Part 50 (1/2)
”Brother Paul is dead--he died in the night--there was n.o.body with him--we are sorry he has left us, but glad he is at peace-G.o.d rest the soul of our poor Brother Paul!”
It was Easter Day. At midday service in the church the brothers sang the Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own resurrection from his living grave.
Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling footsteps, and even some coa.r.s.e and ribald talk.
”Bear a 'and, myte.”
”Well, they won't have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs.
He ain't a Danny Lambert, anyway.”
”No, they don't feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this. I'll lay ye odds yer own looking-gla.s.s wouldn't know ye arter three months 'ard on religion and dry tommy.”
”It pawses me 'ow people tyke to it. Gimme my pint of four-half, and my own childring to follow me.”
Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then another stroke, and again another.
”It is the knell,” thought John.
A group of the lay brothers came up and pa.s.sed into the room. ”Now!”
said one, as if giving a signal, and then they pa.s.sed out again with the measured steps of men who bear a burden. ”They are taking him away,” he thought.
He listened to their retreating footsteps. ”He has gone,” he murmured.
The pa.s.sing bell continued to ring out minute by minute, and presently there was the sound of singing. ”It is the service for the dead,” he told himself.
After a while both the bell and the singing ceased, and then there was no sound anywhere except the dull rumble of the traffic in the city outside--the deep murmur of the mighty sea that flows on forever.
”What am I doing?” he asked himself. ”What bolts and bars are keeping me? I am guilty of a folly. I am degrading myself.”
At midday Brother Andrew came with his food. ”Brother Paul is buried,”
he sang, ”the coffin was beautiful--it was covered with flowers--we buried him in his ca.s.sock, with his beads and psalter--we left the cross on his breast--he loved it and died with it in his hands--the Father has come home--he said ma.s.s this morning.”
John Storm could bear no more. He pushed the lay brother aside and made straight for the Superior's room.
The Father was sitting before the fire, looking sad and low and weary.
He rose to his feet with a painful smile, as John broke into his cell with blazing eyes, and cried in a choking voice:
”Father, I can not live the religious life any longer! I have tried to--with all my soul and strength I've tried to, but I can not, I can not! This life of prayer and penance and meditation is stifling me, and corrupting me, and crus.h.i.+ng the man out of me, and I can not bear it.”
”What are you saying, my son?”
”I have been deceiving you and myself and everybody.”
”Deceiving me?”
”It was for my own ends and not Brother Paul's that I helped him to break obedience, and so injure his health and hasten his death.”
”Your own?”