It had been noticed for some time past by all members of the household
that the Abbot of St. Dunstan seemed ill at ease. It was even the
cause of some jesting among the monks that, for the first time in the
recollection of his brothers, the Abbot's appetite had failed.
And small wonder that the usually placid Abbot was disturbed at heart,
for there had been rumors in the air of an intended visit from the
Bishop to inquire into certain scandals that for some time past had
noisily rung in his ears, in spite of their unwillingness to hear them.
At last, but two days ago, a letter had been sent by messenger from
the Bishop, announcing that he had been compelled to write, instead of
coming in person, because, although his spirit was unfailing, his flesh
was all too weak to stand the great burden of his calling. The scathing
denunciations in the letter proved indeed that the prelate's "spirit
was unfailing," but, severe as they were, the Abbot thanked his stars
that at least he had escaped a visit. Before dictating a proper answer
to the pastoral letter, an answer that should breathe a spirit of the
most complete contrition and humility, once more the abbot read it from
beginning to end:--
"_Thomas, by divine compassion, Bishop of Ely, for Christ's
sake--Greeting to John Wallingham, Abbot of the Abbey of St. Dunstan._
"Since we, although unworthy, are by the requirements of our office
bound to render account of you and all our people before the eternal
Judge 'terrible among kings of the earth,' we, therefore, are moved
inwardly by grief of heart and pained even to the very marrow of our
soul that evils so base, so loathsome, so shameful, so diabolical, so
infamous, and so impious, separate you from the body of Christ and join
you to the body of our ancient adversary. For the name of Christ is
blasphemed by you, and the Holy Scriptures through you who by the mouth
of your detestably vile body presume to teach and guide others.
"Now, though absent in body, yet present in spirit, we attempt in
writing what we cannot at present accomplish by word of mouth. We
admonish you that you take heed to receive this writing of ours as
though it were the word of the Lord Himself with awe and humility of
mind.
"Therefore we beseech you and command you: let the remembrance of your
profession come to you; bring often before your eyes the sacred order
to which you belong, to which is joined the vow of chastity; consider
also the guidance of souls which you have undertaken, in which should
be shown the example of chastity. In addition to these things, ponder,
I specially entreat, over the fear of hell, and the love of celestial
pleasures. Occupy yourself, I beseech you, by the crucifixion of
Christ, for the future, with the importance of a holy conduct of life,
cleanse yourself of the stain of crime, and by the radiance of good
deeds flee the darkness of your past life, and by the fragrance of a
good reputation dispel the repulsive odors which have arisen.
"And so, with the tenderness of my inmost soul, I ask that you drink
the bitter portion of this page, inasmuch as it is offered lovingly and
that through it you may profit and benefit. Drink, therefore, not only
willingly, but eagerly, the bitter cup of your transformation into a
new man.
"Farewell in Christ, Farewell."
What could the Abbot write in reply, to convince the Bishop that a
visit in person was not necessary? There was a strong probability that
a smooth, repentant letter might deceive the old man; but once let his
penetrating eyes fall on the Abbot himself, let him come near enough
to hear the thousand and one bits of scandal that were floating about
the neighborhood, and the Abbot's occupancy of the monastery was but a
question of hours. Besides, the Abbot needed time to set in motion an
earnest appeal to the Archbishop to relieve him of the "inquisitorial
jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely." And if that did not succeed,
there still would be Rome to appeal to. Plenty of Abbeys had received
this privilege, and the Abbey of St. Dunstan had grown rich and had
more moneys to spend than even the powerful Bishop, who had his great
estate to keep up and who could not mortgage his properties beyond
his own lifetime. The monastery of St. Dunstan had indeed thrived
off the popularity of its shrine to St. Mary, to which women came who
were desirous of becoming mothers. The divine afflatus had worked so
many miracles upon wives who had long disappointed the hopes of their
husbands, that its reputation had spread throughout the land. For a
while vast content filled the breasts of the fortunate fathers, but
little by little certain ugly rumors began to be whispered, and it was
these that caused the Bishop's letter.
The patient scribe awaited the Abbot's pleasure. The Abbot fumed and
scowled. At last,--
"Most dearly beloved Brother in Christ," he began.
Just then a monk stood before him. "What do you want?" asked the Abbot,
somewhat impatiently, since he was at last launched upon the important
letter, and it would not do to put off answering it too long, or the
writer might suddenly find strength to come in person. "What is it?"
"There stands before the gate a russet priest who begs admission,"
spoke up the monk.
"Admit him. Why come you to me for that? I am occupied. Begone!"
"But, most revered Father, by his own admission he is under the ban of
the Church."
"Ah, so? Let me see him." And the Abbot slowly waddled to the gate,
and peered through the bars. There he saw a young poor priest upon his
knees.
"What do you wish?" he asked.
"I wish to be received again into the bosom of the Church."
"Do you wish it?"
"Yes, I wish and desire it."
"Your name?"
"Robert Annys."
