In the middle of the night of Good Friday, John Storm was wakened by
noises in the adjoining cell. There seemed to be the voices of two men
in angry and violent altercation, the one threatening and denouncing,
the other protesting and supplicating.
“The girl is dead--isn't that proof enough?” said one voice. “It's a
lie! It's a false accusation!” said the other voice. “Paul, what are you
going to do?” “Put this bullet in your brain.” “But I'm innocent--I take
the Almighty to witness that I'm innocent. Put the pistol down. Help!
help!” “No use calling--there's nobody in the house.” “Mercy! mercy!
I haven't much money about me, but you shall have it all. Take
everything--everything--and if there's anything I can do to start you in
life--I'm rich, Paul--I have influence--only spare me!” “Scoundrel, do
you think you can buy me as you bought my sister?” “And if I did I was
not the only one.” “Liar! Tell that to herself when you meet her at the
judgment!” “As-sassin!” “Too late--you've met her!”
John Storm listened and understood. The two voices were one voice, which
was the voice of Brother Paul. The lay brother was delirious. His poor
broken brain was rambling in the ways of the past. He was re-enacting
the scene of his crime.
John hesitated. His impulse was to fly into Paul's room and lay hold
of him, that he might prevent him from doing himself any injury. But he
remembered the law of the community, that no member of it should go into
the cell of another under pain of grievous penance. And then there was
the rule of silence and solitude which had not yet been lifted away.
But monks are great sophists, and at the next moment John Storm had told
himself that it was not Brother Paul who was in the adjoining room, but
only his poor perishing body, labouring through the last sloughs of
the twilight land of death. Paul himself, his soul, his spirit, was far
away. Hence it could be no sin to go into the cell of one whose senses
were not there.
His own door was locked, but he scraped back the key and lit his candle,
and stepped into the passage. The voices were still loud in Paul's room,
but no one seemed to hear them. Not another sound broke the silence of
the sleeping house. The cell beyond Paul's was empty. It was Brother
Andrew's cell, and Andrew was at the door downstairs.
When John Storm entered the dark room, candle in hand, Brother Paul was
standing in the middle of the floor with one hand outstretched and a
ghastly and appalling smile upon his face. He was pale as death, his
eyes were ablaze, his forehead was streaming with perspiration, and he
was breathing from the depths of his chest. He wiped the dews from his
brow and said in a choking voice, “He has died as he lived--a liar and a
scoundrel!”
John took him by the hand and drew him to the bed, and, putting him to
sit there, he tried to soothe and comfort him. He was terrified at first
by the sound of his own voice, but the sophism that had served to bring
him, served to support him also, and he told himself it could be no
breach of the rule of silence to speak to one who was not there. The
delirium of the lay brother spent itself at length, and he fell into a
deep sleep.
Next day, when Brother Andrew came to John's cell with the food, he
began to sing as if to himself while he bustled about the room.
“Brother Paul is sinking--he is sinking rapidly--Father Jerrold has
confessed him--he has taken the sacrament--and is very patient.”
This, as if it had been a Gregorian chant, the great fellow had hit
upon as a means of communicating with John without breaking the rule and
committing sin.
John did not lock his door on the following night. On going to bed he
listened for the noises he had heard before, half fearing and yet half
wishing that he might hear them again. But he heard nothing, and toward
midnight he fell asleep. Something made him shudder, and he awoke with
the sensation of moonlight on his face. The moon was indeed shining, and
its sepulchral light was on a figure that stood by the foot of the bed.
It was Paul, with a livid face, murmuring his name in a voice almost as
faint as a breath.
John leaped up and put his arms about him.
“You are ill, brother--very ill.”
“I am dying.”
“Help! help!” cried John, and he made for the door.
“Hush, brother, hush!”
“Oh, I don't care for rule. Rule is nothing in a case like this. And,
besides, it is an understood thing---- Help!”
“I implore you, I conjure you!” said Paul in a voice strangled by
weakness. “Let them leave us together a little longer. It was by my own
wish that I was left alone. I have something to say to you--something to
confess. I have to ask your pardon.”
In two strides John had reached the door, but he came back without
opening it.
“Why, my poor lad, what have you done to me?”
“When you let me out of the house to go in search of my sister----”
“That was long ago; we'll not talk of it now, brother.”
“But I can not die in peace without telling you. You remember that I had
something to say to her?”
“Yes.”
“It was a threat. I was going to tell her that unless she gave up her
way of life I should find the man who had been the cause of it and
follow him up and kill him.”
