“BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE”
THE Prior’s heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed up the
village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his little maid led
him by the hand.
Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speak comfort
and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury the dead; for
three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. Hilarius made
straight for the ale-house.
As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled blindly down
the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, and suddenly sobered,
dropped on his knees, while the topers and roysterers staring from the
open doorway fell into silence.
Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorching sun
of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was very weary.
“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, lest ye go
down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, for the arms of His
love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and the very hairs of your
head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confess each one of you his
sins, that I may prepare him for the work of the Lord; and take comfort
also, for they that are with us are mighty.”
One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, confessed and
were shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon was not among
them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as he should direct; and he
set a watch that no man should flee the village; and all obeyed him.
Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band of
workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying the pestilent
dwellings.
Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered it like a
soldier at his post.
As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade him come
quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon.
The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to the hovel
where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear his muttered
words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, for a gold
piece lay on the man’s tongue. The Prior drew back dismayed, and behold,
the Lord’s hand struck swiftly, and Dickon died with a barren shriving—on
whom may Christ take pity!
Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and at even
came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of the novices,
who lay a-dying in the Prioir’s arms, heard it as he passed, and fell
back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on his young face.
“‘_Esurientes implevit bonis_,’” said the Prior, as he laid him down,
blessing God.
A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was no
need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was stayed.
Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season; rarely such a
blessed one.
The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior was
minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, for his
work was done.
Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings
reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the
cloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had given
their lives for their brethren.
The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed the pines
in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because of the face
of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue dome, and earth
shone with pale reflection of his glory.
The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch the
signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the word came that
voices were heard in the distance; and monks and novices hastened two and
two to the gate. On the wind was borne the sound of a chant.
“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” said Brother Anselm; and crossing
themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorous response:
“_Et lux perpetua luceat eis_.”
As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for came
slowly down the forest pathway.
Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a rude
bier of pine-branches.
This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs for his
last bed; Mary’s lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censer of the forest
swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face of the Lord.
He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, and having
kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, for his time
had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. Prior Hilarius
lay and watched for the light, and as dawn parted night’s veil with the
long foregleam of the coming day, he shut his eyes like a tired child and
went home.
It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior cried through
his tears:—
“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son.”
They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on his
forest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the tender
smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, “The Prior hath
found his little maid.” And the Convent made Hilarius a wondrous fair
tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved him lying thereon with
Mary’s lilies across his breast.