Part 28 (1/2)

Next morning the daylight had not quite dawned when he was awakened by a knock at his door and a low voice saying, ”Benedicamus Domino!”

It was the Father Superior, who made it his rule to rouse the household himself, on the principle of ”whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.”

”Deo Gratias,” he answered, and the voice went on through the corridor.

Then the bell rang for Lauds and Prime, and John left his cell to begin his life as Brother Storm.

II.

Though it was against the rule of the Order to indulge in particular friends.h.i.+ps, yet in obedience to the rule of Nature he made friends among the brothers. His feeling for the Superior became stronger than love and approached to adoration, and there were certain of the Fathers to whom his heart went out with a tender sympathy. The Father Minister was a man of a hard, closed soul, very cantankerous and severe; but the rest were gentle and timid men for the most part, with a wistful outlook on the world.

It was due in part to the proximity of his cell to the quarters a.s.signed to the lay brothers that his two closest friends.h.i.+ps were made among them. One was with a great creature, like an overgrown boy, who kept the door to the monastery by day, and alternated that duty with another by night. He was called Brother Andrew--for the lay brothers were known by their Christian names--and he was one of those characterless beings who are only happy when they have merged their individuality in another's and joined their fate to his. He attached himself to John from the first, and as often as he was at liberty he was hanging about him, ready to fetch and carry in his shambling gait, which was like the roll of an old dog. The expression of his beardless face was that of a boy, and he had no conversation, for he always agreed with everything that was said to him.

The other of John's friends.h.i.+ps was with the lay brother whom he had known outside--the brother of Polly Love--but this was a friends.h.i.+p of slower growth, impeded by a tragic obstacle. John had seen him first in the refectory on the night of his arrival, and observed in his face the marks of suffering and exhaustion. At various times afterward he had seen him in the church and encountered him in the corridors, and had sometimes bowed to him and smiled, but the brother had never once given sign of recognition. At length he had begun to doubt his ident.i.ty, and one morning, going upstairs from breakfast side by side with the Superior, he said:

”Father, is the lay brother with the melancholy eyes and the pale face the one whom I knew at the hospital?”

”Yes,” said the Father; ”but he is under the rule of silence.”

”Ah! Does he know what has become of his sister?”

”No.”

It was the morning hour of recreation, and the Father drew John into the courtyard and talked of Brother Paul.

He was much tormented by thoughts of the world without, and being a young man of a weak nervous system and a consumptive tendency, such struggles with the evil one were hurtful to him. Therefore, though it was the rule that a lay brother should not be consecrated until after long years of service, it had been decided that he should take the vows immediately, in order that Satan might yield up his hold of him and the world might drag at him no more.

”Is that your experience?” said John; ”when a religious has taken the vows, are his thoughts of the world all conquered?”

”He is like the sailor making ready for his voyage. As long as he lies in harbour his thoughts are of the home he has left behind him; but when he has once crossed the bar and is out on the ocean he thinks only of the haven where he would be.”

”But are there no backward glances, Father? The sailor may write to the friends he has parted from--surely the religious may pray for them.”

”As brothers and sisters of the spirit, yes, always and at all times; as brothers and sisters of the flesh, no, never, save in hours of especial need. He is the spouse of Christ, my son, and all Christ's children are his kindred equally.”

As a last word the Father begged of John to abstain from reference to anything that had happened at the hospital, lest Brother Paul might hear of it and manifold evils be the result.

The warning seemed needless. From that day forward John tried to avoid Brother Paul. In church and in the refectory he kept his eyes away from him. He could not see that worn face, with its hungry look, and not think of a captured eagle with a broken wing. It was with a shock that he discovered that their cells were side by side. If they came near to each other in the corridors he experienced a kind of terror, and was thankful for the rule of silence which forbade them to speak. Under the smouldering ashes there might be coals of fire which only wanted a puff to fan them into flame.

They came face to face at last. It was on the lead flat of the tower above their cells. John had grown accustomed to go there after Compline, that he might look on London from that eminence and thank G.o.d that he had escaped from its clutches. The stars were out, and the city lay like a great monster around and beneath. Something demoniacal had entered into his view of it. Down there was the river, winding like a serpent through its sand, and here and there were the bridges, like the scales across it, and farther west was the head of the great creature, just beginning to be ablaze with lights.

”She is there,” he thought, and then he was startled by a sound. Had he uttered the words aloud? But it was some one else who had spoken.

Brother Paul was standing by the parapet with his eyes in the same direction. When he became conscious that John was behind him he stammered something in his confusion, and than hurried away as if he had been detected in a crime.

”G.o.d pity him!” thought John. ”If he only knew what has happened!”

Going back to his cell, he began to think of Glory. By the broken links of memory he remembered for the first time, since coming into the monastery, the condition of insecurity in which he had left her. How uncertain her position at the hospital, how perilous her relations with her friend!

The last prayer of the day for the brothers of the Gethsemane was the prayer before the crucifix by the side of the bed: ”Thanks be to G.o.d for giving me the trials of this day!” To this he added another pet.i.tion: ”And bless and protect her wheresoever she may be!”