"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 acc.u.mulation 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 repet.i.tion 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 Rene 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 Rene 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.

CHAPTER XXV

BACK TO WORK

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed, 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 pa.s.s 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."