COUNCIL AT SANGDIEU
HIS Eminence John Felix Maria Cardinal Falconieri having arrived at the
Minster with such dignity of retinue as befitted a Prince of the Church,
was closetted with the Lady Abbess.
A small, very old man this Lord Cardinal, at first sight you would have
seen nothing remarkable in him. On first sight, I say, and that
advisedly. Looking again, an’ you were so minded, you would have guessed
aristocracy in the thin-featured face, read kindliness in the mouth,
shrewdness in the eyes, intellect in the forehead, and I am very sure
determination in the chin. Had you received speech of him, you would
have left mere surmise for certainty, and have added thereto a knowledge
of his personality, his power.
Yet, for all that, you would have found him what he truly was, exceeding
simple hearted. A stately progress, much retinue, irked him hugely. Yet
he suffered the irksomeness on occasions, urged thereto by his chaplain,
who recognized the dignity of his master vastly better than did the
master himself; who held also that he knew very well what was good for
both spiritual prince and subject. This prince’s pleasure, and one he
occasionally indulged in, was to escape in a manner temporarily from his
rank in the Roman hierarchy, play _incognito_ the part of simple priest.
There was a certain little church set on the edge of a forest, above a
village containing some few hundred souls. Here at times he found the
sheer simplicity he desired. Its priest dismissed to gain recreation an’
he would in some wider sphere, the Cardinal took upon himself his
duties. Here he said his daily Mass to the sound of the wind which
whispered or shrilled through the forest trees according to the season,
assoiled the souls of the village folk, gave them the Body of Christ to
their refreshment; while never a breath of his true title got afloat. As
Father Felix he was known among them; and, if you will believe me, they
looked to his coming very willingly.
This little matter is not one which is set forth by his biographers. Had
they got wind on it they would doubtless have fashioned a very pretty
tale therefrom, garnished it out of all likeness of the simple truth.
Hearing it not, however, it is omitted from their pages. You have,
therefore, but my word for it.
Sitting now in a straight-backed arm-chair he thoughtfully surveyed an
image of Our Lady on an oak bracket opposite to him, lending ear the
while to the Abbess’s discourse. A brief discourse truly. It was not her
way to use two words where one sufficed, to elaborate unnecessarily.
Clear-brained herself she looked for a like clarity in those with whom
she conversed. Finding it frequently absent she prayed for patience. On
this occasion no such prayer was needed.
Her discourse ended she fell to silence. Having said her say she left
the verdict to other lips. An upright old figure, hands hidden in the
sleeves of her gown, she sat waiting.
To another than the Abbess it might have appeared that her discourse had
fallen on deaf ears, or at the least on ears for the moment closed to
external sounds, since no reply followed on her words. You might have
said, watching the Cardinal’s face, that his wits had gone
a-wool-gathering. Not so the Abbess. Perfectly serene she awaited the
response she knew would come. Quiet reigned throughout the place; within
the room entire, without broken only by an occasional footfall in the
passage, by the faint jingle of beads as they swayed at the waist of
some passing nun, or the liquid note of pigeons from the roof of the
Minster.
Presently the Cardinal roused himself.
“Well, well,” he said smiling, “send the child to me.”
* * * * *
Brigid entering anon saw a small tired-looking old man sitting in a
chair, his face towards the window. On her entrance he turned, and she
saw no fatigue in the blue eyes. Kneeling she kissed his hand. He
murmured words of blessing. Then—
“Be seated, child,” he said.
He shifted his position, looked more directly at her.
“So thou hast left the Lady Isabel?”
“Aye, my Lord.”
“And for what reason?”
“Sir, she desired my services no longer.” Here was the same reply she
had given to her aunt the Abbess.
The Cardinal put his hand up to his chin, looked at her very shrewdly.
“And perchance thou no longer desirest to serve her?” Here was a bow
drawn at a venture, but the shaft shot very near the mark.
“My Lord—” stammered Brigid reddening.
“Suppose I hear the tale, my child.”
“It is not wholly mine, my Lord.”
The Cardinal smiled. “Well, we will leave it. The matter to my seeing
stands thus. Thou hast displeased her, and thou art not wholly pleased
with her.”
“My Lord, I am very ill-pleased with her.”
He laughed. “At least thou art candid, child. Now tell me truly, was
there aught of pique in thy leaving the Castle.”
