BACK TO WORK
Day by day Christian Vellacott recovered strength. The enforced rest,
and perhaps also the monastic peacefulness of his surroundings,
contributed greatly towards this. In mental matters as in physical we
are subject to contagion, and from the placid recluses, vegetating
unheeded in the heart of Brittany, their prisoner acquired a certain
restfulness of mind which was eminently beneficial to his body. Life
inside those white walls was so sleepy and withal so pleasant that it
was physically and mentally impossible to think and worry over events
that might be passing in the outer world.
Presently, however, Christian began to feel idle, which is a good sign
in invalids; and soon the days became long and irksome. He began to take
an increased interest in his surroundings, and realised at once how
little he knew of the existence going on about him. Though he frequently
passed, in the dim corridors and cloisters, a silent, grey-clad figure,
exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely perceptible salutation, he had
never spoken with any other inmates of the monastery than the Provincial
and the sub-prior.
He noticed also that the watchful care of the nurse had imperceptibly
glided into that of a warder. He was never allowed out of his cell
unless accompanied by the sub-prior--in fact, he was a state prisoner.
His daily walks never extended beyond the one path near the potato bed,
or backwards and forwards at the sunny end of the garden, where the huge
pears hung ripely. From neither point was any portion of the surrounding
country visible, but the Provincial could not veil the sun, and
Christian knew where lay the west and where the east.
No possible opportunity for escape presented itself, but the Englishman
was storing up strength and knowledge all the while. He knew that things
would not go on for long like this, and felt that the Provincial would
sooner or later summon him to the long room at the end of the corridor
upon the upper floor.
This call came to him three weeks after the day when the two men had met
in the garden--nine weeks after the Englishman's captivity had
commenced.
“My son,” said the sub-prior one afternoon, “the Father Provincial
wishes to speak with you to-day at three.”
Christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, which declared the
time to be a quarter to three.
“I am ready,” he said quietly. There was no tremor in his voice or light
in his eyes, and he continued walking leisurely by the side of the old
monk; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation warmed his heart.
A little later they entered the monastery and mounted the stone stairs
together. As they walked along the corridor the clock in the tower
overhead struck three.
“I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs,” said the monk slowly,
as if with some compunction. Then he led the way to the end of the
corridor and knocked at the door. He stood back, as if the Provincial
were in the habit of keeping knockers waiting. Such was, at all events,
the case now, and some minutes elapsed before a clear, low voice bade
him enter.
The monk opened the door and stood back against the wall for Christian
to pass in. The Provincial was seated at the table near the window,
which was open, the afternoon being sultry although the autumn was
nearly over. At his left hand stood the small Venetian mirror which
enabled him to see who was behind him without turning round.
As Christian crossed the room the Provincial rose and bowed slightly,
with one of his slow, soft glances. Then he indicated the chair at the
left-hand side of the table, and said, without looking up:
“Be good enough--Mr. Vellacott.”
When they were both seated the Provincial suddenly raised his eyes and
fixed them upon the Englishman's face. The action was slightly dramatic,
but very effective, and clearly showed that he was accustomed to find
the eyes of others quail before his. Christian met the gaze with a
calmness more difficult to meet than open defiance. After a moment they
turned away simultaneously.
“I need scarcely,” said the Provincial, with singular sweetness of
manner, which, however, was quite devoid of servility, “apologise to
you, Monsieur, for speaking in French, as it is almost your native
language.”
Christian bowed, at the same time edging somewhat nearer to the table.
“There are one or two matters,” continued the Jesuit, speaking faster,
“upon which I have been instructed to treat with you; but first I must
congratulate you upon your restoration to health. Your illness has been
very serious... I trust that you have had nothing to complain of... in
the treatment which you have received at our hands.”
Christian, while sitting quite motionless, was making an exhaustive
survey of the room.
“On the contrary,” he said, in a conventional tone which, in comparison
to his companion's manner, was almost brutal, “it is probably owing to
the care of the sub-prior that I am alive at the present moment, and--”
He stopped suddenly; an almost imperceptible motion of the Jesuit's
straight eyebrows warned him.
“And...?” repeated the Provincial, interrogatively. He leant back in his
chair with an obvious air of interest.
“And I am very grateful----to him.”
“The reverend father is a great doctor,” said the Jesuit lightly.
“Excuse me,” he continued, rising and leaning across the table, “I will
close the window; the air from the river begins to grow cool.”
The journalist moved slightly, looking over his shoulder towards the
window; at the same moment he altered, with his elbow, the position of
the small mirror standing upon the table. Instead of reflecting the
whole room, including the door at the end, it now reproduced the blank
wall at the side opposed to the curtained recess where the bed was
placed.
“And now, Mr. Vellacott,” continued the Jesuit, reseating himself, “I
must beg your attention. I think there can be no harm in a little mutual
frankness, and--and it seems to me that a certain allowance for
respective circumstances can well be demanded.”
