Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 11

The Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible name.

True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub- Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving the chapter, the Convent--yea, even the novices--were silent, to show their displeasure.

When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of G.o.d, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.

Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer--but of him let us say little and think with charity; for 'tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to judgment.

Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was very pleasant to them.

"Since Brother Thomas died--" began Brother Paul.

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Brother Anselm.

"Since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Paul again--a little impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough--"methinks the provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother."

"Ay, and the wine," said Brother Anselm. "Methinks our Cellarer draws the half of it from the Convent's well."

They shook their heads sadly.

"No doubt," said Brother Anselm after a short silence, "our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of his office--while Brother Thomas, alack--"

"Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties,"

said Brother Paul. "The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of these things. On Sunday's feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with appet.i.te."

"He is but young, he is but young--sixty come Michaelmas--sixty, and twenty-two years Prior--'tis a long term," and Brother Anselm nodded his head.

"Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth," said Brother Paul, "whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat.

Brother Thomas--G.o.d rest his soul!--was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder Brethren."

"Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults," said Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. "Think you 'twould be well to speak of this matter to the Prior?"

"Nay, nay," said the other, "he is ever against any store being set on the things of this world--''tis well for the greater discipline of the flesh,' so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to us elder Brethren."

"Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Anselm ruefully.

"Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him--maybe he will hear a word in season," and the two old monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer's office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk.

He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St Alban's. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?

He pa.s.sed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk's dying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see.

Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary's flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was all pa.s.sing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for the boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand.

Ah well, blessed be G.o.d who had called him from the things of this world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait.

The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place.

"Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent," chanted the deep voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen's voice trembled as he joined in the Psalmody.

"Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes autem venient c.u.m exultatione portantes manipulos suos."

He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting was not yet.

CHAPTER II--MARY'S LILIES

It came to pa.s.s upon a certain day scarce a se'nnight later, that Prior Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him.

It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of the bees busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling--a voice he knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, for it was the voice of G.o.d. He arose in haste and went out into the garth, and lo! under the lilies Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of gra.s.s that lay between the cloister and the farmery door.

As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. He strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were as lead.

The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to arouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as the calling of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then, in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay; and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and cried out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free.

He strode to the woman's side: there was but one lily left. He laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him: and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry of fear--and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he was sore troubled.

"Maybe," said he, "evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his mother, on whom G.o.d have mercy!" And sighing heavily he took his way to the great Rood and made supplication for his son.

Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of Florence, there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched hands, whose many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling upper lip. Great, alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving favour. Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every ruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Her beauty--nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape the torment of her look. She stood in the curtained doorway, a heavy purple hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her paled as he saw her vengeful face.

It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender height, and bowed.

Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued marble floors; and, as she pa.s.sed, a vase of great white lilies caught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause the Angelus sounded from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the stillness fled before a woman's scornful laugh.

"Nay, then, Signor," she cried mockingly, "is ours to be a war of signs and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with judgment, though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all that is said of thee be true, I will e'en have thee whipped at the gibbet for thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; 'tis a last asking. Wilt thou paint this face of mine that is, it seems, so little to thy liking? Strain not my patience over much-- 'tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?"

Hilarius looked away to where Mary's flowers lay bruised and scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and clear:-

"'It is nay.'"

She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was a stain where her teeth had been busy.

"'It is nay,'" she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him.

"May a poor Princess ask the Signor's reason?"

Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.

"It lies there."

For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered in her wrath:-

"And dost thou--dost thou dare, say this to my face--to me, who stooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched beauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their G.o.d! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? 'Tis small wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale they brought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield the rod and lace thy shoulders."

She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peac.o.c.ks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had no word.

There was silence a while.