needed no longer. He knew not if he should continue to be governor of the pages. Already he felt painfully his inability to carry on one important branch of their education. Of the science of heraldry he knew nothing. For instruction in what was then considered as indispensable as Latin would be now they had to go to the Parma, who in this, as in all other respects, was a very accomplished young lady.
Gladly would Hubert have shared their lessons; but as this was of course impossible, he had to content himself with making Václav or Lucaz repeat them in private for his benefit. Vaclav's Latin was his strong point, but heraldry was that of Lucaz. Lucaz was nearly as old as Armand when he won his silver spurs and became squire to the Duke of Burgundy. Why should he not, by-and-by, be squire to Kepka? That would be a very good arrangement, the connection would be excellent, and the friendship between the two families had been of long standing. Hubert could not hide from himself that tomorrow, if he pleased, Kepka could get a dozen squires for the asking—young men of good family, proud and happy to serve him, and with influential kindred who might stand by him in the troublous times likely to come upon the land. What need, therefore, of him, the stranger?
The stranger—how could he call himself so, even in thought? How could he think it a strange land where he was, since the Lord, his ‘light and his salvation,' was with him there? Who was it who said to him, 'You put the darkness in the heavens when it is at your own feet? ‘Thank God, it was only at his feet; above him in the heavens all was light. He would look up, and not down—look for the light and not walk in the darkness. Since he was God's son and servant, was he not also everywhere at home? Had He not answered him once and again in the joy of his heart, and would He not answer him always?’
As he turned back into the court of the castle he chanted softly to himself the words of the Psalm which was his own especial and peculiar treasure: ‘Thou hast been my succor, leave me not, neither forsake me, O God of my salvation. When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord taketh me up.'
When lie reached the house, Petr came up to him and said, ''Master Hubert, I have a letter for you. There was not opportunity to give it to you before. It is from your brother, the Duke of Burgundy's squire. The duke has come to abide awhile in his tents in the forest which is near unto Constance, and his people are in great joy.'
Hubert eagerly took the letter. Armand was not, like himself, a trained scribe: in fact, this was only the second epistolary effort he had made in his life. It ran as follows:
FAIR BROTHER,—I give thee knowledge that the duke has come and is very gracious unto me. At first I feared he had never had my letter, but it well appears that he has had it. He seems to think but lightly of my trespass. Even it seemeth unto him, so far as I can see, as if I were taking blame unto myself only for the purpose of clearing Sabrecourt in his eyes, out of the devotion I bear to his sister. How he knows that I bear such devotion I cannot tell, for I am sure I named the damozel only once in my letter. However, he not only raised no question of dismissing me, but assured me of his favor; and condescended to say that he would soon so advance my fortunes that I might lay them at the feet of any fair lady I chose. He is mightily glad of the success of his allies, the English, in France, and fully content besides with the turn matters are taking in the Council. All of us who have served him here have had tokens of his favor. I am sure I did nothing with the Council, yet am I not left out. But, if it be not too bold to say so, I think these good things have come to me through the kindness of a greater than the duke.
God be with thee, dear brother. I hope thou art in health, and progressing as much as desires for thee thy loving brother,
ARMAND DE CLAIRVILLE.'
One morning a few weeks afterward Hubert walked again upon the hill. Again the ground was covered with snow, but the morning sun glorified the pure and sparkling crystals beneath his feet, or hanging from the boughs of the leafless trees. He had come to seek solitude; for now the squire's chamber was shared by Mladenowie, and also by Ostrodek, whose quarrelsome propensities had necessitated his separation from the other boys.
Presently, however, he was joined by Mladenowie, his tall form wrapped in the `fur coat' which had been the dear Master's dying gift.
He said with a little awkwardness, ‘I hope I do not disturb your meditations, master squire?'
Hubert's answer was courteous—we may hope it was also true.
‘I want to speak to you upon the affairs of my lord—of our lord, as I may say. He hath very special need of the services of a faithful secretary; since—for all he is a wise man and skilled in affairs, and one who hath judgment and understanding above many—he hath no great skill where ink and parchment and kops of groschen are concerned.'
` Naturally,' said Hubert; ‘he is a knight.'
‘Ah! I understand,' returned Petr, rather offended. `Gentlemen like you, who are knights, or hope to be, think it beneath you to acquire such skill. Yet let me tell your honor that, for the want of it, many a noble knight leaves his debts unpaid, which methinks ought to be further beneath him still. That is not our Kepka's way; but he may well be wronged and cheated, and come to loss.'
‘The more need of thy good services, Master Petr,' said Hubert kindly, anxious to soothe the sensibilities he saw he had wounded.
‘If my poor services were needful to him, of course he should have them,' said Petr.
