Читать книгу The Scarlet Woman - Joseph Hocking - Страница 11

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Lancaster was almost thrown off his guard by the feverish eagerness with which the novice asked the question. The atmosphere of the place was so tranquil that excitement was out of harmony with all he had seen and heard.

“Why do you wish to see me?” repeated the novice. “You have some purpose in coming here?”

“You are right, Gray,” replied Lancaster; “but even if I had not, there would surely be nothing unnatural in my looking you up. You are no stranger to me, and I know your mother and brother well.”

“With reverence I repeat the words of our blessed Lord,” said the young man, crossing himself, “ ‘He that doeth the will of My Father which is in heaven, the same is My mother and My brother.”

“That is rather a queer statement for one who worships the Virgin Mary, to quote,” said Lancaster, with a smile.

“I am not here to argue,” replied Gray. “I have been told that you wish to see me, that you have some message to deliver. I have come to hear it.”

“I have a message to deliver,” replied Lancaster, “a message of vital importance to you. But I cannot speak of it hastily; it is too sacred.”

“Nothing is too sacred for these walls, for they are consecrated to the service of God.”

“Are you happy here, Gray?” said Lancaster suddenly. He wanted to prepare the young fellow for what he had to say. He felt sure that the novice was safeguarded in many ways, and that the very ease with which he had gained this interview indicated the difficulty of the work he had undertaken.

“Happiness is not the object of life,” replied Gray; “duty, obedience to God, are the great end for which our lives are given. Besides, that has nothing to do with your visit. I am here to hear what you have to tell me.”

“But it has to do with my visit,” replied the other. “If you are happy, contented here, then my message will lose a part of its meaning and value. I have been wondering whether you have forgotten the old days, the life at college—aye, whether no memories remain of—other things.”

“I came here to forget the world,” replied the novice. “The world is full of deceit and wickedness; here I find rest from these things.”

“Do you, Jack?” said Lancaster, with real kindness beaming from his eyes, for the young fellow’s yearning eyes had broken the crust of his own indifference. “Is your heart dead? Is this life natural? Do you think God gave you such a nature as yours to have it buried within these walls, and among the dead men who have a name to live here?”

“What is natural?” asked the novice.

“To meet with men is natural; to fight the world’s battles is natural; to love is natural; to take the one woman in the world to your heart is natural. And as surely as there is a God, it is the will of God.”

“To some it may be, but not to me,” replied the novice, after hesitating a few seconds. “I know the world, I have drunk its pleasures and its bitterness.”

“Are you sure, Gray?” asked Lancaster quietly.

“I have come to see,” went on Gray, without seeming to notice Lancaster’s question, “that my vocation is to live the life of God, to be a priest of the only true Church. I find, too, that by joining the order of Jesuits I can best realise my highest hopes. For two years I have been learning one lesson.”

“And that?”

“To destroy desire, to quell my lower nature, to crucify my pride, to become as meek as a child. In a word, it is the lesson of obedience.”

“Obedience to whom?”

“To my Great Master. To learn that lesson I have been what the world would call degraded. I have undergone the severest penances, I have done the most menial of work. It was my desire when I came here to be spared nothing. I asked that my pride, intellectual as well as social, should be dragged in the dust. It has been. No hands have done more menial work than mine. Aye, even that which would have sickened a scullery slut has fallen to my lot, and I have done it eagerly. I have been subjected to more degradation than any one here. I have had to bear the scorn and derision of all.”

He spoke rather to himself than to Lancaster; he had for the moment forgotten his purpose in coming thither, the light of a fanatic burned in his eyes, and yet behind the evident desire to be a worthy follower of Ignatius was doubt. Lancaster saw it, he could not help being impressed by it.