He paused, and opening the leather-bound manuscript book, became
absorbed for a moment in the perusal of one of its pages.
“From your pen,” he then said, in a businesslike monotone, “there has
emanated a serious and hitherto unproved charge against the Holy Society
of Jesus. It came at a critical moment in the political strife then
raging in France; and, in proportion to the attention it attracted, harm
and calumny accrued to the Society. I am told that your motives were
purely patriotic, and your desire was nothing beyond a most laudable one
of keeping your countrymen out of difficulties. Before I had the
pleasure of seeing you I said, 'This is a young journalist who, at any
expense, and even at the sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name in
the world and force himself into public attention.' Since then I have
withdrawn that opinion.”
During these remarks the Provincial had not raised his eyes from the
table. He now leant back in the chair and contemplated his own clasped
hands. Christian had listened attentively. His long, grave face was
turned slightly towards the Provincial, and his eyes were perhaps a
little softer in their gaze.
“I endeavoured,” he said, “some weeks ago, to explain my position.”
The Jesuit inclined his head. Then he raised his long white finger to
his upper lip, stroking the blue skin pensively.
Presently he raised his eyes to the Englishman's face, and in their
velvety depths Christian thought he detected an expression which was
almost pleading. It seemed to express a desire for help, for some slight
assistance in the performance of a difficult task. He never again looked
into those eyes in all his life, but the remembrance of them remained in
his heart for many years after the surrounding incidents had passed away
from memory and interest. He knew that the Soul looking forth from that
pale and heartless face was of no ordinary mould or strength. In later
years, when they were both grey-haired men whose Yea or No was of some
weight in the world--one speaking with the great and open voice of the
Press, the other working subtly, dumbly, secretly--their motives may
have clashed once more, their souls may have met and touched, as it
were, over the heads of the People, but they never looked into each
other's eyes again.
The Provincial moved uneasily.
“It has been a most unfortunate business,” he said gently, and after a
pause continued more rapidly, with his eyes upon the book. “I am
instructed to lay before you the apologies of the Society for the
inconvenience to which you have been put. Your own sense of justice will
tell you that we were bound to defend ourselves in every way. You have
done us a great injury, and, as is our custom, we have contradicted
nothing. The Society of Jesus does not defend itself in the vain hope of
receiving justice at the hands of men. I am now in a position to inform
you again that you are at liberty--free to go where you will, when you
will--and that any sum you may require is at your disposal to convey you
home to England ... on your signing a promise never to write another
word for private or public circulation on the subject of the Holy Order
of Jesus, or to dictate to the writing of another.”
“I must refuse,” said Christian laconically, almost before the words had
left the Jesuit's lips. “As I explained before, I am simply a public
servant; what I happen to know must ever be at the public disposal or I
am useless.”
A short silence followed this remark. When at length the Provincial
spoke his tone was cold and reserved.
“Of course,” he said, “I expected a refusal--at first. I am instructed
to ask you to reconsider your refusal and to oblige me, at the end of a
week, with the result of your meditations. If it remains a refusal,
another week will be accorded, and so on.”
“Until--?”
The Jesuit closed the book upon the table in front of him and with great
care altered its position so that it lay quite squarely. He raised his
eyebrows slightly and glanced sideways towards the Englishman. At that
moment the bell began summoning the devotees to their evening meal, its
deep tone vibrating weirdly through the bare corridors.
“Until you accept,” suggested he softly.
Christian looked at him speculatively. The faintest suspicion of a smile
hovered for a moment in his eyes, and then he turned and looked out of
the window.
“I hope, Monsieur,” continued the Jesuit, “that when I have the pleasure
of seeing you--a week hence--your health will be quite re-established!”
“Thank you!”
“And in the meantime I shall feel honoured by your asking for anything
you may require.”
“Thank you!” answered Christian again. He was still looking over his
shoulder, down at the brown river which ran immediately below the
window.
“Please excuse my rising to open the door for you,” said the Provincial,
with cool audacity, “but I have a few words to write before joining our
brethren at their evening repast.”
Christian turned and looked at him vaguely. There was a peculiar gleam
in his eyes, and he was breathing heavily. Then he rose and, as he
passed the Jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his grave
salutation. He walked quickly down the length of the room, which was not
carpeted, and opened the door, closing it again with some noise
immediately. But he never crossed the threshold. To the man sitting at
the table it was as if the Englishman had left the room, closing the
door after him.
Presently the Provincial glanced at the mirror, from mere habit, and
found that it was displaced. He re-arranged it thoughtfully, so that the
entire room was included in its field of reflection.
“I wonder,” he said aloud, “when and why he did that!”
