At a later period of the saint’s life, when his aged mother had gone from him, when he had built a wooden church with his own hands at Steyning — wherein, in the fulness of time, he was interred — and when his reputation for sanctity and austerity had greatly increased, causing him to be equally reverenced and dreaded — dreaded, I mean, by evil-doers, to whom he was especially obnoxious — the holy man walked forth one afternoon, in early autumn, wholly unattended, across the downs; his purpose being to visit a recluse, named Sister Ursula, who dwelt in a solitary cell on the summit of a hill adjoining Poynings, and whom he had been told was sick, and desirous of being shriven by him. Now Saint Cuthman had his staff in his hand, without which he never journeyed abroad, and he walked on until he reached the eminence for which he was bound. On the brow of this hill in former times the heathen invaders of the land had made a camp, vestiges of which may still be discerned. But it was not with these memorials of a bygone and benighted people that Saint Cuthman concerned himself. If he thought about the framers of those mighty earthworks at all, it was with thanksgiving that they had been swept away, and had given place to a generation to whom the purer and brighter light of the Gospel was vouchsafed.
Thus communing with himself it may be, holy Cuthman reached the northern boundary of the rampart surrounding the old Roman camp, and cast his eyes over the vast Weald of Sussex, displayed before him like a map. The contemplation of this fair and fertile district filled his soul with gladness; but what chiefly rejoiced him was to note how the edifices reared for worship had multiplied since he first looked upon the extensive plain. He strove to count the numerous churches scattered about, but soon gave up the attempt — he might as well have tried to number the trees. But the difficulty he experienced increased his satisfaction, inasmuch as it proved to him that true religion had taken deep root in the land. And he gave glory and praise accordingly, where glory and praise are due.
Scarcely were his audibly-uttered thanksgivings ended, when he became aware that some one stood nigh him, and turning his head, he beheld a tall man of singularly swarthy complexion, haughty mien, and eyes that seemed to burn like coals of fire. The habiliments of this mysterious and sinister-looking personage were of blood-red hue, and though their richness and the egret in his velvet cap betokened princely rank, he bore the implements of a common labourer — namely, a pickaxe and a shovel. No sound had proclaimed the stranger’s approach, and his appearance was as sudden and startling as if he had risen from the earth. As Saint Cuthman regarded him with the aversion inspired by the sight of a venomous and deadly snake, yet wholly without fear, he knew that he was in the presence of the Author of III.
“Comest thou to tempt me, accursed one?” the holy man sternly demanded. “If so, learn that I am proof against thy wiles. Depart from me, or I will summon good spirits that shall cast thee hence.”
“Thou canst not do so,” the inauspicious-looking stranger replied, laughing derisively. “I am master here. Altars have been reared to strange gods upon this hill, and sacrifices made to them; — nay, I myself have been worshipped as Dis, and the blood of black bulls has been poured out upon the ground in mine honour. Therefore, the hill is mine, and thou thyself art an intruder upon it, and deservest to be cast down headlong into the plain. Yet will I spare thee—”
“Thou darest not so much as injure a hair of my head, Sathanas,” interrupted the Saint, in a menacing voice, and raising his staff as he spoke. “Approach! and lightnings shall blast thee.”
“I tell thee I have no design to harm thee,” returned the Fiend, with a look that showed he would willingly have rent the holy man in pieces. “But give heed to what I am about to say. Vainly hast thou essayed to count the churches in the Sussex Weald, and thou hast glorified Heaven because of the number of the worshippers gathered within those fanes. Now mark me, thou servant of God! Thou hast taken a farewell look of that plain, so thickly studded with structures pleasing in thy sight, but an abomination to me. Before to-morrow morn, that vast district — far as thine eye can stretch — even to the foot of you distant Surrey hills — the whole Weald of Sessex, with its many churches, its churchmen, and its congregations, shall be whelmed beneath the sea.”
“Thou mockest me,” returned Saint Cuthman, contemptuously; “but I know thee to be the Father of Lies.”
