one mellow autumnal evening, when the sunlight reflected from the white monastery walls upon the fruit trees climbing there was still warm and full of ripening glow, the provincial was taking his post-prandial promenade.
it is, perhaps, needless to observe that he was alone. no one ever walked with the provincial. no footstep ever crushed the gravel in harmony with his gliding tread. perhaps, indeed, no one had ever walked with him thus, in the twilight, since a fairy, dancing form had moved in the shadow of his tall person, and footsteps lighter than his own had vainly endeavoured to keep time with his longer limbs. but that was in no monastery garden; and the useful, vegetable producing enclosure bore little resemblance to the chateau terrace. in those days it may be that there was a gleam of life in the man's deep, velvety eyes—perhaps, indeed, a moustache adorned the short, twisted lip where the white fingers rasped so frequently now.
the pious monks were busy with their evening meal, and the provincial was quite alone in the garden. all around him the leaves glowed ruddily in the warm light. everywhere the fruits of earth were ripe and full with mature beauty; but the solitary walker noted none of these. he paced backwards and forwards with downcast eyes, turning slowly and indifferently as if it mattered little where he walked. the merry blackbirds in the hay field adjoining the garden called to each other continuously, and from a hidden rookery came the voice of the dusky settlers, which is, perhaps, the saddest sound in all nature's harmonies. but the jesuit resolutely refused to listen. once, however, he stopped and stood motionless for some seconds, with his head turned slightly to meet the distant cry; but he never raised his eyes, which were deep and lifeless in their gaze. it may be that there was a rookery near that southern chateau, where he once had walked in the solemn evening hour, or perhaps he did not hear that sound at all though his ear was turned towards it.
it would be hard indeed to read from the priest's still features the thoughts that might be passing through his powerful brain; but the strange influence of his being was such as makes itself felt without any spoken word. as he walked there with his long hands clasped behind his back, his peculiarly shaped head bent slightly forward, and his perfect lips closely pressed, no one could have looked at him without feeling instinctively that no ordinary mind was busy beneath the tiny tonsure—that no ordinary soul breathed there for weal or woe, seeking after higher things in the right way or the wrong. the man's cultivated repose of manner, his evident intellectuality, and his subtle strength of purpose visible in every glance of his eyes, betrayed that although his life might be passed in the calm retreat of a monastery, his soul was not there. the man was never created to pass his existence in prayerful meditation; his mission was one of strife and contention amidst the strong minds of the age. one felt that he was living in this quiet breton valley for a purpose; that from this peaceful spot he was dexterously handling wires that caused puppets—aye, puppets with golden crowns—to dance, and smirk, and bow in the farthest corners of the earth.
presently the jesuit heard footsteps upon the gravel at the far side of the garden, but he did not raise his head. his interest in the trivial incidents of everyday life appeared to be quite dead.
“softly, softly!” said a deep, rough voice, which the provincial recognised as that of the sub-prior; then he raised his eyes slightly and looked across the garden, without, however, altering his pace.
he saw there christian vellacott walking by the side of the hard-faced old monk with long, hesitating strides, like a man who had forgotten how to use his legs. it was exactly six weeks since the young journalist had passed through that garden with rené drucquer, and those weeks had been to him a strange and not unpleasant dream. it seemed as if the man lying upon that little bed was in no way connected with the wiry, energetic christian vellacott of old. as he lay there semi-somnolent and lazily comfortable from sheer weakness, his interest in life was of a speculative description, as if he looked on things from afar off. nothing seemed to matter much. there was an all-pervading sense of restful indifference as to whether it might be night or day, morning, noon, or evening. all responsibility in existence seemed to have left him: his ready pride of self-dependence had given way to a gentle obedience, and the passage from wakefulness to sleep was very sweet.
through all those dreamy hours he heard the soft rustle of woollen garments and the suppressed shuffle of sandalled feet. whenever he opened his heavy eyes he discerned vaguely in the dim light a grey, still form seated upon the plain wooden bench at his bedside. whenever he tried to change his position upon the hard bed and his weary bones refused their function, strong, hard hands were slipped beneath him and kind assistance freely given. as a rule, it was the tall sub-prior who ministered to the sick man, fighting the dread fever with all his simple knowledge; his hands smoothed oftenest the tossed pillow; but many clean-shaven, strong, and weary faces were bowed over the bed during those six weeks, for there was a competition for the post of sick-nurse. the monks loved to feel that they were performing some tangible good, and not spending their hours over make-believe tasks like a man-of-warsman in fine weather.
one frequent visitor, however, christian vellacott never saw beneath his lazy lashes. the provincial never entered that little cell unless he was positively informed that its inmate was asleep. the inscrutable jesuit seemed almost to be ashamed of the anxiety that he undoubtedly felt respecting the sick man thus thrown upon his hands by a peculiar chain of incidents. he spoke coldly and sarcastically to the sub-prior whenever he condescended to mention the subject at all; but no day passed in which he failed to pay at least one visit to the little cell at the end of the long, silent corridor.