The Abbot's eyes lit up with triumph. He knew well the story of this
wilful young poor priest, who had refused high office at the hand of
the Hierarchy and defied it. Perchance if he converted this notorious
sinner, the Bishop might be brought to look less severely on his own
past sins. The Abbot looked down upon the young man complacently. "The
fellow looks meek enough now," he thought. He drew himself up, and
spoke in solemn tones the words that would receive the erring one back
into the bosom of the Church. Pleasanter work this, by far, and more
soothing to his pride, than penning letters of contrition and obeisance.
"Receive, then," he recited, "the sign of the Cross of Jesus Christ and
of Christianity, which you have hitherto borne and which the error
which had deceived you caused you to lose most miserably."
Then he swung wide the ponderous gate, saying:
"Enter into the house of God, after having departed therefrom,
bewildered unhappily by error. Know you that you have been snatched
from the snares which are Death and Destruction."
Annys followed the Abbot to his private chamber. The Abbot knew well
the type of man before him, the exalted, morbidly self-censorious type,
which would fling itself on the cold, hard ground for an entire night
for the harboring of an unholy thought. He listened with benignant
countenance to the tale of the penitent man, and well he believed his
word that this had been his first temptation to sin. He knew, too, that
this was a case that required soothing rather than harassing. This was
the kind of man whose reason becomes unseated from a real agony of
contrition. He laid one fat hand upon the shoulder of the young poor
priest who kneeled before him, abjectly.
"How do you know, my son, that it was a woman whom you encountered in
the woods on your way here, and who tempted you so sorely?"
How did he know? How could he bring himself to say that every nerve in
his body had trembled with ecstasy in her presence?
"Yea, it was a woman, Holy Father, the most beautiful woman on the
earth."
The Abbot smiled; in the course of a long experience he had heard of a
good many most beautiful women on the earth.
"I know well that it bore the semblance of a woman," he went on
suavely, "but how know you that it was other than an evil spirit--one
of Satan's minions sent to tempt you on your way to Holy Church?"
Was it possible? Was the whole thing but a horrible vision which
had been sent to mock him? Horrible! Was it, then, wholly horrible?
Great God! he was undone indeed. Here he kneeled at the foot of his
confessor, and, instead of the countenance of his dear Lord, the
tantalizing, brilliant beauty of a woman's face was before his eyes. He
was utterly lost in sin.
"O Father, most Holy Father," he cried passionately, "shrive me, shrive
me! I will fast three days, not even water shall pass my lips. I will
spend three whole nights on my bare knees on the ground. I will bear
three thousand lashes, anything, anything. Only let the countenance of
my God be turned again toward me."
"Tell me, did not the form of the woman seem to disappear miraculously
when you made the sign of the cross?"
"Yes, yes, Holy Father; the ground seemed to part and swallow her up,
and she disappeared from my sight utterly."
"Ah, I thought as much. Doubtless she descended into the awaiting pit
of hell. I shall exorcise the Evil Spirit from you, and you shall have
peace. Fear not. All will yet be well."
"A penance, a penance."
The Abbot pondered for a moment. He must name something that would
appeal to the penitent as sufficient, yet he dared not permit him to
undergo too severe a strain in his evidently exhausted condition.
Suddenly his face lit up with an inspiration. "I have heard," he said,
"of your good work among the poor. The rustics believe in you and trust
you. Go to the cellarer and get bread in plenty and scatter it in great
largesse among the poor people" (he could yet make the monastery bear a
sweeter name before the coming of the Bishop) "and give it all in the
name of the Abbey of St. Dunstan, forgetting not to deliver with it the
blessing of the Holy Abbot."
But Annys implored that some real penance be given him. "Besides," he
added, "I have no longer the strength to go forth into the world.
There will I meet with women. I desire and pray not to see the face of
woman more."
The Abbot hid a smile. He had heard like protestations before. He had
also known to come later the fervent appeals for permission to depart
from the Abbey for a brief space. With the giving of such permissions
the Abbot was notoriously generous.
"Well," returned the Abbot, "wait, and for the present remain here and
spend the night on your knees on the floor saying four hundred Aves,
and in the morning, before your fast is broken, one hundred lashes
shall be laid across your back."
"One thousand, Holy Father."
"I have spoken."
Then the Abbot motioned Annys to follow him, and proceeded to the
chapel, where they discovered all the members of the monastery
assembled. At the entrance, Annys took the oath of fidelity and
then prostrated himself while the monks chanted in unison the seven
Penitential Psalms.
It would have taken a brazen sinner indeed to remain unmoved during
the touching service of receiving the excommunicated one back again
into the fold. Annys was deeply stirred. He lay on the floor of the
chapel, shaken by long-drawn sobs, while the exquisite modulations of
the solemn chant rose and fell about him. In the dim religious light,
the monks in their flowing robes, their pallid faces standing out like
carved ivory against their black cowls, seemed as spectres from another
world looking on the trial of a soul before the Great Judge.
How sure, how unfaltering, was the touch of Holy Church upon the
penitent soul. With what fine intuition did the service bring to the
soul of the evil-doer the sense of sin, and finally through the whole
gamut of human emotions,--terror, faltering hope, faith, despair,--at
last, through humiliation and renunciation, lift it with rapture to God.