STRICKEN DOWN
In later days Christian Vellacott could bring back to his memory no
distinct recollection of that first night spent in the monastery. There
was an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bell
in the first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling the
elect to prayer at midnight.
After that he must have fallen into a deep, lethargic sleep, for he
never heard the distant strains of the organ and the melodious chanting
of gruff voices. The strange, unquiet melody hovered over him in the
little cell, following him as he glided away from earth upon the blessed
wings of sleep, and haunted his restless dreams.
The monks were early astir next morning, for the sweet smell of drying
hay filled the air, and the second crop of the fruitful earth lay
waiting to be stacked. With tucked-up gowns and bared arms the sturdy
devotees worked with rake and pitchfork. No whispered word passed
between them; none raised his head to look around upon the smiling
landscape or search in the cloudless sky for the tiny lark whose morning
hymn rippled down to them. Each worked on in silence, tossing the
scented hay, his mind being no doubt filled with thoughts above all
earthly things.
Near at hand lay a carefully-kept vegetable garden of large dimensions.
Here grew in profusion all nourishing roots and herbs, but there was no
sign of more luscious fruits. Small birds hopped and fluttered here and
there unheeded and unmolested, calling to each other joyously, and the
warming air was alive with the hum of tinier wings.
In the midst of this walked man--the lord of all--humbly, silently, with
bowed head and unadmiring eyes--man whose life was vouchsafed for the
enjoyment of all these things.
A little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone floor of the small
cell allotted to Christian Vellacott. The thick oak door deadened the
sounds of life in the monastery, such as they were, and the strong,
laboured breathing of the young Englishman alone broke the chill
silence.
Christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. His eyes were half
closed, and the ruddy brown of his cheeks had faded into an ashy grey.
His clenched hands lay numbly at his side. Through his open, swollen
lips meaningless words came in a hoarse whisper.
Presently the door opened with a creaking sound, but the sleeper moved
no limb or feature. René Drucquer entered the cell and ran quickly to
the bedside. Behind, with more dignity and deliberation, followed the
sub-prior of the monastery. The young priest had obtained permission
from his Provincial to see Christian Vellacott for a few moments before
his hurried departure for India. Thus René had received his mission
sooner than he had hoped for. The astute and far-seeing Provincial had
from the beginning intended that René Drucquer should be removed from
harm's way without delay once his disagreeable mission to St. Mary
Western was performed.
“My father,” exclaimed the young priest in alarm, “he is dying!”
The venerable sub-prior bent his head over the bed. He was a tall, spare
man, with very sunken cheeks, and a marvellous expression of placid
contentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the face of a young
monk. He was very learned in medicines, and in the administration of
such simple herbs as were required to remedy the illnesses within the
monastery walls. Perhaps some of his patients died when they might have
lived under more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy step from
life to death within a comfortless cell, and his bony hands were as
tender over his sick brethren as those of a woman.
He felt the Englishman's pulse and watched his ashen face for some
moments, touching the clammy forehead softly, while René Drucquer stood
by with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear upon his heart.
Then the sub-prior knelt stiffly down, and placed his clean-shaven lips
near to Christian's ear.
“My son,” he said, “do you hear me?”
Christian breathed less heavily, as if he were listening to some far-off
sound, but never moved a feature. Presently he began to murmur
incoherently, and the sub-prior bent his ear to listen.
“Much good would a blessing of mine do you, Hilda,” observed Christian
into the reverend ear. The old gentleman raised his cadaverous head and
looked somewhat puzzled. Again he listened.
“Look after Aunt Judy--she cannot last long,” murmured the young
Englishman in his native tongue, which was unknown to the monk.
“It is fever,” said the sub-prior presently--“one of those terrible
fevers which kill men as the cold kills flies!”
No thought seemed to enter the monk's mind of possible infection. He
knelt upon the cold floor with one bare and bony arm beneath the sick
man's head, while the other lay across his breast. He was looking
intently into the veiled eyes, inhaling the very breath of the swollen
lips.
“Will he die, my father?” asked René Drucquer in a whisper; his face was
as pale as Vellacott's.
“He is in the hands of the good God,” was the pious answer. The tall
monk rose to his feet and stood before the bed thinking. He rubbed his
bony hands together slowly. Through the tiny window a shaft of sunlight
poured down upon his grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the deep
furrows that ran diagonally down from his cheek-bone to his chin.