“You may not know,” he went on; “in fact, the world neither knows nor cares about the sacrifices which have to be made by one who wishes to take the vows of the Society of Jesus. I have spent two years here, and during the whole of that time I have done nothing but study the Constitutions of St. Ignatius, and learn to obey. That is the purpose of the novitiate. This is not a place for the training of the mind, but of the will, the disposition, the heart. I think I have learnt my lesson. I care for nothing now—nothing. Property, name, position, ambition—all is gone to the winds. I am nothing, my order is everything. I am but a stone in the bridge over which the souls of men may travel to the realms of the chosen of God, an unseen pipe in the great organ which breathes forth the music of the world. Mark you, I am not wholly fitted for it yet, but my will and disposition are moulded to the divine will of my order.”

“Then you dare disobey nothing?”

“I desire to obey in everything. Oh, it was hard, hard, terribly hard,” and the young man began to walk to and fro in the room. “When I came here I was, in spite of my disgust with the world, proud—proud of my family, proud of my intellectual attainments. I was a wrangler, I carried everything before me—so the professors said. I was looked up to in debate, and was called a brilliant speaker. Oh, I was, I know it. I can speak plainly, for it is nothing to me now. I was the accepted candidate for a constituency in Devon. After my acceptance I spoke at a great meeting. The speech was fully reported, and the London Times spoke of it as eloquent, masterly. It spoke of me as one who would have a great career. When I came here I could not help remembering these things. I saw that many of the novices were inferior to me in almost everything, and I was tempted to look down upon them. Some of them were low born, badly educated, while I—but what does it matter? It’s all gone now. I have learnt my lesson. I have learnt to obey. ‘Let him that would be greatest among you be the servant of all,’ said my Master, and I have realised something of His meaning.”

Never until now did Lancaster realise the wonderful influence of the Jesuit order. He was introduced to a new world. He did not wonder that such men as Gray saw visions and dreamt dreams. Nor was it strange that Jesuits had such implicit faith. They had stultified the critical faculty; they had destroyed a great part of their lives.

“Obedience such as you speak of would, I think, be reasonable with one proviso,” said Lancaster.

“And that?”

“That the one who commanded such obedience and who demanded such service were God.”

“God does command it.”

“I know of nothing in the teaching of the Founder of Christianity which corresponds with the Constitutions of Ignatius.”

“What of that? My superior commanded.”

“Who struck me as being a mild, good-natured, but somewhat weak man.”

“Ah, but my superior stands for God to me!”

Lancaster smiled.

“Yes, you smile; but to me it is all reasonable. It was not at first, but I have learnt better. My superior gets his power to command from the Provincial, the Provincial from the General of our order, the General from the Pope!”

“And the Pope?”

“The Pope is the vicegerent of Jesus Christ,” said the novice, crossing himself.

Lancaster could not help shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh! I know of what you are thinking. The old, stale argument of Protestants. You are thinking of the lives of some of the Popes. You think of them as base, dissolute, lustful men. You call to mind some of the orgies of Rome in the dark days. I’ve gone through all that. They might be devils. What of that? It is their office which I remember. They were but channels of divine grace.”

“A dirty channel sullies that which runs through it,” said Lancaster, “even if you admit the miserable dogma of the Papacy upon which your faith depends. The history of many of the Popes is the history of crime and false——”

“Stop, stop!” cried the novice. “I will not listen to you. I will not, I say. This is blasphemy!”

“Forgive me,” cried Lancaster; “I intended to say nothing concerning such matters.”

“And I—I,” cried Gray, “had forgotten to whom I was speaking. It is well. When you came I was desirous to know what you had to say to me; but the desire went as I spoke of my hope and desire concerning my life in the Church. I thank God that the world has so little hold upon me.”

“Why did you come here, Jack?” asked Lancaster.

“Because I desired to give myself to God.”

“Yes; but what was the immediate cause of your coming?”

The novice flushed, and Lancaster smiled as he saw the heightened colour on the thin, pale cheeks.

“You know,” he replied simply. “It was painful at the time; but now I rejoice, for my pain has led me to peace.”

“But if that which led you to take such a step has no foundation in truth,” said Lancaster; “if you were utterly mistaken?”

