IN the morning, though his arrival was still hidden from Ceres, Hilarion held the new-born babe in his arms for a few moments and secretly put the Sign of the Cross upon his forehead, when nobody was looking.
Then he took his parcel and set out with Arcadius for the cavern by the brook. Once more the son of Marcus Pomponius pleaded with his twin brother and argued that their father must be grieved, did he know of the young man’s determination; but nothing would change Hilarion.
“Have no fear for me,” he said, “and though I am sure that our dear father, according to his lights, was an upright and well-meaning man, yet it is idle to pretend that I owe him anything but life. To be a natural son is in itself a matter for profoundest regret, and knowing that you and I were born in sin, even more than most people, so much the greater is the demand upon us — each in his own way — to make good use of the fleeting years and combat these sad disabilities.”
Arcadius felt melancholy at a view of life which appeared to him somewhat morbid if not futile, and Hilarion, as twins will, guessed the other’s thought.
“One must be a little hard at the edges and self-centred, brother, if one is to tread successfully the paths of thorns,” he explained.
Arcadius made no reply.
They came to the cavern over which sparkled the foliage of arbutus trees and shone their red trunks. The place was bathed in morning sunlight, and at noon this golden splendour penetrated the cave, showing it to be carpeted with white fine sand and roofed with pearly limestone. Within there opened a lesser cave at the heart of the rock, with an entrance two feet high. This hole — dark and carpeted with dry grass — was the apartment of the badger and his lady.
Arcadius called to the creature and he rose from his morning slumber and came blinking into the sunshine — a handsome and attractive beast with a dark, heavy coat and picturesque white and amber streaks upon the sides of his face. His eyes were bright, his mouth large and his teeth long and glistening. He yawned and stretched his hinder limbs; then he sat beside Arcadius, on a flowery bank without the cavern; and what he heard soon woke him completely. He was a badger of more than ordinary intelligence, who had often spoken with the master of the hillside, and knew something about the human race.
Now he listened in growing impatience, and having learned all there was to know, regarded Hilarion with an angry and a snarling countenance.
“This holt,” he said, “is mine by every honest principle; and, as a badger with a sense of justice, I can only wonder that Arcadius Pomponlus has allowed himself to raise any question about it. I will answer you briefly, and I will then assume the offensive and put certain points to you that ought to clench the matter. To begin with, I won’t go — not for fifty hermits. I absolutely and finally decline to go. I found this place. I have lived here several years and brought up three families in it. I have made it what it is — a home — and if my wife were to learn there was any thought of leaving, I should tremble for her reason. So much for that. Only force ejects me, and I know Arcadius too well to believe that he would employ it. There are thirty-four other caverns upon the Pomponian estate — ”
“But not one with a south front near running water,” explained Arcadius gently.
“Very well then: I will now assume the offensive,” proceeded the badger. “What I should like to know is this: why a south front? Why running water? What the mischief does this holy man want with a south front and a stream? You tell me that he is one who scorns comfort, chooses to live in a cave for his Maker’s glory and seeks the hardest possible conditions for his own future advantage. That, of course, is his business, and if he is going to get well rewarded for being uncomfortable, I say nothing. But my wife and I shall win no rewards for enduring terrestrial misery. We take, therefore, the best that we can get, and there is nothing in our convictions that frowns on a cosy establishment. Pan showed us this hole and was glad we liked it; so if you fire us out, you quarrel with him. As for the hermit, if he wants real discomfort, why a cave at all? To be logical, he ought to live in the open all the time — winter and summer. It might shorten his life; but no doubt that would be all to the good from his point of view.”
“When you come to logic you interest me,” replied Arcadius, “and I admit the force of your argument. You see the monk, Hilarion, looks forward to the most exaggerated delights and rewards after mortality is ended, and he proposes to prepare himself for a future good time, without end, by having a present bad time, strictly limited.”
“Exactly,” replied the badger. “Then let him have a right down beastly time and not palter with it. Rub that into him, and explain that if he’s got the courage of his opinions, he ought to go and live on the top of the hill, where the lightning always strikes. There he would have a short life and a wretched one, which seems to be the summit of his earthly ambition.”
But when these things were explained to Hilarion he evaded the dilemma very easily. He was not a religious recluse for nothing, and found himself more than equal to a Pagan and a badger when it came to dialectics.
