V.

He did not return with them when at the close of day they wound upward

again to their solemn sleep. He slipped unseen into the windings of a

secret passage-way, and hastening to the reception-room of the abbey

sent for the abbot.

It was a great bare room. A rough table and two plain chairs in the

middle were the only furniture. Over the table there swung from the

high ceiling a single low, lurid point of light, that failed to reach

the shadows of the recesses. The few poor pictures of saints and

martyrs on the walls were muffled in gloom. The air was dank and

noisome, and the silence was that of a vault.

Standing half in light and half in darkness, Father Palemon awaited the

coming of his august superior. It was an awful scene. His face grew

whiter than his cowl, and he trembled till he was ready to sink to the

floor. A few moments, and through the dim door-way there softly glided

in the figure of the aged abbot, like a presence rather felt than seen.

He advanced to the little zone of light, the iron keys clanking at his

girdle, his delicate fingers interlaced across his breast, his gray

eyes filled with a look of mild surprise and displeasure.

"You have disturbed me in my rest and meditations. The occasion must be

extraordinary. Speak! Be brief!"

"The occasion _is_ extraordinary. I shall be brief. Father Abbot, I

made a great mistake in ever becoming a monk. Nature has not fitted

me for such a life. I do not any longer believe that it is my duty to

live it. I have disturbed your repose only to ask you to receive the

renunciation of my priestly vows and to take back my cowl: I will never

put it on again."

As he spoke he took off his cowl and laid it on the table between them,

showing that he wore beneath the ordinary dress of a working-man.

Under the flickering spark the face of the abbot had at first flushed

with anger and then grown ashen with vague, formless terror. He pushed

the hood back from his head and pressed his fingers together until the

jewelled ring cut into the flesh.

"You are a priest of God, consecrated for life. Consider the sin and

folly of what you say. You have made no mistake. It would be too late

to correct it, if you had."

"I shall do what I can to correct it as soon as possible. I shall leave

the monastery to-night."

"To-night you confess what has led you to harbor this suggestion of

Satan. To-night I forgive you. To-night you sleep once more at peace

with the world and your own soul. Begin! Tell me everything that has

happened--everything!"

"It were better untold. It could only pain--only shock you."

"Ha! You say this to me, who stand to you in God's stead?"

"Father Abbot, it is enough that Heaven should know my recent struggles

and my present purposes. It does know them."

"And it has not smitten you? It is merciful."

"It is also just."

"Then do not deny the justice you receive. Did you not give yourself up

to my guidance as a sheep to a shepherd? Am I not to watch near you in

danger and lead you back when astray? Do you not realize that I may not

make light of the souls committed to my charge, as my own soul shall

be called into judgment at the last day? Am I to be pushed aside--made

naught of--at such a moment as this?"

Thus urged, Father Palemon told what had recently befallen him, adding

these words:

"Therefore I am going--going now. I cannot expect your approval: that

pains me. But have I not a claim upon your sympathy? You are an old

man, Father Abbot. You are nearer heaven than this earth. But you have

been young; and I ask you, is there not in the past of your own buried

life the memory of some one for whom you would have risked even the

peace and pardon of your own soul?"

The abbot threw up his hands with a gesture of sudden anguish, and

turned away into the shadowy distances of the room.

When he emerged again, he came up close to Father Palemon in the

deepest agitation.

"I tell you this purpose of yours is a suggestion of the Evil Spirit.

Break it against the true rock of the Church. You should have spoken

sooner. Duty, honor, gratitude, should have made you speak. Then I

could have made this burden lighter for you. But, heavy as it is, it

will pass. You suffer now, but it will pass, and you will be at peace

again--at perfect peace again."

"Never! Never again at peace here! My place is in the world. Conscience

tells me that. Besides, have I not told you, Father Abbot, that I love

her, that I think of her day and night? Then I am no priest. There is

nothing left for me but to go out into the world."

"The world! What do you know of the world? If I could sum up human life

to you in an instant of time, I might make you understand into what

sorrow this caprice of restlessness and passion is hurrying you."

Sweetness had forsaken the countenance of the aged shepherd. His tones

rung hoarse and hollow, and the muscles of his face twitched and

quivered as he went on:

"Reflect upon the tranquil life that you have spent here, preparing

your soul for immortality. All your training has been for the solitude

of the cloister. All your enemies have been only the spiritual foes

of your own nature. You say that you are not fitted for this life.

Are you then prepared for a life in the world? Foolish, foolish boy!

You exchange the terrestrial solitude of heaven for the battle-field

of hell. Its coarse, foul atmosphere will stifle and contaminate you.

It has problems that you have not been taught to solve. It has shocks

that you would never withstand. I see you in the world? Never, never!

See you in the midst of its din and sweat of weariness, its lying and

dishonor? You say that you love this woman. Heaven forgive you this

sin! You would follow her. Do you not know that you may be deluded,

trifled with, disappointed? She may love another. Ah! you are a

child--a simple child!"

"Father Abbot, it is time that I were becoming a man."

But the abbot did not hear or pause, borne on now by a torrent of

ungovernable feelings:

"Your parents committed a great sin." He suddenly lifted the cross from

his bosom to his lips, which moved rapidly for an instant in silent

prayer. "It has never been counted against you here, as it will never

be laid to your charge in heaven. But the world will count it against

you. It will make you feel its jeers and scorn. You have no father,"

again he bent over and passionately kissed his cross, "you have no

name. You are an illegitimate child. There is no place for you in the

world--in the world that takes no note of sin unless it is discovered.

I warn you--I warn you by all the years of my own experience, and by

all the sacred obligations of your holy order, against this fatal

step."

"Though it be fatal, I must and will take it."

"I implore you! God in heaven, dost thou punish me thus? See! I am an

old man. I have but a few years to live. You are the only tie of human

tenderness that binds me to my race. My heart is buried in yours. I

have watched over you since you were brought here, a little child. I

have nursed you through months of sickness. I have hastened the final

assumption of your vows, that you might be safe within the fold. I have

stayed my last days on earth with the hope that when I am dead, as I

soon shall be, you would perpetuate my spirit among your brethren,

and in time come to be a shepherd among them, as I have been. Do not

take this solace from me. The Church needs you--most of all needs you

in this age and in this country. I have reared you within it that you

might be glorified at last among the saints and martyrs. No, no! You

will not go away!"

"Father Abbot, what better can I do than heed the will of Heaven in my

own conscience?"

"I implore you!"

"I must go."

"I warn you, I say."

"Oh, my father! You only make more terrible the anguish of this moment.

Bless me, and let me go in peace."

"_Bless_ you?" almost shrieked the abbot, starting back with horror,

his features strangely drawn, his uplifted arms trembling, his whole

body swaying. "_Bless_ you? Do this, and I will hurl upon you the awful

curse of the everlasting Church!"

As though stricken by the thunderbolt of his own imprecation, he fell

into one of the chairs and buried his head in his arms upon the table.

Father Palemon had staggered backward, as though the curse had struck

him in the forehead. These final words he had never thought of--never

foreseen. For a moment the silence of the great chamber was broken

only by his own quick breathing and by the convulsive agitation of the

abbot. Then with a rapid movement Father Palemon came forward, knelt,

and kissed the hem of the abbot's cowl, and, turning away, went out.

Love--duty--the world; in those three words lie all the human, all the

divine, tragedy.