“Disbelieve me, if I fail in my task — not till then,” said the Fiend. “With the implements which I hold in my hand I will cut such a dyke through this hill, and through the hills lying between it and Hove, as shall let in the waters of the deep, so that all dwelling within yonder plain shall be drowned by them.”
“And thinkest thou thy evil work will be permitted?” cried the Saint, shaking his head.
“Thou, at least, canst not prevent it,” rejoined the Fiend, with a bitter laugh. “I will take my chance of other hindrance.”
The holy man appeared for a moment troubled, but his confidence was presently restored.
“Thou deceivest thy self,” he said. “The task thou proposest to execute is beyond thy power.”
“Beyond my power!” exclaimed the Demon. “It is a trifle in comparison with what I can achieve. I have had a hand in many wonderful works, some of which are recognized as mine, though I have not got credit for a tithe of those I have performed. Devil’s bridges are common enough, methinks, in mountainous gorges — devil’s towers are by no means rare in old castles. Most of the camps upon these downs were planned and executed by me — the very rampart upon which we stand being partly my work. The first Cæsar has got the credit of many of my performances, and he is welcome to it. He is not the only man who has worn laurels belonging by right to others. Saint as thou art, it is meet thou give the devil his due. Do so, and thou must needs praise his industry.”
“Thy industry in evil-doing in unquestionable,” rejoined the Saint. “But good work is out of thy power. Thou darest not affirm that thou hast had any hand in the erection of temples and holy piles.”
“Ask thy compeers, Saint Dunstan and Saint Augustine — they will tell thee differently. But I disdain to boast. I have certainly had no hand in thy ugly little wooden church at Steyning.”
“And thy present feat is to be performed before to-morrow, thou sayest?” demanded the Saint, highly offended at this uncalled-for allusion to his own favourite structure.
“Between sunset and sunrise, most saintly sir.”
“That is but a short time for so mighty a task,” said the holy man, in an incredulous tone. “Bethink thee a September night is not a long night?”
“The shortest night is long enough for me,” the Fiend replied. “If the dawn comes and finds my work incomplete, thou shalt be at liberty to deride me.”
“I shall never treat thee otherwise than with scorn,” the Saint rejoined. “But thou hast said it, and I hold thee to thy word. Between sunset and sunrise thy task must be done. If thou failest — from whatever cause — thy evil scheme shall be for ever abandoned.”
“Be it so! I am content,” the Fiend rejoined. “But I shall not fail,” he added, with a fearful laugh. “Come hither at sunset, and thou wilt see me commence my work. Thou mayst tarry nigh me, if thou wilt, till it be done.”
“Heaven forfend that it should be done!” ejaculated the Saint, casting his eyes upwards.
When he looked up again towards the spot where the Evil one had stood, he could no more perceive him.
“No!” exclaimed the good Saint, allowing his gaze to wander over the smiling and far-stretching Weald, “I cannot believe that I am taking farewell of this lovely plain. I cannot for an instant believe that its destruction will be permitted. Its people have not sinned, but have incurred the hatred of the Arch- Fiend solely because of their piety and zeal. It shall be my business to defeat his hateful design.
The holy man turned away, and quitting the camp, proceeded in an easterly direction over the hill, until he came to a small stone structure, standing near a grey old thorn-tree, on an acclivity covered with gorse and
heather. The occupant of this solitary cell belonged to a priory of Benedictine nuns, situated at Leominster, near Arundel, and attached to the Abbey of Almenesches, in Normandy. Sister Ursula Braose had retired to this lonesome spot in order to pass the whole of her time in devotion, and had acquired a reputation for sanctity and asceticism scarcely inferior to that of holy Cuthman himself. She was a daughter of the noble house of Braose of Bramber Castle. Once a week the purveyor of the priory at Leominster brought her a scanty supply of provisions (for the poor soul needed but little), and it was from him that Saint Cuthman had heard of her illness, and of her desire to be shriven by him.