‘But what better could you do than serve him?’ asked Hubert, surprised.
‘It seemeth unto me that I am called to another service,' said Petr slowly and with gravity.
‘If for any other lord thou wouldest leave Kepka, thou art not the lad who went with me to the Kaiser that day in Constance,' said Hubert, with a touch of displeasure.
‘Nor would I for any lord save One. Nor at any bidding save His who said of old to His servant, "Write the things which thou hast seen."'
‘Dost thou mean that thou shouldest write the things thou hast seen in Constance?' asked Hubert with awakened interest.
‘I do, Master Hubert. Just now they are so fresh in our memories, that we think they will never be forgotten.'
‘Forgotten!’ cried Hubert. ‘May my right hand forget its cunning ere I forget what I saw that day in the Church of Constance! '
‘But who is to make our children, and our children's children, see it too?’ asked Mladenowic̆.
‘Dost mean that thou wilt write it, Petr? Dost think God has given that task to thee?’ asked Hubert, laying his hand on his shoulder and looking eagerly in his kindling face.
‘Is there anyone else to do it?’ asked Petr.
‘None so fit, since thou wert with him from the first.'
‘And—to the last,' said Petr.
‘It is a high calling. Petr, I envy thee.'
‘Wilt thou help me, Master Hubert? '
‘I? How could I? Knowest thou not, Petr, I had never word or look from the man who showed Christ to me, and changed all my life? He never knew there was one called Hubert Bohun, who would have gladly died for him.'
‘Yet without the help of Master Hubert Bohun his story can scarce be written—by me. For see, Master Hubert, Kepka is true lord to me, and it would not be the act of an honest man to leave his service if he were to suffer loss thereby. Besides, Master John himself bade me think for him, and help him on my return. You are squire now, and no doubt you do well all that pertains to the office. But when we were in Constance it was the pen, and not the sword, your hands were used to. Can you play the man with both, and be skilful scribe as well as doughty squire? It will be so much better in all ways than for my lord to seek a stranger. There will be work enough for your pen, with my lord's three brothers to write to and arrange affairs with. And, belike, also the Pánna—was not that what the visits of the young lord of Hussenec̆ meant? And, indeed, it is an alliance to which no one has, or could have, any objection. Didst like him, Master Hubert? Didst think him worthy of the Palma? '
Hubert's cheek flushed, but he answered steadily, ‘I like him well enough, Petr; but thou canst not expect a good squire to think any man on earth worthy of the daughter of his lord.'
‘One thing is certain—even our Parma could not take a better name than his. Then, Master Hubert, you will try to be to Kepka true squire and true scribe—ay, and true son—helping him and standing by him as the Panec̆ would if he were older? So shall I go to Prague with a free heart, and write my book—and methinks the book will be partly thine.'
‘And when the book is done, Petr? '
‘That is to look a long way off, Master Hubert.'
He was silent for a space, then suddenly began again: ‘Why should I spare to tell thee, who art so true a friend, all the thoughts of my heart? Master Hubert, I know myself weak, unworthy to do so great a work. So I have cried to the Strong for strength; and I have made my vow unto Him, As that, if He will be with me and prosper me, then I will give the rest of my days to His service.'
‘Do you mean as a priest or a monk?’ asked Hubert.
‘No monks for me, Master Hubert; I know too much about them. No; I desire, when my book is written, to serve God in His sanctuary, as one of the humblest of His priests.'
‘I, too, have had such thoughts,' said Hubert. ‘But—I must own it—the priests seem to me, for the most part, so unworthy.'
‘True, there be plenty of dumb dogs, which cannot bark. I pray God I may not be one of them, but a faithful shepherd to feed His people with the bread of the Gospel, and to give them to drink of the cup of Christ.'
‘Amen! Dear Petr, may God prosper thee, and give thee the desire of thy heart!’ said Hubert.
Petr, quite satisfied, went indoors, while Hubert still remained in the field. It was not long before they met again, and sat side by side in the chapel, at the morning service. Yet in that brief interval a wave of resolution, swift but strong, swept over the soul of Hubert. Perhaps some vain dreams, never definite enough to crystallize into words, and half dispelled already, were then crushed down with a strong hand. Let them go! Not dreams, but deeds, should henceforth be his motto. He would be true squire and servitor to Chlum, and to all his house; not content to be less, not asking to be more, save in that sense in which the faithful servant is a son to the good lord. Already he was God's son, and Christ's servant—that was, and that should be, enough for him.
Of Mladenowie it may suffice to say that it was given him to fulfill his double purpose. Thirty years afterward he was still preaching the Word of God as a faithful pastor; while his great work, The Narrative of what he saw and heard in Constance, remains to witness for him until this day, and is the chief source of our information concerning the last months of the life of John Huss.