“softly, softly!” said the old sub-prior, holding out his bony hand to stay his companion's progress, “you are too ambitious, my son.”
christian laughed in a low, weak voice, and raised his head to look round him. the laugh ceased suddenly as he caught sight of the provincial, and across the potato-bed the two strong men looked speculatively into each other's eyes in the peaceful twilight. the jesuit's gaze fell first, and with a dignified bow he moved gently away.
“i am stronger than i look, my father,” said christian, turning to his companion. then they walked slowly on, and presently rested upon a wooden bench built against the monastery wall.
the young englishman leaned back and watched the provincial, who was pacing backwards and forwards where they had first seen him. the old monk sat with clasped hands, and gravely contemplated the gravel beneath his feet. thus they waited together within the high, whitewashed walls, while the light faded from the western sky. three types, as strangely contrasted as the student of human kind could wish to see: the old monk with his placid bloodless face and strong useless arms—a wasted energy, a mere monument to mistaken zeal; and the younger men so widely severed by social circumstances, and yet resembling each other somewhat in heart and soul. each had a strong individuality—each a great and far-reaching vitality. each was, in his way, a power in the world, as all strong minds are; for in face of what may be said (and with apparent justice) respecting chance and mere good fortune, good men must come to the top among their fellows. they must—and most assuredly they do. as in olden days the doughtiest knights sought each other in the battlefield to measure steel, so in these later times the ruling intellects of the day meet and clear a circle round them. the provincial was a power in the society of jesus; perhaps he was destined one day to be general of it; and christian vellacott had suddenly appeared upon the field of politic strife, heralding his arrival with two most deadly blows dealt in masterly succession. from the first they were sure to come together, sooner or later; and now, when they were separated by nothing more formidable than a bed of potatoes, they were glancing askance and longing to be at each other. but it could not be. had the sub-prior left the garden it would have made no difference. it was morally impossible that those two men could speak what they were thinking, for one of them was a jesuit.
the provincial, however, made the first move, and the englishman often wondered in later days what his intention might have been. he walked on to the northern end of the garden, where a few thick-stemmed pear trees were trained against the wall. the fruit was hanging in profusion, for it was not consumed in the monastery but given to the poor at harvest-time. the provincial selected a brown, ripe pear, and broke it delicately from the tree without allowing his fingers to come in contact with the fruit itself. then he turned and walked with the same lazy precision towards the two other occupants of the garden. at his approach the sub-prior rose from his seat and stood motionless with clasped hands; there was a faint suggestion of antagonism in his attitude, which was quite devoid of servility. christian, however, remained seated, raising his keen grey eyes to the provincial's face with a quiet self-assertion which the jesuit ignored.
“i am glad, monsieur, to see you restored to health,” he said coldly to christian, meeting his gaze for a moment.
the englishman bowed very slightly, and there was a peculiar expressiveness in the action which betrayed his foreign education, but the cool silence with which he waited for the provincial to speak again was essentially british. the jesuit moved and glanced slowly beneath his lowered eyelids towards the motionless figure of the sub-prior. he was too highly bred to allow himself to be betrayed into any sign of embarrassment, and too clever to let the englishman see that he was hesitating. after a momentary pause he turned gravely to the sub-prior, and said:
“will you allow your patient, my brother, to taste of our fruit? it is ripe and wholesome.”
then, without awaiting a reply, he presented the pear to vellacott. it was a strange action, and no doubt there was some deep intention in it. the jesuit must have known, however, from rené drucquer's report, and from his own observations, that christian vellacott was of too firm a mould to allow his feelings to be influenced by a petty action of this description, however sincere and conciliatory might have been the spirit in which it was conceived. perhaps he read the englishman's character totally wrong, although his experience of men must have been very great; or perhaps he really wished to conciliate him, and took this first step with the graceful delicacy of his nation, with a view to following it up.
with a conventional word of thanks, vellacott took the pear and set it down upon the bench at his side. whatever the jesuit's intention might have been, it was frustrated by his quiet action. it would have been so easy to have said a few words of praise regarding the fruit, and it was only natural to have begun eating it at once; but vellacott read a deeper meaning in all this, and he chose a more difficult course. it was assuredly harder to keep silence then than to talk, and a weaker-minded man would have thanked the provincial with effusion. the manner in which vellacott laid the fruit upon the bench, his quiet and deliberate silence, conveyed unmistakably and intentionally that the provincial's society was as unwelcome as it was unnecessary. there was nothing to be done but take the hint; and in the lowering twilight the solitary, miserable man moved reluctantly away. with contemplative hardness of heart the englishman watched him go; there was no feeling of triumph in his soul—neither, however, was there pity. the jesuit had chosen his own path, he had reached his goal, and that most terrible thirst—the thirst for power—was nearly slaked. if at times—at the end of a long day of hard mental work, when men's hearts are softened by weariness and lowering peace—he desired something else than power, some little touch of human sympathy perhaps, his was the blame if no heart responded to his own. christian vellacott sat and wondered dreamily, with the nonchalance of a man who has been at the very gates of death, if power were worth this purchase-money.
the sub-prior had seated himself again, and with his strong hands meekly clasped he waited. he knew that something was passing which he could not understand: his dull instincts told him vaguely that between these two strong men there was war-fare, dumb, sullen, and merciless; but unused as he was to the ways of men, unlearned in the intricacies of human thoughts, he could not read more.
