day by day christian vellacott recovered strength. the enforced rest, and perhaps also the monastic peacefulness of his surroundings, contributed greatly towards this. in mental matters as in physical we are subject to contagion, and from the placid recluses, vegetating unheeded in the heart of brittany, their prisoner acquired a certain restfulness of mind which was eminently beneficial to his body. life inside those white walls was so sleepy and withal so pleasant that it was physically and mentally impossible to think and worry over events that might be passing in the outer world.
presently, however, christian began to feel idle, which is a good sign in invalids; and soon the days became long and irksome. he began to take an increased interest in his surroundings, and realised at once how little he knew of the existence going on about him. though he frequently passed, in the dim corridors and cloisters, a silent, grey-clad figure, exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely perceptible salutation, he had never spoken with any other inmates of the monastery than the provincial and the sub-prior.
he noticed also that the watchful care of the nurse had imperceptibly glided into that of a warder. he was never allowed out of his cell unless accompanied by the sub-prior—in fact, he was a state prisoner. his daily walks never extended beyond the one path near the potato bed, or backwards and forwards at the sunny end of the garden, where the huge pears hung ripely. from neither point was any portion of the surrounding country visible, but the provincial could not veil the sun, and christian knew where lay the west and where the east.
no possible opportunity for escape presented itself, but the englishman was storing up strength and knowledge all the while. he knew that things would not go on for long like this, and felt that the provincial would sooner or later summon him to the long room at the end of the corridor upon the upper floor.
this call came to him three weeks after the day when the two men had met in the garden—nine weeks after the englishman's captivity had commenced.
“my son,” said the sub-prior one afternoon, “the father provincial wishes to speak with you to-day at three.”
christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, which declared the time to be a quarter to three.
“i am ready,” he said quietly. there was no tremor in his voice or light in his eyes, and he continued walking leisurely by the side of the old monk; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation warmed his heart.
a little later they entered the monastery and mounted the stone stairs together. as they walked along the corridor the clock in the tower overhead struck three.
“i will wait for you at the foot of the stairs,” said the monk slowly, as if with some compunction. then he led the way to the end of the corridor and knocked at the door. he stood back, as if the provincial were in the habit of keeping knockers waiting. such was, at all events, the case now, and some minutes elapsed before a clear, low voice bade him enter.
the monk opened the door and stood back against the wall for christian to pass in. the provincial was seated at the table near the window, which was open, the afternoon being sultry although the autumn was nearly over. at his left hand stood the small venetian mirror which enabled him to see who was behind him without turning round.
as christian crossed the room the provincial rose and bowed slightly, with one of his slow, soft glances. then he indicated the chair at the left-hand side of the table, and said, without looking up:
“be good enough—mr. vellacott.”
when they were both seated the provincial suddenly raised his eyes and fixed them upon the englishman's face. the action was slightly dramatic, but very effective, and clearly showed that he was accustomed to find the eyes of others quail before his. christian met the gaze with a calmness more difficult to meet than open defiance. after a moment they turned away simultaneously.
“i need scarcely,” said the provincial, with singular sweetness of manner, which, however, was quite devoid of servility, “apologise to you, monsieur, for speaking in french, as it is almost your native language.”
christian bowed, at the same time edging somewhat nearer to the table.
“there are one or two matters,” continued the jesuit, speaking faster, “upon which i have been instructed to treat with you; but first i must congratulate you upon your restoration to health. your illness has been very serious... i trust that you have had nothing to complain of... in the treatment which you have received at our hands.”
christian, while sitting quite motionless, was making an exhaustive survey of the room.
“on the contrary,” he said, in a conventional tone which, in comparison to his companion's manner, was almost brutal, “it is probably owing to the care of the sub-prior that i am alive at the present moment, and—”
he stopped suddenly; an almost imperceptible motion of the jesuit's straight eyebrows warned him.
“and...?” repeated the provincial, interrogatively. he leant back in his chair with an obvious air of interest.
“and i am very grateful——to him.”
“the reverend father is a great doctor,” said the jesuit lightly. “excuse me,” he continued, rising and leaning across the table, “i will close the window; the air from the river begins to grow cool.”
the journalist moved slightly, looking over his shoulder towards the window; at the same moment he altered, with his elbow, the position of the small mirror standing upon the table. instead of reflecting the whole room, including the door at the end, it now reproduced the blank wall at the side opposed to the curtained recess where the bed was placed.
“and now, mr. vellacott,” continued the jesuit, reseating himself, “i must beg your attention. i think there can be no harm in a little mutual frankness, and—and it seems to me that a certain allowance for respective circumstances can well be demanded.”
he paused, and opening the leather-bound manuscript book, became absorbed for a moment in the perusal of one of its pages.
