Читать книгу The Scarlet Woman - Joseph Hocking - Страница 10

Table of Contents

The next day Norman Lancaster stood near the gates of an old building, seventy miles from Dublin. It was the Institution for Novitiates where Jack Gray had spent the last two years. The place was four miles distant from a railway station, and, but for another house about a mile away, no signs of human habitation were visible. Spring had only just begun to make its appearance, the trees were still bare, the hedgerows were only just beginning to show their bursting life, but the country side was very beautiful. In the valley near him a clear river sang its way towards the sea; on every hand the country was finely wooded. It would be difficult to conceive of a spot more charmingly situated; it would be just as difficult in a civilised country to find a neighbourhood more forsaken by living beings.

Norman Lancaster had tried to formulate plans for entering the old castellated building which stood on the wooded heights above him, had tried to devise means whereby he might be able to converse with Jack Gray. He had been utterly unsuccessful. He was sure that Father Ritzoom must have seen him with Carelton in London; he was just as sure that, by means of the numerous agencies at his command, he had discovered his mission, and would, therefore, use means for thwarting him in his purposes. But the young man had no idea of giving up. The love for adventure had been aroused within him, and that dogged perseverance which is peculiar to the English race, and which has helped to make our land what it is, was a strongly marked trait of his character.

I do not think he knew much about fear, and he appeared to be as careless and listless as usual as he stood near the gates which opened up the way to the house he desired to enter. He had adopted no disguise; he knew the futility of such devices where a man like Father Ritzoom was concerned. One thing he knew. The Jesuits did not like scandal. He was well aware, moreover, that the Roman Church desired to stand well with the English people, that it was the great desire of its adherents to win back the English race to the Roman fold. For that reason they would do much to keep any reports, which might harm their cause, from circulating in English newspapers.

“It is a funny business,” thought Lancaster; “and if ever a fellow was engaged in a wildgoose chase, I am that fellow. But, by Jove! I believe I enjoy it.”

Interested as he was in his mission, he took note of the rare beauty of the situation, and mentally congratulated the monks on their choice of a place of residence.

“After all, it must be rather a fine experience to become imbued with the rules and constitutions of Ignatius Loyola,” he thought. “I shall be mightily glad to have a talk with Jack—if I can,” and he laughed as he carefully relit his cigar.

He rang boldly at the door of the old house, and a few seconds later he heard steps along an uncarpeted hall. A young man in monk’s attire opened the door and asked him his business.

“I should like to see a young man named Gray, Jack Gray,” replied Norman quietly. “He came here about two years ago.”

“Have you a letter of recommendation?” asked the young man.

“No, but I am an old college chum of his brother.”

“Will you come in?”

Lancaster entered the building and followed his guide into a barely-furnished room. Arrived there, the young priest left him.

“Everything is orderly here,” thought Norman; “no noise, no disturbances. Ah, but this will be a beautiful spot in summer!”

He looked around the room and noted the extreme simplicity of all the arrangements. “No carpets, not a comfortable chair in the place, and not a couch of any sort. The pictures are hideous daubs, while that crucifix above the kneeling-desk is enough to make a nervous man shudder. The place is as cold as a tomb, too,” and the young man almost shivered as he buttoned his coat more tightly around him.

A minute later the door was opened and a priest of about fifty years of age entered. He was a quiet, inoffensive-looking man, with large, mild eyes and a somewhat ruddy face. All his actions were suggestive of indecision, as though he could never fully make up his mind what to do. In his hand he held a small black book.

“You have come for confession?” he said in a low tone.

“No,” said Norman, “I have come to have a talk with a fellow whom I used to know as Jack Gray. I do not know whether he has a new name now. He came here about two years ago.”

“He is a novice, and it is arranged for him to take vows in a fortnight from now—at least, I expect so.”

“Still, there is no reason why I should not see him, I suppose?”

“It is not our desire that the minds of our novices should be disturbed by worldly influences,” said the priest; “and we like, as far as possible, to allow the grace of God to be unhindered.”

He said this in a hesitating way and rubbed his hands nervously. Norman looked at his face keenly and tried to read the man. He saw that the hesitation was only seeming. Behind those mild, large eyes was a great deal of quiet strength.

“I will take your message to him,” he continued; “I will ask him any questions you may desire.”

“I should like to see him alone if I may,” persisted Lancaster. “There are some things in life which one does not care to speak about indiscriminately.”

He thought it best to be free of speech, for he felt sure that Father Ritzoom had been there and prepared the man for his visit. He was beginning to realise something of the unknown forces of the Jesuit order. By what means the purpose of his visit had been discovered he could not imagine, but he knew that the true Jesuit mind was of the most subtle nature.

“There is no secret between the superior and the novice,” replied the priest; “there should not be. Is not that your opinion?”

“And you are the superior?”

“Yes. The work is not of a kind that I care for. I like quiet, freedom from responsibility, solitary communion. But what of that? I am here, I have been here for thirty years.”

Norman began to be grave. There was something awesome in being shut off from the world for thirty years.

“Then you refuse to allow me to see Jack Gray?”

“I do not say that. I only wish to know that you do not desire to unhinge his mind. According to the ninth—one of the most important—of the rules in the Constitutions of St. Ignatius, it is incumbent that all novices shall beware of the devil’s attempts to unsettle them in their holy vocation, and to fill their souls with sadness and trouble.^[A] I should miserably fail in my duties as superior if I were to allow one of my children to be tempted of the devil.”

“But Jack is still a novice and, I suppose, a free man?”

“In a degree, yes.”