“It was only a temptation of the devil, brother, and it is past; and
now----”
“Don't you see what I was going to do? I was going to bring trouble and
disgrace upon you also as my comrade and accomplice. That's what a man
comes to when Satan----”
“But God willed it otherwise, brother; let us say no more about it.”
“You forgive me, then?”
“Forgive? It is I who ought to ask for your forgiveness, and perhaps if
I told you everything----”
“There is something else. Listen! The Almighty is calling me; I have no
time to lose.”
“But you are so cold, brother! Lie on the bed, and I'll cover you with
the bedclothes. Oh, never fear; they sha'n't separate us again. If the
Father were at home--he is so good and tender-hearted--but no matter.
There, there!”
“You will despise and hate me--you who are so holy and brave, and have
given up everything and conquered the world, and even triumphed over
love itself!”
“Don't say that, brother.”
“It's true, isn't it? Everybody knows what a holy life you live.”
“Hush!”
“But I have never lived the religious life at all, and I only came to it
as a refuge from the law and the gallows; and if the Father hadn't----”
“Another time, brother.”
“Yes, the story I told the police was true, and I had really----”
“Hush, brother, hush! I won't hear you. What you are saying is for
God's ear only, and, whatever you have done, God will judge your soul in
mercy. We have only to ask him----”
“Quick, then; the last sands are running out!” and he strove to rise and
kneel.
“Lie still, brother: God will accept the humiliation of your soul.”
“No, no, let me up; let me kneel beside you. The prayer for the
dying--say it with me, Brother Storm; let us say it together. 'O Lord,
save----'”
_“'O Lord, save thy servant,
“'Which putteth his trust in thee.
“'Send him help from thy holy place.
“'And ... evermore ... mightily defend him.
“'Let the enemy have no advantage over him.
“'Nor the ... wicked----
“'Be unto him, O Lord, a strong tower.
“'From the----
“'O Lord, hear our prayers.
“'And----'”_
“Paul! Paul! Speak to me! Speak! Don't leave me! We shall console and
support each other. You shall come to me, I will go to you. No matter
about the religious life. One word! My lad, my lad!”
But Brother Paul had gone. The captured eagle with the broken wing had
slipped its chain at last.
In the terrible peace which followed the air of the room seemed to
become empty. John Storm felt chill and dizzy, and a great awe fell
upon him. The courage which he had built up in sight of Brother Paul's
sufferings ebbed rapidly away, and his old fear of rule flowed back.
He must carry the lay brother to his cell; he must be ignorant of his
death; he must conceal and cover up everything. The moon had gone by
this time, for it was near to morning, and the shadows of night were
contending with the leaden hues of dawn.
He opened the door and listened. The house was still quite silent. He
walked on tip-toe to the end of the corridor, pausing at every cell.
There was no sound anywhere, except the sonorous breathing of some heavy
sleeper and the ticking of the clock in the hall.
Then he returned to the chamber of death, and, lifting the dead man in
his arms, he carried him back to the room which he had left as a living
man. The body was light, and he scarcely felt its weight, for the limbs
under the cassock had dried up like withered twigs. He stretched them
out on the bed that they might be fit for death's composing hand, and
then closed the eyes and laid the hands together on the breast, and took
the heavy cross that hung about the neck and put it as well as he could
into the nerveless fingers. By this time the daylight had overcome the
shadows of the fore-dawn, and the ruddy glow of morning was gliding into
the room. Traffic was beginning to stir in the sleeping city, and a cart
was rattling down the street.
One glance more he gave at the dead brother's face, and going down on
his knees beside it he said a prayer and crossed himself. Then he rose
and stole back to his room and shut the door without a sound.
There was a boundless relief when this was done, and partly from relief
and partly from exhaustion he fell asleep. He slept for a few
minutes only, but sleep knows no time, and a moment in its garden of
forgetfulness will wipe out the bitterness of a life. When he awoke he
stretched out his hand as he was accustomed to do and rapped three times
on the wall. But the tide of consciousness returned to him even as he
did so, and in the dead silence that followed his very heart grew cold.
Then the Father Minister began to awaken the household. His deep call
and the muffled answer which followed it rose higher and higher and came
nearer and nearer, and every step as he approached seemed to beat upon
John Storm's brain. He had reached the topmost story--he was coming down
the corridor--he was standing before the door of the dead man's cell.
“Benedicamus Domino!” he called, but no answer came back to him. He
called again, and there was a short and terrible silence.