“from your pen,” he then said, in a businesslike monotone, “there has emanated a serious and hitherto unproved charge against the holy society of jesus. it came at a critical moment in the political strife then raging in france; and, in proportion to the attention it attracted, harm and calumny accrued to the society. i am told that your motives were purely patriotic, and your desire was nothing beyond a most laudable one of keeping your countrymen out of difficulties. before i had the pleasure of seeing you i said, 'this is a young journalist who, at any expense, and even at the sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name in the world and force himself into public attention.' since then i have withdrawn that opinion.”
during these remarks the provincial had not raised his eyes from the table. he now leant back in the chair and contemplated his own clasped hands. christian had listened attentively. his long, grave face was turned slightly towards the provincial, and his eyes were perhaps a little softer in their gaze.
“i endeavoured,” he said, “some weeks ago, to explain my position.”
the jesuit inclined his head. then he raised his long white finger to his upper lip, stroking the blue skin pensively.
presently he raised his eyes to the englishman's face, and in their velvety depths christian thought he detected an expression which was almost pleading. it seemed to express a desire for help, for some slight assistance in the performance of a difficult task. he never again looked into those eyes in all his life, but the remembrance of them remained in his heart for many years after the surrounding incidents had passed away from memory and interest. he knew that the soul looking forth from that pale and heartless face was of no ordinary mould or strength. in later years, when they were both grey-haired men whose yea or no was of some weight in the world—one speaking with the great and open voice of the press, the other working subtly, dumbly, secretly—their motives may have clashed once more, their souls may have met and touched, as it were, over the heads of the people, but they never looked into each other's eyes again.
the provincial moved uneasily.
“it has been a most unfortunate business,” he said gently, and after a pause continued more rapidly, with his eyes upon the book. “i am instructed to lay before you the apologies of the society for the inconvenience to which you have been put. your own sense of justice will tell you that we were bound to defend ourselves in every way. you have done us a great injury, and, as is our custom, we have contradicted nothing. the society of jesus does not defend itself in the vain hope of receiving justice at the hands of men. i am now in a position to inform you again that you are at liberty—free to go where you will, when you will—and that any sum you may require is at your disposal to convey you home to england ... on your signing a promise never to write another word for private or public circulation on the subject of the holy order of jesus, or to dictate to the writing of another.”
“i must refuse,” said christian laconically, almost before the words had left the jesuit's lips. “as i explained before, i am simply a public servant; what i happen to know must ever be at the public disposal or i am useless.”
a short silence followed this remark. when at length the provincial spoke his tone was cold and reserved.
“of course,” he said, “i expected a refusal—at first. i am instructed to ask you to reconsider your refusal and to oblige me, at the end of a week, with the result of your meditations. if it remains a refusal, another week will be accorded, and so on.”
“until—?”
the jesuit closed the book upon the table in front of him and with great care altered its position so that it lay quite squarely. he raised his eyebrows slightly and glanced sideways towards the englishman. at that moment the bell began summoning the devotees to their evening meal, its deep tone vibrating weirdly through the bare corridors.
“until you accept,” suggested he softly.
christian looked at him speculatively. the faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for a moment in his eyes, and then he turned and looked out of the window.
“i hope, monsieur,” continued the jesuit, “that when i have the pleasure of seeing you—a week hence—your health will be quite re-established!”
“thank you!”
“and in the meantime i shall feel honoured by your asking for anything you may require.”
“thank you!” answered christian again. he was still looking over his shoulder, down at the brown river which ran immediately below the window.
“please excuse my rising to open the door for you,” said the provincial, with cool audacity, “but i have a few words to write before joining our brethren at their evening repast.”
christian turned and looked at him vaguely. there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes, and he was breathing heavily. then he rose and, as he passed the jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his grave salutation. he walked quickly down the length of the room, which was not carpeted, and opened the door, closing it again with some noise immediately. but he never crossed the threshold. to the man sitting at the table it was as if the englishman had left the room, closing the door after him.
presently the provincial glanced at the mirror, from mere habit, and found that it was displaced. he re-arranged it thoughtfully, so that the entire room was included in its field of reflection.