“But surely your faith in your religion is very small if you are afraid of a man seven-and-twenty years of age hearing of any matter whatever?”

“Even our blessed Lord prayed, ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ ”

“He also prayed not that His disciples should be taken out of the world, but that they should be kept from the evil of the world.”

The superior looked at Lancaster wonderingly.

“ ‘Kept from the evil.’ Yes,” he repeated. “Do you desire to do the young man harm?”

“No, I desire to do him good.”

“Therefore there is no reason why you should not tell me the message you wish to give him?”

“We see things differently, perhaps,” replied Lancaster. “But I have been told that Jesuits desire to appeal to reason; that they wish to do everything openly—in the light of day; that there is nothing they wish to hide from the world.”

“Oh, that is true—quite true. We have no secrets, none at all.”

“So a Jesuit priest told me once before,” said Norman; “therefore it strikes me as peculiar, aye, and would appear very strange to the British public, if a University graduate who has become a novice was not allowed to see an old friend of his brother.”

The superior seemed to be in deep thought for a few minutes.

“You shall see him,” he said presently; “I will send him to you—that is, if I can arrange for——” He did not finish the sentence; it would seem as though the proviso he hinted at was intended as a kind of justification should he choose to alter his mind.

The superior left the room and found his way into one of the many rooms of the great house. As he entered he saw a young man kneeling before a crucifix. The priest waited a few seconds and then spoke.

“My brother.”

“Yes, father.”

The young man who rose from his knees looked quite thirty years of age. His face was pale, his eyes were bright and lustrous. He was thin almost to emaciation, and his hands twitched nervously as though he were excited.

“My brother,” said the superior, “in a few more days your highest wishes will be realised. You will be able to take the vows of our most Holy Order.”

“Yes, father,” replied the young man, and a look of intense yearning shone in his eyes.

“You are fully prepared for your vocation?”

“I trust so.”

“You have quenched all desire for worldly glory or worldly fame?”

“Yes, yes,” said the young man quickly.

“And nothing would turn you from your purpose? Speak frankly, my brother.”

“Nothing,” replied the young man; then he hesitated, as though he was not quite sure, after which he repeated his answer, “No, nothing.”

“And you are willing to become nothing? to forget all human affection for the advancement of the Holy Church? You have no will of your own? You think only of the will of your Order?”

“That is all.”

“You remember how our holy founder insisted upon obedience, how he urged it as the chief virtue? You also bear in mind the terrible doom which will be the punishment of those who, having put their hand to the plough, turn back?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I ask you these things, my brother, for I think you are about to be tempted.”

The young man turned towards the superior questioningly. “Have you seen a vision concerning me?” he asked, with a bright light in his eyes.

“No, my brother. But a man has come here from the outer world. He is a clever man. I think you knew him when you were in the world. I believe he is an emissary of the devil. You must see him.”

“Yes, father. Will you allow me to ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“If he is an emissary of the devil, is it wise for me to see him?”

“Yes. If you do not he will place a wrong construction upon the refusal. He will say it is because you are afraid. He will tell it to the world, and thereby perhaps hinder many from coming to the light of the Church.”

“I am ready,” replied the novice.

It seemed piteous to see a young fellow of brilliant attainments and great capabilities so passive and yielding. Evidently he had no will, no purpose of his own.

“That is well,” replied the superior. “You remember the words of the holy St. Francis of Assissi, ‘I want dead men and not living ones to be my disciples?’ that in effect was also the desire of our blessed St. Ignatius.”

“I remember, father.”

“You remember, too, that all outward attractions, all temptations from whatever quarter which tend to shake you in your determination to live the life of God, are a snare of the devil?”

The novice knelt before the crucifix and crossed himself. “I remember,” he said fervently.

“Then come this way.”

The novice followed the superior without a word. He asked no further questions, and walked along a corridor, his lips moving as if in prayer.

When they came near the room where Lancaster waited, the superior stopped.

“Norman Lancaster is a clever man, my brother. It may be that grace will be given you to convert him. I pray that it may be so. In any case you will bear in mind all he says and report to me.”

“Norman Lancaster!” cried the young man, like one aroused from sleep.

The superior opened the door and ushered in the novice. Then he went away without speaking a word. Presently he hesitated a second, after which he entered another of the rooms similar to that which he had just left. A priest sat reading.

“My brother,” said the superior, “there is a conversation going on in room No. 14.”

The priest rose without a word.

“It is well to be always ready,” said the superior, “and it is well you have learnt the art of shorthand writing.”

The brother immediately took a note-book and pencil from the table.

“The conversation may be long,” continued the older man, “and possibly of importance; hence every word, seemingly the most trivial, may be of value.”

The priest left the room without a word. After that the superior remained for some time motionless, almost like a statue.

“I wonder whether it is all worth while,” he said at length; “I wonder if, after all, this life——”

He shook himself like one impatient, then walked away with bent head.

During this time Norman Lancaster awaited the coming of Jack Gray. In spite of himself, the atmosphere of the place was affecting him somewhat; he was realising more and more the subtle, far-reaching influences of the Jesuit order. After all, it was a wonderful organisation which could destroy the individuality of many thousands of men and instil into their lives a love for obedience.

When the door opened and he saw Jack Gray, he was almost startled. This was not the eager young debater, the fighter of intellectual battles he had known years before. But Lancaster made no sign of surprise, he simply held out his hand.

“How are you, Gray?” he asked quietly.

The novice shook his hand, and then, after turning to the crucifix and crossing himself, he pointed to a chair.

“Why do you wish to see me?” he said.

[A]	“The Jesuits: their Foundation and History.” Vol. i, p. 42.