"In my turn," he said quietly, "I must remind you, monsieur, that I am a journalist."

The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and waited for his companion to continue. His silence and the momentary motion of his eyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, expressed admirably his failure to see the connection of his companion's remark.

"Which means," Christian went on to explain, "that my place is not upon either side of the question, but in the middle. I belong to no party, and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is my duty to state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order that my countrymen may form their own judgment. It may appear that at one time I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem to write upon the other. That is one of the misfortunes of my calling."

"Then we are not necessarily enemies," said the Jesuit softly.

"No--not necessarily. On the other hand," continued Christian, with daring deliberation, "it is not at all necessary that we should be friends."

The Jesuit smiled slightly--so slightly that it was the mere ghost of a smile, affecting the lines of his small mouth, but in no way relieving the soft darkness of his eyes.

"Then we are enemies," he said. "He whose follower I am, said that all who are not with Him are against Him."

The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look came over his face. There was one subject upon which he had determined not to converse.

"I am instructed," continued the Provincial, with a sudden change of manner from pleasant to practical, "to ask of you a written promise never to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesus again. In exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you the sincere apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you may have been put, and to a.s.sist you in every way to return home at once."

A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewhere in the room ticked monotonously, otherwise there was no sound audible.

The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking, of the other in his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuit with downcast eyes, his companion watching his immobile features.

At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet tones broke the spell.

"Of course," he said simply, "I refuse."

The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back as he did so.

"Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. The lay brother waiting outside will show you the room a.s.signed to you, and at whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me, remember that I am at your service."

Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp the table with both hands to a.s.sist himself. He stood for a moment, and suddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he would have fallen.

"My head turns," he mumbled incoherently.

"What is the matter? ... what is the matter?"

The Jesuit slipped his arm round him--a slight arm, but as hard and strong as steel.

"You are tired," he said sympathetically, "perhaps you have a little touch of fever. Come, I will a.s.sist you to your room."

And the two men pa.s.sed out together.

CHAPTER XXIII

STRICKEN DOWN

In later days Christian Vellacott could bring back to his memory no distinct recollection of that first night spent in the monastery. There was an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bell in the first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling the elect to prayer at midnight.

After that he must have fallen into a deep, lethargic sleep, for he never heard the distant strains of the organ and the melodious chanting of gruff voices. The strange, unquiet melody hovered over him in the little cell, following him as he glided away from earth upon the blessed wings of sleep, and haunted his restless dreams.

The monks were early astir next morning, for the sweet smell of drying hay filled the air, and the second crop of the fruitful earth lay waiting to be stacked. With tucked-up gowns and bared arms the st.u.r.dy devotees worked with rake and pitchfork. No whispered word pa.s.sed between them; none raised his head to look around upon the smiling landscape or search in the cloudless sky for the tiny lark whose morning hymn rippled down to them. Each worked on in silence, tossing the scented hay, his mind being no doubt filled with thoughts above all earthly things.

Near at hand lay a carefully-kept vegetable garden of large dimensions.

Here grew in profusion all nourishing roots and herbs, but there was no sign of more luscious fruits. Small birds hopped and fluttered here and there unheeded and unmolested, calling to each other joyously, and the warming air was alive with the hum of tinier wings.

In the midst of this walked man--the lord of all--humbly, silently, with bowed head and unadmiring eyes--man whose life was vouchsafed for the enjoyment of all these things.

A little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone floor of the small cell allotted to Christian Vellacott. The thick oak door deadened the sounds of life in the monastery, such as they were, and the strong, laboured breathing of the young Englishman alone broke the chill silence.

Christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. His eyes were half closed, and the ruddy brown of his cheeks had faded into an ashy grey.

His clenched hands lay numbly at his side. Through his open, swollen lips meaningless words came in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

Presently the door opened with a creaking sound, but the sleeper moved no limb or feature. Rene Drucquer entered the cell and ran quickly to the bedside. Behind, with more dignity and deliberation, followed the sub-prior of the monastery. The young priest had obtained permission from his Provincial to see Christian Vellacott for a few moments before his hurried departure for India. Thus Rene had received his mission sooner than he had hoped for. The astute and far-seeing Provincial had from the beginning intended that Rene Drucquer should be removed from harm's way without delay once his disagreeable mission to St. Mary Western was performed.

"My father," exclaimed the young priest in alarm, "he is dying!"

The venerable sub-prior bent his head over the bed. He was a tall, spare man, with very sunken cheeks, and a marvellous expression of placid contentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the face of a young monk. He was very learned in medicines, and in the administration of such simple herbs as were required to remedy the illnesses within the monastery walls. Perhaps some of his patients died when they might have lived under more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy step from life to death within a comfortless cell, and his bony hands were as tender over his sick brethren as those of a woman.

He felt the Englishman's pulse and watched his ashen face for some moments, touching the clammy forehead softly, while Rene Drucquer stood by with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear upon his heart.

Then the sub-prior knelt stiffly down, and placed his clean-shaven lips near to Christian's ear.

"My son," he said, "do you hear me?"

Christian breathed less heavily, as if he were listening to some far-off sound, but never moved a feature. Presently he began to murmur incoherently, and the sub-prior bent his ear to listen.

"Much good would a blessing of mine do you, Hilda," observed Christian into the reverend ear. The old gentleman raised his cadaverous head and looked somewhat puzzled. Again he listened.

"Look after Aunt Judy--she cannot last long," murmured the young Englishman in his native tongue, which was unknown to the monk.

"It is fever," said the sub-prior presently--"one of those terrible fevers which kill men as the cold kills flies!"

No thought seemed to enter the monk's mind of possible infection. He knelt upon the cold floor with one bare and bony arm beneath the sick man's head, while the other lay across his breast. He was looking intently into the veiled eyes, inhaling the very breath of the swollen lips.

"Will he die, my father?" asked Rene Drucquer in a whisper; his face was as pale as Vellacott's.

"He is in the hands of the good G.o.d," was the pious answer. The tall monk rose to his feet and stood before the bed thinking. He rubbed his bony hands together slowly. Through the tiny window a shaft of sunlight poured down upon his grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the deep furrows that ran diagonally down from his cheek-bone to his chin.

"You must watch here, my son," he continued, "while I inform the Father-Provincial of this."

The venerable sub-prior was no Jesuit, and perhaps he would have been just as well pleased had the Provincial elected to live elsewhere than in the monastery. But the Prior--an old man of ninety, and incapable of work or thought--was completely in the power of the Society.

When he found himself alone with the Englishman, Rene Drucquer sat wearily upon a small wooden bench, the only form of seat provided, and leaned his narrow face upon his hands.

The prospect that he saw before him as he sat staring vacantly at the floor of the little cell was black enough. He saw no possible outlet, and he had not the courage to force his way through the barriers erected all round him. It must be remembered that he was a Roman Catholic, and over a sincere disciple of the Mother Church the power of the Jesuits is greater than man should ever be allowed to exercise. The slavery that England fought against so restlessly is nothing to it, for mental bondage is infinitely heavier than physical service. He had determined to accept the Provincial's offer of missionary work in Asia, but the sudden horror of realising that he was a Jesuit, and could never be anything else than a Jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh upon him. He was too young yet to find consolation in the thought that he at all events could attempt to steer a clear, unsullied course through the shoals and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, and he was too old to buoy himself up with the false hope that he might, despite his Jesuit's oath, do some good work for his Church. His awakening had been rendered more terrible by the brilliancy of the dreams which it had interrupted.