“But I was not.”

“But if you were?”

The novice’s eyes burned with a new light, his hands trembled. He did not reply for a time; then he said, “It would make no difference.”

“Are you sure, Gray?—sure, mark you?”

“Yes, quite sure. You need not trouble to tell me anything. I have overcome; I have learnt to obey.”

“You have stultified your natural affections, but not killed them. God would not allow you to do that. Love is the most sacred thing under the skies.”

Afterwards Lancaster laughed at himself for uttering such words, but at that time they seemed right and reasonable.

“But she did not love me—she——But it does not matter, Lancaster, it does not matter.”

“But it does matter, Gray; it does matter,” replied the other, noting that he had called him by name for the first time.

“How?” asked the novice. “If I have killed all such feelings, how does it matter?”

“Gray,” said Lancaster; “you have revealed by that question a bad side of your training, that you have not caught the true spirit of Christianity.”

“In what way?”

“It has taught you to forget her.”

“No, no;” the young fellow had mistaken the meaning of Lancaster’s words.

“Yes, yes. You have been thinking of your own pain, your own heartburnings, but not of hers.”

Gray staggered like one struck.

“Do you mean to say that she has suffered?” he cried. “She—she—Gertrude? God forgive me for mentioning her name!”

“Yes—she,” replied Lancaster. “Her heart is breaking; she is dying for you.”

“Do you mean that? Say, Lancaster, old chap; don’t mock me, don’t for God’s sake!”

He had forgotten to speak according to the language of his order. For a moment he was a man again.

“I’m not mocking you, Jack. It was all a mistake. She never jilted you. You were jealous and demanded certain explanations; she was proud and refused to give them. But she was true to you—true as the sun. She loved you all the time. She is longing for some message from you—longing, my dear fellow.”

“But where is she now? I heard she was married.”

“She will be married to a bridegroom called ‘Death’ unless she hears from you. It is not too late, Gray. You have not yet taken vows. Strike the blow, man, and be free!”

“Is she ill, then? Tell me, Lancaster, quick!”

“Ill! She, in her despair, entered as a postulant in some enclosed order, and unless she knows that you still love her, she will take the veil.”

“She—she has done that?”

“Yes.”

The novice let his hands drop to his side. “May God forgive me!” he said.

“But it is not too late,” said Lancaster. “In neither case have you yet taken the ‘vows.’ ”

“How long was it after I came here before she became a postulant?”

“Six months.”

“Then it is too late.”

“Why?”

“Why! Because she has had to undergo all I have undergone. Because she has been led to crucify all natural affections. Because she has been taught to kill her heart.”

“But if she still loves you?”

“But I tell you she does not!”

“But if she does? If I can prove to you that she still loves you; that, in spite of penance, fasting, and prayer, you are still her heart’s great desire?”

“It cannot be! It cannot be!”

“But it is so. Within the last three months she has confessed as much—confessed it to her mother. Your brother Horace admitted it to Tom Carelton.”

“Don’t, don’t, Lancaster! You are killing me, my dear fellow!”

“I am bringing you life and happiness, Gray. You love Gertrude Winthrop still, and she loves you. Why should you both ruin your lives? It is atheism to believe that God desires it.”

Gray walked up and down the room like one demented. At times his eyes shone with gladness and hope, and again he seemed in the depths of despair.

“It cannot be; no, it can never be,” he cried out at length. “I have put my hand to the plough. Cursed be me, if I turn back!”

“But why?” asked Lancaster.

In spite of himself, he was strangely interested. Had any one told him a week before that he would have undertaken such a mission, and evinced so much sympathy, he would have laughed him to scorn. But the evident suffering of the man before him aroused him to feel—if needs be, to act.

“It’s all a mystery to you,” said Gray; “a complete mystery, no doubt. You cannot feel as I feel. You have not had the experience through which I have passed these last two years. Why, man, I feel a thousand unseen chains fastened upon me. I have not taken the vows, but I am bound all the same. You cannot be a novice two years in a Jesuit college and still live the life of other men. Here with you I feel a man; but you will be gone presently, and then all the old influences will be at work. Oh, I know; I know! One part of me tells me you are right, but another says you are an emissary of the devil.”

