Chapter I - How Long, O Lord, How Long!

THE Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible name.

True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub- Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving the chapter, the Convent - yea, even the novices - were silent, to show their displeasure.

When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.

Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer - but of him let us say little and think with charity; for ’tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to judgment.

Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was very pleasant to them.

"Since Brother Thomas died - " began Brother Paul.

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Brother Anselm.

"Since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Paul again - a little impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough - "methinks the provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother."

"Ay, and the wine," said Brother Anselm. "Methinks our Cellarer draws the half of it from the Convent’s well."

They shook their heads sadly.

"No doubt," said Brother Anselm after a short silence, "our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of his office - while Brother Thomas, alack - "

"Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties," said Brother Paul. "The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of these things. On Sunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with appetite."

"He is but young, he is but young - sixty come Michaelmas - sixty, and twenty-two years Prior - ’tis a long term," and Brother Anselm nodded his head.

"Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth," said Brother Paul, "whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas - God rest his soul! - was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder Brethren."

"Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults," said Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. "Think you ’twould be well to speak of this matter to the Prior?"

"Nay, nay," said the other, "he is ever against any store being set on the things of this world - "tis well for the greater discipline of the flesh,’ so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to us elder Brethren."

"Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Anselm ruefully.

"Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him - maybe he will hear a word in season," and the two old monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer’s office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk.

He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?

He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk’s dying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see.

Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary’s flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for the boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand.

Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait.

The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place.

"Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent," chanted the deep voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in the Psalmody.

"Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes autem venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos."

He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting was not yet.