“I admire your quick intellect, dear brother,” he answered, “and admit that this animal seems also amazingly clear-minded in his crude way. There is, however, a vast difference between theoretical perfection and practical holy living. If death could cut the knot, be sure I should not be seeking the hospitality of this limestone cave; and were self-destruction the nearest way out, I had, of course, gone to my reward long ago in North Africa. But you argue on a false and heretical assumption. Suicide, which the badger so plainly indicates, is no part of a Christian ideal. To destroy myself, by braving the lightning, or by deliberately ruining my health in some more protracted manner, would be a deadly sin and defeat my own high object. I am not going to commit suicide as a short cut to my heavenly home, because such an act would not lead me there. On the contrary it would end at somewhere altogether different. The true art and practice of the judicious anchorite is this: to live as long as he possibly can and as uncomfortably as he possibly can; but through no deliberate act or unreason to shorten by an hour his allotted years. The more misery here, the larger the reward there; so we must look after this wretched carnal vessel, nourish and sustain it up to a certain point, pander to its weakness if we may do so without sin, and thus enable it to hold together as long as its Maker originally intended. For that reason only do I desire a place in the sun, for since the heathen have made of it a god, I naturally dislike it; but because warmth, wholesome food and a dry couch will help to preserve me for my life-long task of meditation, communion and self-denial.”
“I see your point,” admitted Arcadius.
“We’re not going, all the same,” added the badger.
“No,” declared Hilarion, “you certainly do not go. You have made good your title to this retreat. It is yours, on that ground of simple justice which I share with you. It would be a very unhappy home for me if I thought of you driven from it. The cave is yours most emphatically, and I shall now set about seeking another. Such another as this I do not expect to find; but that is my affair. Rest assured I am a friend — indeed an admirer.”
Arcadius translated this, and the badger replied that he was glad the monk saw it so.
“At the same time,” continued Hilarion, “there is a golden mean, which we might perhaps explore before I depart. We are here confronted not with one cave, but two. Had that struck you, Arcadius? The badger is a nocturnal animal; while my activities are confined to the day. His home is within the seclusion of yonder rock; mine would be as it were in his vestibule, or antechamber. By day he lies sequestered, since the day is his night; while when the moon rises, as he fares forth with his better half upon their lawful occasions, I lie on my pallet in slumber. I only give you this idea for what it is worth, but upon my word it is hard to see why we should not share this domicile without let or hindrance one to the other. I should have the privilege of the badgers’ sagacious companionship; while they, in return for granting me a lodging, should share such little delicacies and dainties as the piety and good-will of the devotees may bring to my board. How does the idea strike you, Arcadius?”
“Admirable,” answered his twin brother, “if you really are content to share a badger’s holt for the honour of your Creator. But how it will strike the present tenants I cannot tell you.”
“Put it to him as nearly in my words as you can,” answered Hilarion. “Tact is everything in a matter of this kind. Dwell on the delicacies and dainties.”
Arcadius, who was also a tactful person, made a good case and indeed went farther than his brother had done.
“If you agree to this suggestion,” he concluded, “I shall make it my business to keep this holy man in such abundance that you and your wife will have the time of your lives and simply wallow in the fat of the land.”
“Plenty of eggs?” asked the badger.
“Dozens daily,” answered Arcadius.
“He may, however, want them all himself, and deny us,” hinted the badger.
“Have no fear; he is a hermit of unstained probity. He will keep his promises and share and share alike.”
The badger began to yield, though sullenly.
“I must consult my wife,” he said, and called her.
She came — a beautiful and comely matron.
“An extraordinary offer has been made to us,” began her husband. Then he briefly explained the situation.
“We can but try it,” said his wife, who was a creature of placid mind.
“There will be a great deal of unpleasant publicity,” grumbled the badger, “don’t forget that.”
“Not at all,” replied Hilarion with assurance. “The devotees will only visit me by daylight, while you are both fast asleep; and when you wake up hungry, I shall be fast asleep, and a delicious repast invariably awaiting you.”
“We can but try it,” repeated the badger’s wife.
And so they determined to do.
The badgers went back to bed and Hilarion unpacked his bundle. He arranged the skull on a ledge near the entrance of the cavern, spread his change of linen on a dry rock, slipped his manuscripts into a cranny, that might have been made for them; and there he was.
Arcadius viewed these simple operations doubtfully.
“Where are you going to sleep?” he asked.
“I shall beg a goatskin or two from some kindly peasant,” answered the other, “and until I get into touch with the folk, I shall make my couch of moss. Indeed this sweet white sand is good enough.”
“When will you come down to see me again?” asked his brother.
“Never,” replied Hilarion firmly. “In all probability for the rest of my natural life I shall not stray half a mile from this spot. Do you perceive how admirably it is chosen? Here are all things that I shall ever need. The necessary devotees can without doubt be counted upon. And if you want to see me, you must come and do so. I shall always be ready to welcome my fellow-creatures between noon and sunset.”
His handsome face shone with ardour, and Arcadius, promising to send up a bed of some sort, a warm blanket or two and a basket of provisions, went his way. But melancholy was at his heart, for it seemed that he had found and lost a dear brother within the space of four-and-twenty hours.
“Don’t forget the badgers!” cried Hilarion cheerfully to the departing figure.