“None, my Lord.” The reply was ready enough. “I saw that she would not
have me see, I heard that she would not have me hear. For that she liked
me not, nor truly did I like her. I can no longer give her my service
whole-heartedly, nor does she desire what lesser service I might give
her. Therefore am I here.” Again the reply she had given the Abbess, yet
this time going further.
“Ah!” The fragile old hand beat lightly on the arm of the chair. “And
here thou desirest to be a nun.”
“That is my desire.”
“A sudden desire, child.”
“Sir,” said Brigid very low and earnest, “may not Our Lord speak
suddenly an’ He will?”
“Very true,” replied the Cardinal, “an’ it be indeed His voice and not
thy own heart speaking.”
Brigid remained silent. The Cardinal bent kindly eyes towards her, read
clearly resolve in the small square face. Musing, he shifted ground.
“Nuns pray much,” he said warningly. “Thy aunt hath told me that on
former occasions when thou hast visited the Minster prayer was none so
greatly to thy liking.”
“Mayhap, my Lord,” said Brigid sweetly, “I can acquire liking. Here is a
good school.”
The Cardinal’s eyes twinkled. Memory turning backward many years he saw
the Lady Abbess herself before him, heard spoken words.
“Methinks, daughter,” here was memory speaking, “thou lackest meekness,
a quality possessed by nuns.”
“Then, Father, it were well I seek it where it dwells so willingly.”
Here he found a repetition of that little scene.
“I am also told, child,” he continued, banishing memory for the moment,
testing her replies, “that thou art over-merry. Nuns are sober-minded.”
“Methinks, my Lord,” quoth Brigid demurely, “that devotion on one note
alone may prove a very monotonous chant.”
Again the Cardinal’s eyes twinkled. He liked the spirit that could find
quick reply, fancied he saw here material other than usual for Sister
Gabrielle the Novice Mistress, for all that saw her fashioning it
willingly and to good purpose. Matters were not, however, wholly to his
mind. Well-versed in dealing with mankind the girl’s resolve was very
patent to him. He would learn further what had brought the resolve to
light.
“Child,” he said on a sudden very grave, “thou hast told me little that
is in thy mind.”
Brigid looked towards the window. “My Lord,” she said very low, “I lack
words.”
“Find those thou canst,” he said kindly. “Perchance I may aid thee
further.”
Brigid trembled. “Sir, I have seen a soul in jeopardy.”
“I have seen many, child. What then?”
“Ah, sir,” said Brigid, her voice thrilling, “thinking on the one soul I
thought on others. I saw a warring world, Powers in deadly conflict,
Christ nailed to the Cross watching with Patient Eyes. Sir, I would
aid.”
“And how, child?”
“’Tis that I ask you, my Lord. Methought of ways and means, and found
none. Then methought me of prayer. Sir, I am a woman, I can do but
little. At the Foot of the Cross from whence Christ reigns can I not
pray with Him in His Silence, in His Desire for the souls of men? My
Lord, I have no words to show my meaning. Can you understand?”
The Cardinal looked not at her, but at the figure of the Mother of God.
“I understand very well. Thou hast found words enough. And is that all?”
“All for which I can find the words, my Lord.”
The Cardinal leaned back slowly in his chair. On the wall opposite him
the sunlight lay in a brilliant patch creeping slowly upwards toward the
blue-robed figure on the oak bracket. A silence endured a little space,
a silence very pregnant with unuttered thoughts. Anon he roused himself,
spoke almost briskly.
“Well, child, thou knowest Our Lord demands service in general from all
souls, in particular from some. It would seem possible that He hath
asked of thee an especial token of thy love towards Him. Whether it is
precisely what those dost believe it to be cannot be decided on the
instant. Yet for my part I see no hindrance—since thou hast no earthly
ties to bind thee—to our putting the question to the test. Your part
will be a very detailed obedience.” He looked at her very kindly as she
knelt to kiss his hand. On her departure he fell again into reverie.
Later he spoke to the Lady Abbess.
“Finding a certain likeness in the girl,” quoth he with his shrewd old
smile, “methinks we may fashion as very excellent a nun from the niece
as the aunt hath proved herself.”
“Truly, my Lord,” retorted the old lady, “with my aid to the balance in
the matter I trust you will fashion a better one.”
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