Then he returned to his writing. In a few minutes, however, he rose and
pushed back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his back he stood
and gazed fixedly out of the window. Beneath him the brown water glided
past with curling eddy and gleaming ripple, while its soft murmur was
the only sound that broke the pathetic silence surrounding this lonely
man. His small and perfectly formed face was quite expressionless; the
curve of his thin lips meant nothing; all the suppressed vitality of his
being lay in those deep, soft eyes over which there seemed to be a veil.
Presently he turned, and with lithe, smooth steps passed down the long
room and out of the door.
Instantly Christian Vellacott came from his hiding-place within the
recess. He ran to the window and opened it noiselessly. A moment later
he was standing upon the stone sill. The afternoon sun shone full upon
his face as he stood there, and showed a deep red flush on either cheek.
Slowly he stooped forward, holding with one hand to the woodwork of the
window while he examined critically the surface of the water. Suddenly
he threw his arms forward and like a black shadow dived noiselessly,
passing into the depth without a splash. When he rose to the surface he
turned to look at the monastery. The Provincial's window was the only
outlet directly on to the river.
The stream was rapid, and after swimming with it for a short time he
left the water and lay down to recover his breath under the friendly
cover of some bushes. There he remained for some time, while the short
October twilight closed over the land. A man just dragged from the jaws
of death, he lay in his wet clothes where he first found shelter without
even troubling to move his limbs from the pools of water slowly
accumulating. Already the monastery was a thing of the past. With the
rapid forethought of his generation he was already looking to the
future. He knew too well the spirit of the people in France to fear
pursuit. The monks never ventured beyond their own walls except on
ostentatious missions of charity. The machinations of the Society of
Jesus were less to be feared in France than in England, and he had only
to take his story to the nearest sub-prefecture to raise a storm of
popular opinion in his favour. But this was not his project. With him,
as in all human plans, his own personal feelings came before the
possible duty he owed to the public. He lay beneath the bramble
undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequent
to his disappearance. At that moment the fortunes of the _Beacon_
gave him no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his subordinate might,
or might not, think found no interest in his mind. All his speculations
were confined to events at St. Mary Western, and the outcome of his
meditations was that when the friendly cover of darkness lay on the land
he rose and started to walk briskly across the well-tilled country
towards the north.
That portion of Brittany which lies along the northern coast is a
pastoral land where sleep occupies the larger half of man's life.
Although it was only evening, an hour when Paris and London recover, as
it were, from the previous night's vigil and brighten up into vigour,
the solitary Englishman passed unheeded through the squalid villages,
unmolested along the winding roads. Mile after mile of scanty forest
land and rich meadow were left behind, while, except for a few
heavily-breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. At last he came upon
a broader road which bore unmistakable signs of military workmanship in
its construction, and here he met, and passed with laconic greeting, a
few peasant women returning with empty baskets from some neighbouring
market; or perhaps a “cantonnier” here and there, plodding home with
“sabots” swinging heavily and round shoulders bent beneath the burden
of his weighty stone-breaking implements.
Following the direction of this road his course was now towards the
north-east, with more tendency to the eastward than he desired, but
there was no choice. About eight o'clock he passed through a small
village, which appeared to be already wrapped in stupid slumber such as
attends the peasant's pillow. A cock crowed loudly, and in reply a dog
barked with some alarm, but Christian was already beyond the village
upon the deserted high road again.
He now began to feel the weakening effect of his illness; his legs
became cramped, and he frequently rested at the roadside. The highway
was running still more to the eastward now, and Christian was just
beginning to consider the advisability of taking to the country again,
when it joined a broader road cut east and west. Here he stopped short,
and, raising his head, stood quite still for some moments.
“Ah!” he muttered. “The sea. I smell the sea.”
He now turned to the left, and advanced along the newly-discovered road
towards the west. As he progressed the pungent odour of seaweed
refreshed him and grew stronger every moment. Suddenly he became aware
that although high land lay upon his left hand there was to his right a
hollow darkness without shadow or depth. No merry plash of waves came to
explain this; the smell of the sea was there, but the joyous tumble of
its waters was not to be heard. The traveller stooped low and peered
into the darkness. Gradually he discerned a distant line of horizon, and
to that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet of water without
light or motion. Upon his ears there stole a soft bubbling sound, varied
occasionally by a tiny ripple. Suddenly a flash of recollection appeared
to pass through the watcher's mind, and he muttered an exclamation of
surprise as he turned towards the east and endeavoured to pierce the
gloom. He was right. Upon the distant line of horizon a jagged outline
cut the sky. It was like the form of a huge tooth jutting out from the
softer earth. Such is Mont St. Michel standing grandly alone in the
midst of a shallow, sullen sea. The only firm thing among the quaking
sands, the only stone for miles around.
“The Bay of Cancale!” reflected Christian. “If I keep to the westward I
shall reach St. Mâlo before ten o'clock!”
And he set off with renewed vigour. From his feet there stretched away
to the north a great dead level of quicksand, seething, bubbling, and
heaving in the darkness. The sea, and yet no sea. Neither honest land
nor rolling water.