The White Company Chapter 2 - How Alleyne Edricson came out into the World

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Chapter 2 of The White Company This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
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The White Company by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Chapter 2 How Alleyne Edricson Came Out Into the World Never had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian house been so rudely ruffled. Never had there been insurrection so sudden, so short and so successful. Yet the Abbot Berghersh was a man of too firm a grain to allow one bold outbreak to imperil the settled order of his great household. In a few hot and bitter words, he compared their brother's exit to the expulsion of our first parents from the garden, and more than hinted that unless a reformation occurred, some others of the community might find themselves in the same evil and perilous case. Having thus pointed the morrow and reduced his flock to a fitting state of decility, he dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew himself to his own private chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the discharge of the duties of his high office.
The Abbot was still on his knees when a gentle tapping at the door of his cell broke in upon his horizons.
Rising in no very good humour at the interruption, he gave the word to enter, but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and paternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.
He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size, cumberly and well-shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager boyish features. His clear, pensive grey eyes and quick, delicate expression spoke of a nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and sorrows of the world. Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence of the chin which relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive he might be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and adaptive in his disposition. But an observer of nature's tokens would have confidently pledged himself that there was native firmness and strength underlying his gentle monk-bred ways.
The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a somber hue, as befitted one who dwelt in sacred precincts. A broad leather strap hanging from his shoulder supported a scrip, or satchel, such as travellers would want to carry. In one hand he grasped a thick staff, pointed and shod with metal, while in the other he held his coif, or bonnet, which bore in its front a broad pewter medal stamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamodor.
Art ready, then, fair son? said the Abbot. This is indeed a day of comings and goings. It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey should have cast off its fowlest weed, and should now lose what we are fain to look upon as our choicest blossom. You speak too kindly, father, the youth answered. If I had my will, I should never go forth, but should end my days here in Beaulieu. It hath been my home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing for me to have to leave it. Life brings many across, said the Abbot gently. Who is without them? Your going forth is a grief to us as well as to yourself. But there is no help. I had given my forward and sacred promise to your father, Edric the Franklin, that at the age of twenty you should be sent out into the world to see for yourself how you liked the savour of it. Seek thee upon the settle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long. The youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and with diffidence. The Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his long black shadow fell slantwise across the rush-strewn floor.
Twenty years ago, he said, your father, the Franklin of Minstead, died, leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land in the Hundred of Malwood, and leaving to us also his infant son, on condition that we should rear him until he came to man's estate. This he did partly because your mother was dead, and partly because your eldest brother, now Sockman of Minstead, had already given sign of that fierce and rude nature, which would make him no fit companion for you. It was his desire and request, however, that you should not remain in the Cloisters, but should, at a ripe age, return into the world. But father, interrupted the young man, it is surely true that I have already advanced several degrees in clerkship. Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb you now wear, or the life which you must now lead. You have been porter? Yes, father. Exorcist? Yes, father. Reader? Yes, father. Acolyte? Yes, father. But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity? No, father. Then you are free to follow a worldly life. But let me hear, e'er you start, what gifts you take away with you from Buley. Some I already know. There is the playing of the sit-ole and the rebeck. Our choir will be done without you. You carve, too? The youth's pale face flushed with the pride of the skilled workman. Yes, holy father, he answered. Thanks to good brother Bartholomew, I carve in wood and in ivory, and could do something also in silver and in bronze. From brother Francis I have learned to paint on vellum, on glass and on metal, with the knowledge of those pigments and the essences which can preserve the colour against damp or abiding air.