He found the recluse occupied in her devotions. She was kneeling before an ivory crucifix fastened against the wall of her cell, and was so absorbed as to be entirely unconscious of the Saint’s approach. He did not make his presence known to her till she had done. Sister Ursula Braose had once been remarkable for beauty, but years, the austere life she had led, and the frequent and severe penances she had undergone, had obliterated all traces of loveliness from her features. She was old and wrinkled now; her hair white as snow, and her fingers thin as those of a skeleton. She was clothed in a loose black robe, with a cincture of cord round her waist. Reverentially saluting the holy man, she prayed him to be seated upon a stool, which, with another small seat hewn out of stone, a stone table, and a straw pallet, formed the entire furniture of her cell. An iron lamp hung by a chain from the roof. On the table were placed a missal written on vellum, an hour-glass, and a small taper.
After inquiring as to her ailments, and expressing his satisfaction that she felt somewhat better, Saint Cuthman said, “Are you still fasting, sister? I know you are wont only to break bread and drink water after the hour of vespers.”
“Since yestere’en, nothing has passed my lips, holy father,” the recluse replied.
“It is well,” said the Saint. “The prohibition I am about to lay upon you — painful to any other, unaccustomed to severe mortification of the flesh — will by you be scarcely accounted a penance. I enjoin you to refrain from all refreshment of the body, whether by food or rest, until to-morrow morning. Think you, you can promise compliance with the order?”
“Do I think it, holy father?” Sister Ursula cried. “If Heaven will spare me so long, I am sure of it. I was in hopes,” she added, almost with a look of disappointment, “that you were about to enjoin me some severe discipline, such as my sinfulness merits, and I pray you to add sharp flagellations, or other wholesome correction of the flesh, to your mandate.”
“Nay,” rejoined the Saint, smiling at the recluse’s zeal; “the scourge is unneeded. You have no heavy offence, I am well assured, on your conscience. But keep strict vigil throughout the night, and suffer not sleep to weigh down your eyelids for a moment, or you may be exposed to temptation and danger. The Arch- Fiend himself will be abroad.”
“I will spend the livelong night in prayer,” said Sister Ursula, trembling.
“Fear nothing,” returned the Saint; “the Prince of Darkness has other business on hand, and will not trouble you. He will be engaged in a terrible work, but, with Heaven’s aid, good sister, yours shall be the hand to confound him.”
“Mine!” exclaimed the recluse, seeking by her looks for an explanation from the holy man.
“When the sun hath gone down,” rejoined Saint Cuthman, “which will be about the seventh hour, turn this hour-glass, and let the sand run out six times — six times, do you mark, good sister? That will bring you to the first hour after midnight. Kneel then before yon crucifix and pray fervently, that the dark designs of him who took our Saviour to the top of the high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment, may be defeated. Next, light this taper, which I will presently consecrate; set it within the bars of that little grated window looking towards the east, and pray that its glimmer may be as the first grey light of dawn. Again, I say, do you mark me, sister?”
“Not a word uttered by you, holy father, but hath sunk deep in my breast,” she replied. “Your instructions shall be scrupulously obeyed.”
“Nothing evil shall cross this threshold during the night,” pursued the Saint. “I will guard it as, in the days of my youth, I guarded my father’s flocks on the hills. Light not your lamp but only the taper, as I have bidden you; and stir not forth on any threat or summons, for such will only be a snare to injure you; and let not your heart quail because of the frightful sounds you may hear. Though the earth should quake beneath your feet, and this solid hill tremble to its foundations, yet shall not a stone of your cell be removed, neither shall any harm befall you.”
The Saint then took up the taper, and blessed it in these terms: “Domine Jesu Christi, fili Dei vivi, benedic candelam istam supplicationibus nostris: infunde ei, Domine, per virtutem sanctœ crucis benedictionem cœlestem; ut quibuscumque locis accensa, sive posita fuerit, discedant principes tenebrarum, et contremiscant, et fugiunt pavidi cum omnibus ministris suis ab habitationibus illis; nec prœsumant amplius inquietare, aut molestare servientes tibi omnipotenti Deo.”