“you have not told me yet, my father,” said vellacott, “how long i have been ill.”
“six weeks, my son,” replied the taciturn monk.
“and it was very bad?”
“yes, very bad.”
christian slowly rubbed his thin hands together. his fingers were moist and singularly white, with a bleached appearance about the knuckles. his face was thin, but not emaciated, his long jaw and somewhat pronounced chin were not more bony than of old, but the expression of his mouth was quite changed; his lips were no longer thrust upward with a determined curve, and a smile seemed nearer at hand.
“i have a faint recollection of being very tenderly nursed and cared for; generally by you, i think. no doubt you saved my life.”
the sub-prior moved a little, and drew in his feet.
“the matter was not in my hands,” he said quietly.
the englishman, with some tact, allowed this remark to pass in acquiescent silence.
“did you ever think that ... i was not ... going back to england?” he asked presently, in a lighter tone, though the thought of returning home brought no smile to his face.
the sub-prior did not reply at once. he appeared to be thinking deeply, for he leaned forward in an unmonastic attitude with his knees apart, his elbows resting upon them, and his hands clasped. he gazed across the prosaic potato-bed with his colourless lips slightly apart.
“one night,” he began meditatively, “i went to sit with you after the bell for matins had been rung. from midnight till three o'clock you never moved. then i gave you some cordial, and as i stooped over you the candle flickered a little; there were strange shadows upon your face, but around your lips there was a deeper shade. i had seen it once before, on my brother's face when he lay upon the hard paris pavement with a bullet in his lungs, and his breath whistling through the orifice as the wind whistles round our walls in winter. i held the candle closer to your face, and as i did so, a hand came over my shoulder and took it from my fingers. the father provincial had come to help me. he said no word, but set the candle down upon the bed, and i held you up while he administered the cordial drop by drop, as a man oils a cartwheel.”
“ah!” said christian slowly and suggestively, “he was there!”
the monk made no reply. he sat motionless, with a calm, acquired silence, which might have meant much or nothing.
“did he come often?” inquired the englishman.
“very often.”
“i never saw him.”
this, again, was met with silence. presently the sub-prior continued his narrative.
“when daylight came at last,” he said, “the shadow had left your lips. i think that night was the worst; it was then that you were nearer ... nearer than at any other time.”
christian vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest in outward things. with the writer's instinct he went through the world looking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening, and storing up experience. the provincial interested him greatly, but he did not dare to show his curiosity; he hesitated to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. in a minor degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. the old monk was in a communicative humour, and the englishman led him on a little without thinking much about the fairness of it.
“did your brother die?” he asked sympathetically.
“he died,” was the reply. “yes, my son, he died—died cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. he threw away his life in a vain attempt to alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked and cannot be set straight. he sought to bring about at once that which cometh not until the lion shall eat straw like an ox. see, my son, that you do not attempt the same.”
“i think,” said christian, after a pause, “that we all try a little, and perhaps some day a great accumulation of little efforts will take place. you, my father, have tried as well!”
the monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display of conviction.
“i was not always a monk,” he said, as if seeking to excuse a bygone folly.
it was nearly dark now. the birds were silent, and only the whispering of the crisp, withering leaves broke the solemn hush of eventide. the two men sat side by side without speaking. they had learnt to know each other fairly well during the last weeks—so well that between them silence was entirely restful. at length christian moved restlessly. he had reached that stage of convalescence where a position becomes irksome after a short time. it was merely a sign of returning strength.
“where is the abbé drucquer,” he asked abruptly.
“he left us some time ago,” was the guarded reply.
“he spoke of going abroad,” said christian, deliberately ignoring the sub-prior's tone.
“the father provincial told me that the abbé had gone abroad—to india—to spread there the holy light to such as are still in darkness.”
the young journalist thought that he detected again a faint suggestion of antagonism in the sub-prior's voice. the manner in which the information was imparted was almost an insult to the provincial. it was a repetition of his words, given in such a manner that had the speaker been a man of subtle tongue it would have implied grave doubt.
christian was somewhat surprised that rené drucquer should have attained his object so quickly. he never suspected that he himself might have had much to do with it, that it had been deemed expedient to remove the young priest beyond the possible reach of his influence, because he was quite unconscious of this influence. he did not know that its power had affected rené drucquer, and that some reflection of it had even touched the self-contained provincial—that it was even now making this old sub-prior talk more openly than was prudent or wise. he happened to be taking the question from a very different point of view.