“But what does your heart tell you?”

“My heart? My heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.”

“Rid your mind of cant for a moment, Gray. Is your love for Gertrude Winthrop sinful?”

“No, no—if ever a love was pure, that love is mine; but—but you don’t know, Lancaster; you can’t feel. I have placed my neck under the yoke; it has been there two years. I have willingly placed myself under Jesuitical influence, and I cannot shake it off. I know that in order to become like this I have had to trample on the gifts of which I used to be proud. But it’s done. Even if I ran away I should be followed by haunting fears. I have been told so much about hell that I believe in it—oh, my God! I believe in it! Besides, I cannot believe that she still loves me.”

“What would make you believe that Gertrude Winthrop still loves you?”

“I should want the words from her own lips.”

“That you know is impossible.”

“Then I should want it in her own handwriting. I should want to see the words written by her own dear hand, ‘Jack I love you as much as ever. Jack, I want you to leave the Church and be my husband.’ ”

“It is a great deal to ask; but if this were done—if I could contrive means to see her, and get her to write such words—what then?”

“Then, God help me! Oh, Lancaster, don’t mock me with such a dream of happiness. It can never be; never—never.”

“But it can be—shall be. Be ready to receive such news from me.”

“Oh, but it is impossible. I tell you I shall have to meet my superior presently, and he will drag every word of this interview out of me; and when he knows of all that has passed between us, he will place new restrictions upon me; he will have me watched morning, noon, and night; he will forbid my receiving any messages from the outer world.”

“Do you mean to say that you will tell that mild-eyed fellow all that has passed between us?”

“Oh, I must; I must!”

“But you have not yet taken vows.”

“It does not matter, I am here. I have spent two years as a novice. I am as good as dead. Give it up, Lancaster. It was all a terrible mistake—give it up, old man.”

“No, I will not give it up. And you—be a man. Refuse to tell that fellow anything. Such confessions as these should only be made to God.”

Gray smiled sadly. “You do not know,” he said.

“Do not know what?”

“When I came here I promised that my superior should be as God to me. I have been led to look upon him as standing in the place of God. Thus all he says is binding upon me.”

“No wonder these Roman Catholics so seldom give up their faith,” thought Lancaster; “they are hedged in on every side. Aye, but it is a wonderful system—wonderful in its refinement of cruelty.” Aloud he said, “But I am not afraid of your superior’s threats or vaunted powers. And I tell you, old man, we’ll snap these cords of his like Samson snapped those of the Philistines. Don’t be afraid; in a few days I’ll bring you a message from Gertrude—a message written by her own hand; and then, by Jove! we’ll make these old Jesuits shake in their shoes if they try to keep you here.”

They had been talking in a low voice all the time, so low that it would be difficult for any one to hear; as a consequence Gray’s quick ears caught the sound of footsteps coming along the uncarpeted hall.

“Stop,” he whispered, “some one is coming.”

Lancaster rejoiced in the young fellow’s evident desire that they should not be overheard. He had grave doubts about being able to do what he had promised, but he felt glad that he had made Gray feel as he believed every one ought to feel.

The door opened and a priest entered.

“I am sent to ask you, Mr. Lancaster, if you will not stop and have dinner with us?” said the priest. “There is no train to Dublin until half-past eight to-night, thus you have nearly three hours to wait.”

Lancaster looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. Already the day was dying.

“Thank you,” he replied, “but I must not stay long; it is four miles to the station, and I did not order a conveyance.”

“You can walk there in a little over an hour,” was the reply, “and dinner is quite ready.”

“Then I shall be very glad to accept your kind invitation.” He felt sorry the moment he had uttered the words. He wanted to be out of a building which smelt like a vault to him. He wanted to breathe the free, pure air of God. Still, he had given his word, and he was afraid of arousing suspicion.