“i wonder,” he said aloud, “when and why he did that!”
then he returned to his writing. in a few minutes, however, he rose and pushed back his chair. with his hands clasped behind his back he stood and gazed fixedly out of the window. beneath him the brown water glided past with curling eddy and gleaming ripple, while its soft murmur was the only sound that broke the pathetic silence surrounding this lonely man. his small and perfectly formed face was quite expressionless; the curve of his thin lips meant nothing; all the suppressed vitality of his being lay in those deep, soft eyes over which there seemed to be a veil. presently he turned, and with lithe, smooth steps passed down the long room and out of the door.
instantly christian vellacott came from his hiding-place within the recess. he ran to the window and opened it noiselessly. a moment later he was standing upon the stone sill. the afternoon sun shone full upon his face as he stood there, and showed a deep red flush on either cheek. slowly he stooped forward, holding with one hand to the woodwork of the window while he examined critically the surface of the water. suddenly he threw his arms forward and like a black shadow dived noiselessly, passing into the depth without a splash. when he rose to the surface he turned to look at the monastery. the provincial's window was the only outlet directly on to the river.
the stream was rapid, and after swimming with it for a short time he left the water and lay down to recover his breath under the friendly cover of some bushes. there he remained for some time, while the short october twilight closed over the land. a man just dragged from the jaws of death, he lay in his wet clothes where he first found shelter without even troubling to move his limbs from the pools of water slowly accumulating. already the monastery was a thing of the past. with the rapid forethought of his generation he was already looking to the future. he knew too well the spirit of the people in france to fear pursuit. the monks never ventured beyond their own walls except on ostentatious missions of charity. the machinations of the society of jesus were less to be feared in france than in england, and he had only to take his story to the nearest sub-prefecture to raise a storm of popular opinion in his favour. but this was not his project. with him, as in all human plans, his own personal feelings came before the possible duty he owed to the public. he lay beneath the bramble undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequent to his disappearance. at that moment the fortunes of the beacon gave him no food for thought. what mr. bodery and his subordinate might, or might not, think found no interest in his mind. all his speculations were confined to events at st. mary western, and the outcome of his meditations was that when the friendly cover of darkness lay on the land he rose and started to walk briskly across the well-tilled country towards the north.
that portion of brittany which lies along the northern coast is a pastoral land where sleep occupies the larger half of man's life. although it was only evening, an hour when paris and london recover, as it were, from the previous night's vigil and brighten up into vigour, the solitary englishman passed unheeded through the squalid villages, unmolested along the winding roads. mile after mile of scanty forest land and rich meadow were left behind, while, except for a few heavily-breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. at last he came upon a broader road which bore unmistakable signs of military workmanship in its construction, and here he met, and passed with laconic greeting, a few peasant women returning with empty baskets from some neighbouring market; or perhaps a “cantonnier” here and there, plodding home with “sabots” swinging heavily and round shoulders bent beneath the burden of his weighty stone-breaking implements.
following the direction of this road his course was now towards the north-east, with more tendency to the eastward than he desired, but there was no choice. about eight o'clock he passed through a small village, which appeared to be already wrapped in stupid slumber such as attends the peasant's pillow. a cock crowed loudly, and in reply a dog barked with some alarm, but christian was already beyond the village upon the deserted high road again.
he now began to feel the weakening effect of his illness; his legs became cramped, and he frequently rested at the roadside. the highway was running still more to the eastward now, and christian was just beginning to consider the advisability of taking to the country again, when it joined a broader road cut east and west. here he stopped short, and, raising his head, stood quite still for some moments.
“ah!” he muttered. “the sea. i smell the sea.”
he now turned to the left, and advanced along the newly-discovered road towards the west. as he progressed the pungent odour of seaweed refreshed him and grew stronger every moment. suddenly he became aware that although high land lay upon his left hand there was to his right a hollow darkness without shadow or depth. no merry plash of waves came to explain this; the smell of the sea was there, but the joyous tumble of its waters was not to be heard. the traveller stooped low and peered into the darkness. gradually he discerned a distant line of horizon, and to that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet of water without light or motion. upon his ears there stole a soft bubbling sound, varied occasionally by a tiny ripple. suddenly a flash of recollection appeared to pass through the watcher's mind, and he muttered an exclamation of surprise as he turned towards the east and endeavoured to pierce the gloom. he was right. upon the distant line of horizon a jagged outline cut the sky. it was like the form of a huge tooth jutting out from the softer earth. such is mont st. michel standing grandly alone in the midst of a shallow, sullen sea. the only firm thing among the quaking sands, the only stone for miles around.
“the bay of cancale!” reflected christian. “if i keep to the westward i shall reach st. malo before ten o'clock!”
and he set off with renewed vigour. from his feet there stretched away to the north a great dead level of quicksand, seething, bubbling, and heaving in the darkness. the sea, and yet no sea. neither honest land nor rolling water.