After going through certain other ceremonials, which it is needless to describe, the Saint sat down, and addressing Sister Ursula, declared his readiness to shrive her.
The recluse then knelt down before him, and inclining her head so as to conceal her features, said she had one secret within her breast which she had never revealed to her confessor — one sin upon her soul, of which she had never been able to repent.
After duly reproving her, the Saint told her to make clean her breast by confession, declaring she would then be able to repent.
Thus exhorted, Sister Ursula replied, in accents half suffocated by irrepressible emotion: “My secret is, that I loved you — you, holy father — when I was young: my unrepented sin is, that I have never been able to banish that love from my heart.”
“Alas! sister,” rejoined the holy man, trembling in spite of himself, “we have been equally unhappy. In days, long gone by, I could not behold unmoved the charms of the fair and noble Lady Ursula Braose. But I conquered the passion, and repented that I had ever indulged it. Thou must do likewise. The struggle may be hard, but strength will be given thee for it. Hast thou aught more to confess?”
And the poor recluse, who shed abundance of tears, replying in the negative, the Saint gave her absolution, saying that the penance he had already enjoined was sufficient, and that ere the morrow her breast would be free from its load. Struck by her looks, which were those of one not long for this world, he told her that if her sickness should prove mortal, dirges and trentals should be said for the repose of her soul.
The recluse thanked him, and after a while became composed and even cheerful.
Saint Cuthman tarried in the cell, discoursing with her upon the glorious prospects of futurity, and carefully avoiding any reference to the past, until, from the door of the little structure, which opened toward the west, he beheld the sun sink into the sea. Telling the good sister that a thousand lives depended upon her vigilance, he gave her his benediction and departed, never more to behold her alive.
As he took his way towards the north-eastern boundary of the ancient encampment, a noise resembling thunder smote his ear, and the ground shook so violently beneath his feet that he could scarcely stand, but reeled to and fro, as if his brain — his! whose lips no drink stronger than water had ever passed — had been assailed by the fumes of wine. Nevertheless, he went on, and, after a while, reached the lofty headland overlooking Poynings.
Here, as he expected, he beheld the Arch-Fiend at work. The infernal excavator had already made a great breach into the down, and enormous fragments of chalk and flint-stones rolled down with a terrific crash, like that caused by an avalanche amidst the Alps. Every stroke of his terrible pickaxe shook the hill to its centre. No one, who was not sustained by supernatural power, could have stood firmly upon the quaking headland. But Saint Cuthman, planting his staff upon the ground, remained unmoved — the only human witness of the
astounding scene. The Fiend’s proportions had now become colossal, and he looked like one of that giant race whom poets of heathendom tell us warred against Jove. His garb was suited to his task, and resembled that of a miner. His brawny and hirsute arms were bared to the shoulder, and the curled goat’s-horns were visible on his uncovered head. His implements had become enormous as himself, and the broadest and heaviest anchor-fluke ever forged was as nought to the curved iron head of his pickaxe. Each stroke plunged fathom-deep into the ground, and tore up huge boulder-like masses of chalk, the smallest of which might have loaded a wain. The Fiend worked away with might and main, and the concussion produced by his tremendous strokes was incessant and terrible, echoing far over the Weald like the rattling of a dreadful thunderstorm.
But the sand ran out, and Sister Ursula turned her glass for the first time.
Suddenly, the Fiend stopped, and clapped his hand to his side, as if in pain—” A sharp stitch!” quoth he. “My side tingles as if pricked by a thousand pins. The sensation is by no means pleasant — but ‘twill soon pass!” Then perceiving the Saint watching him, he called out derisively—” Aha! art thou there, thou saintly man? What thinkest thou now of the chance of escape for thy friends in the Weald? Thou art a judge of such matters, I doubt not. Is my Dyke broad enough and profound enough, thinkest thou — or shall I widen it and deepen it yet more?” And the chasm resounded with his mocking laughter.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 572