“Have you finished your interview with our brother?” continued the priest.

Lancaster looked towards Gray and then said “Yes” involuntarily. The novice was changed. He had, as it were, crept back into the shell of his order. He looked meek, subdued, resigned. The flash of positive life which he had manifested had gone. He was no longer a man, but clay in the hands of the potter.

“And this is the result of a system of self-suppression,” thought Lancaster, but he replied quietly, “Yes, we’ve had our talk. Goodbye, Gray, till we meet again. Try and get some colour into your cheeks.”

“Goodbye,” said the novice. “May our Blessed Lady send you light. I shall pray for your conversion,” and he left the room.

“Good,” thought Lancaster, “this business cuts both ways. He is evidently desirous of throwing dust into the eyes of the priest. I wonder if he believes in the old proverb, which, rightly or wrongly, has been associated with the Jesuits, that ‘the end justifies the means’? If he does, I see hope in this business.”

A few minutes later he sat down to a good plain meal. Only a very few of the dwellers in the Institution were with him, but the time passed pleasantly. The priests laughed and told funny stories. One, an Irishman who retained the brogue in a very strong degree, told of his experiences as a lad, the recital of which Lancaster enjoyed hugely.

“It’s lucky you didn’t come a fortnight later,” he said to Lancaster.

“Why?”

“Well, Lent will be here then, and, although we are not a fasting order, we could not offer you anything which, as a Protestant, you would care to eat. Well, let’s make hay while the sun shines.”

Lancaster ate a good dinner, but he was careful not to drink anything. In spite of the evident goodwill of the priests he was afraid. Presently, however, he rose to go.

“I must thank you, gentlemen, for your hospitality and kindness,” he said. “If you will allow me to contribute anything towards your funds I shall be very glad.”

“No,” said the superior, “we are allowed to take nothing; but you have no need to hurry. I have ordered a conveyance to be here just before eight o’clock. The man can drive you easily in half an hour.”

“This is good of you,” said Lancaster; “it is dark now, and I was wondering how I should find my way to the station.”

A little before eight the conveyance came according to arrangement. It was a dog-cart, and on the driver’s seat was a burly Irishman.

“It’s a dark noight, yer riverence,” he said to the superior, “and it’s movin’ fast we shall have to be.”

Lancaster climbed to the seat beside the driver.

“I shall not soon forget your kindness,” he said to the superior; “my visit here has been a revelation in many ways.”

“We exist to render help,” was the reply; “I hope you will think kindly of us here.”

“How can I help it?” was Lancaster’s rejoinder as they drove away.

It was a dark night, moonless and starless. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Irishman drove slowly. Lancaster reminded him that there was no time to spare, but he assured him, with a laugh, that he had never yet failed to take a passenger in time for the train, and he would not fail now.

They had gone perhaps a mile and a half from the College when the horse dropped into a walk. They were going up a gentle incline, and on either side were dense woods.

“It’s a gloomy place, this, sir,” said the driver, “and it’s little I like drivin’ here. The divil offen has been seen between these woods.”

“It’s too dark to see anything,” replied Lancaster.

“But he allus appears in a flame of foire,” said the driver, crossing himself, “if this is one of his noights, it’s see him plainly we shall.”

Scarcely had he spoken when Lancaster heard a rustling among the brushwood at the side of the road. A second later the horse was stopped, while strong hands dragged him from his seat.

Not a word was spoken, scarcely a sound was heard. Lancaster struggled for freedom, but the hands which grasped him seemed made of steel.

“Who are you? tell me what you want?” he said.

But no reply was made. A second later he felt something put before his mouth and he inhaled a peculiar odour.

“Chloroform,” thought Lancaster. “I see now. By Jove! what a blithering idiot I am!”

He realised that his senses were departing from him, he knew that he was becoming powerless, and he had not the will to fight against his unseen opponents. Soon after everything became as nothing to him.