For two days after that John saw no more of Brother Paul. "He is doing his penance somewhere," he thought.

Meanwhile the snow was still falling, and when the brothers went out to Lauds at 6 A.M. they pa.s.sed through a cutting of snow which was banked up afresh every morning, though the day had not then dawned. On the third day John was the first to go down to the hall, and there he met Brother Paul, with his spade in his hands, coming out of the courtyard.

He looked like a man who was melting before a fire as surely as a piece of wax.

"I am sorry now that I told you," said John.

Brother Paul hung his head.

"It is easy to see that you are suffering more than ever; and it is all my fault. I will go to the Father and confess."

Between breakfast and Terce John carried out this intention. The Superior was sitting before a handful of fire, in a little room that was darkened by leather-bound books and by the flakes of snow which were falling across the window panes.

"Father," said John, "I am a cause of offence to another brother, and it is I who should be doing his penance." And then he told how he had broken the observance which forbids any one to talk of his relations with the world without

The Father listened with great solemnity.

"My son," he said, "your temptation is a testimony to the reality of the religious life. Satan's rage against the home of consecrated souls is terrible, and he would fain break in upon it if he could with worldly thoughts and cares and pa.s.sions. But we must conquer him by his own weapons. Your penance, my son, shall be of the same kind with your offence. Go to the door and take the place of the doorkeeper, and stay there day and night until the end of the year. Thus shall the evil one be made aware that you are the guardian of our house, to be tampered with no more."

Brother Andrew was troubled when John took his place at the door that night, but John himself was unconcerned. He was doorkeeper to the household, so he began on the duties of his menial position. As the brothers pa.s.sed in and out on their mission-errands he opened the door and closed it. If any one knocked he answered, "Praise be to G.o.d!" then slid back the little grating in the middle panel of the door and looked out at the stranger. The hall was a chill place, with a stone floor, and he sat on a form that stood against one of its walls. His bed was in an alcove which had formerly been the cloak-room, and a card hung over it with the inscription, "Children, obey your parents in the Lord." He had no company except big Brother Andrew, who stole down sometimes to cheer him with his speechless presence, and the dog, which was always hanging about.

VI.

It was at least some comfort to be out of the proximity of Brother Paul.

The sounds of the lay brother in the neighbouring cell had brought back recollections of Glory, and he had more than he could do to conquer his thoughts of her. Since he had taken his vows and had ceased to mention her in his prayers she had been always with him, and his fears for her fate had been p.r.i.c.ked and goaded by the constant presence of Brother Paul's anxieties.

On the other hand, it was some loss that he could not go to the church, and he remembered with a pang how happy he had been after a night of terrors when he had gone into G.o.d's house in the morning and cast his burden on him with one yearning cry of "G.o.d bless all women and young children!"

It was now the Christmas season, and his heart tingled and thrilled as the brothers pa.s.sed through the door at midday and talked of the women who attended the Christmas services. Were they really so calm as they seemed to be, and had they conquered their natural affections?

Sometimes during the midday service he would slide back the grating and listen for the women's voices. He heard one voice in all of them, but he knew it was only a dream. Then he would watch the snow falling from the little patch of dun-coloured sky crossed by bars, and tell himself that that was all he was to see of the world henceforth.

The sky emptied itself at last, and Brother Paul came again to shovel away the snow. He was weaker than ever, for the wax was melting away. When he began to work, his chest was oppressed and his face was feverish. John s.n.a.t.c.hed the spade out of his hand and fell to doing his work instead of him.

"I can't bear to see it, and I won't!" he said.

"But the Father----?"

"I don't care--you can tell him if you like. You are killing yourself by inches, and you are a failing man any way."

"Am I really dying?" said Brother Paul, and he staggered away like one who had heard his sentence.

John looked after, him and thought: "Now what should I do if I were in that man's place? If the case were Glory's, and I fixed here as in a vice?"

He was ashamed when he thought of Glory like that, and he dismissed the idea, but it came back with mechanical obstinacy and he was compelled to consider it. His vows? Yes, it would be death to his soul to break them.

But if she were lost who had no one but him to look to--if she went down to wreck and ruin, then the fires of h.e.l.l would be as nothing to his despair!

Brother Paul came to him next day and sat on the form by his side and said:

"If I'm really dying, what am I to do?"

"What would you like to do, Brother Paul?"

"I should like to go out and find her."

"What good would there be in that?"

"I could say something that would stop her and put an end to everything."

"Are you sure of it?"

A wild light came into his eyes and he answered, "Quite sure."

John played the hypocrite and began to counsel patience.

"But a man can't live without hope and not go mad," said Brother Paul.

"We must trust and pray," said John.

"But G.o.d never answers us. If it were your own case what would you do?

If some one outside were lost----"

"I should go to the Father and say, 'Let me go in search of her.'"

"I'll do it," said Brother Paul.

"Why not? The Father is kind and tender and he loves his children."

"Yes, I _will_ do it," said Paul, and he made for the Father's room.

He got to the door of the cell and then came back again. "I can't," he said. "There's something you don't know. I can't look in his face and ask."

"Stay here and I'll ask for you," said John.

"G.o.d bless you!" said Paul.

John made three hasty strides and then stopped.

"But if he will not----"

"Then--G.o.d's will be done!"

It was morning, and the Superior was reading in his room.

"Come in, my son," he said, and he laid his book on his lap. "This is a book you must read some day--the Inner Life of Pere Lacordaire. Most fascinating! An inner life of intolerable horror until he had conquered his natural affections."