John Storm held his breath and listened. By the faint click of the lock
he knew that the door had been opened, and that the Father Minister
had entered the room. There was a muttered exclamation and then another
short silence, and after that there came the click of the lock again.
The door had been closed, and the Father Minister had resumed his
rounds. When he called at the door of John Storm's cell not a tone of
his voice would have told that anything unusual had taken place.
The bell rang, and the brothers trooped down the stairs. Presently the
low, droning sound of their voices came up from the chapel where they
were saying Lauds. But the service had scarcely ended when the Father
Minister's step was on the stair again. This time another was with him.
It was the doctor. They entered the brother's room and closed the door
behind them. From the other side of the wall John Storm followed every
movement and every word.
“So he has gone at last, poor soul!”
“Is he long dead, doctor?”
“Some hours, certainly. Was there nobody with him then?”
“He didn't wish for anybody. And then you told us that nothing could he
done, and that he might live a month.”
“Still, a dying man, you know---- But how strangely composed he looks!
And then the cross on his breast as well!”
“He was very devout and penitent. He made his last devotion yesterday
with an intensity of joy such as I have rarely witnessed.”
“His eyes closed, too! You are sure there was nobody with him?”
“Nobody whatever.”
There was a moment's silence and then the doctor said, “Well, he has
slipped his anchor at last, poor soul!”
“Yes, he has launched on the ocean of the love of God. May we all be as
ready when our call comes!”
They came back to the corridor, and John heard their footsteps going
downstairs. Then for some minutes there were unusual noises below. Rapid
steps were coming and going, the hall bell was ringing, and the front
door was opening and shutting.
An hour later Brother Andrew came with the breakfast. He was obviously
excited, and putting down the tray he began to busy himself in the room
and to sing, as before, in, his pretence of a Gregorian chant:
“Brother Paul is dead--he died in the night--there was nobody with
him--we are sorry he has left us, but glad he is at peace-God rest the
soul of our poor Brother Paul!”
It was Easter Day. At midday service in the church the brothers sang the
Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own
resurrection from his living grave.
Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and
the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling
footsteps, and even some coarse and ribald talk.
“Bear a 'and, myte.”
“Well, they won't have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs.
He ain't a Danny Lambert, anyway.”
“No, they don't feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this. I'll lay ye
odds yer own looking-glass wouldn't know ye arter three months 'ard on
religion and dry tommy.”
“It pawses me 'ow people tyke to it. Gimme my pint of four-half, and my
own childring to follow me.”
Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then
another stroke, and again another.
“It is the knell,” thought John.
A group of the lay brothers came up and passed into the room. “Now!”
said one, as if giving a signal, and then they passed out again with the
measured steps of men who bear a burden. “They are taking him away,” he
thought.
He listened to their retreating footsteps. “He has gone,” he murmured.
The passing bell continued to ring out minute by minute, and presently
there was the sound of singing. “It is the service for the dead,” he
told himself.
After a while both the bell and the singing ceased, and then there was
no sound anywhere except the dull rumble of the traffic in the city
outside--the deep murmur of the mighty sea that flows on forever.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself. “What bolts and bars are keeping
me? I am guilty of a folly. I am degrading myself.”
At midday Brother Andrew came with his food. “Brother Paul is buried,”
he sang, “the coffin was beautiful--it was covered with flowers--we
buried him in his cassock, with his beads and psalter--we left the cross
on his breast--he loved it and died with it in his hands--the Father has
come home--he said mass this morning.”
John Storm could bear no more. He pushed the lay brother aside and made
straight for the Superior's room.
The Father was sitting before the fire, looking sad and low and weary.
He rose to his feet with a painful smile, as John broke into his cell
with blazing eyes, and cried in a choking voice:
“Father, I can not live the religious life any longer! I have tried
to--with all my soul and strength I've tried to, but I can not, I can
not! This life of prayer and penance and meditation is stifling me, and
corrupting me, and crushing the man out of me, and I can not bear it.”
“What are you saying, my son?”
“I have been deceiving you and myself and everybody.”
“Deceiving me?”
“It was for my own ends and not Brother Paul's that I helped him to
break obedience, and so injure his health and hasten his death.”
“Your own?”
“I, too, had a sister in the world, and my heart was hungry for news of
her.”
“A sister?”
“Some one nearer than a sister--and all my spiritual life has been a
sham.”
“My son, my son!”
“Forgive me, Father. I shall love you and honour you and revere you
always; but I must break my obedience and leave you, or I shall be a
hypocrite and a liar and a cheat.”