“You must watch here, my son,” he continued, “while I inform the
Father-Provincial of this.”
The venerable sub-prior was no Jesuit, and perhaps he would have been
just as well pleased had the Provincial elected to live elsewhere than
in the monastery. But the Prior--an old man of ninety, and incapable of
work or thought--was completely in the power of the Society.
When he found himself alone with the Englishman, René Drucquer sat
wearily upon a small wooden bench, the only form of seat provided, and
leaned his narrow face upon his hands.
The prospect that he saw before him as he sat staring vacantly at the
floor of the little cell was black enough. He saw no possible outlet,
and he had not the courage to force his way through the barriers erected
all round him. It must be remembered that he was a Roman Catholic, and
over a sincere disciple of the Mother Church the power of the Jesuits is
greater than man should ever be allowed to exercise. The slavery that
England fought against so restlessly is nothing to it, for mental
bondage is infinitely heavier than physical service. He had determined
to accept the Provincial's offer of missionary work in Asia, but the
sudden horror of realising that he was a Jesuit, and could never be
anything else than a Jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh upon
him. He was too young yet to find consolation in the thought that he at
all events could attempt to steer a clear, unsullied course through the
shoals and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, and he was too
old to buoy himself up with the false hope that he might, despite his
Jesuit's oath, do some good work for his Church. His awakening had been
rendered more terrible by the brilliancy of the dreams which it had
interrupted.
He had not looked upon Christian Vellacott as a victim hitherto, for the
bravest receive the least sympathy, and the young Englishman's cool way
of treating his reverse of fortune had repelled pity or commiseration.
But now all that was changed. Whatever this sickness might prove to be,
René Drucquer felt that the blame of it lay at his own door. If
Christian Vellacott were to die, he, René Drucquer, was in the eyes of
God a murderer, for he had forcibly brought him to his death. This was
an unpleasant reflection for a young devotee whose inward soul was full
of human kindness; and the presence of the strong man who lay gasping
for breath upon the narrow, comfortless bed was not reassuring.
It was only natural that those thoughts, coupled with the realisation of
the aimlessness of his own existence, should have bred in the young
Jesuit's heart a dull fire of antagonism against the man who was in
immediate authority over him, and when the Provincial noiselessly
entered the cell a few minutes later, he felt a sudden thrill of
misgiving at the thought that his feelings were sacred to none--that
this man with his deep, inscrutable eyes could read the face of his very
soul like an open book.
In this, René Drucquer was right. The Provincial was fully aware of the
presence of this spirit of antagonism, and, moreover, he knew that it
extended to the taciturn sub-prior who accompanied him. But this
knowledge in no way disturbed him. The spirit of antagonism had met him
in every turn of life. It was so familiar that he had learned to despise
it. Hitherto he had never failed in any undertaking, and he had never
been turned aside from the execution of his purpose by the fear of
incurring the enmity of men. Such minds as this make their mark in the
line of life which they take up, and if they do not happen to win the
love of their fellow-beings, they get on remarkably well without it.
The Provincial came into the cell with a singular noiselessness of
motion. His pale face expressed neither surprise nor annoyance, and his
eyes rested upon the form of the sick man with no sign of apprehension.
He approached, and with his long white finger touched Christian's wrist.
For a few moments he watched the uneasy movements of his flushed face,
and then he turned aside, without, however, leaving the bedside. Here
again there seemed to be no fear or thought of infection.
The sub-prior stood behind him with clasped hands, while René, who had
risen from his seat, was near at hand.
“This man, my father,” said the Provincial coldly, “must not die. You
must take every care, and spare no expense or trouble. If it is
necessary you can have doctors from Nantes. I will bear every expense,
and I shall be grieved to hear of his death!”
Then he turned to leave the cell. He was a busy man, and his visit had
already lasted nearly three minutes.
René Drucquer stepped forward hurriedly. He was between his superior and
the door, so that he was in a position to command attention.
“My father,” he pleaded, “may I nurse him?”
The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly; then he waved
his hand, commanding the young priest to stand aside.
“No,” he said softly, “you must leave for Nantes in half-an-hour,” and
he passed out into the noiseless corridor.