XXI

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It had been noticed for some time past by all members of the household that the Abbot of St. Dunstan seemed ill at ease. It was even the cause of some jesting among the monks that, for the first time in the recollection of his brothers, the Abbot's appetite had failed.

And small wonder that the usually placid Abbot was disturbed at heart, for there had been rumors in the air of an intended visit from the Bishop to inquire into certain scandals that for some time past had noisily rung in his ears, in spite of their unwillingness to hear them. At last, but two days ago, a letter had been sent by messenger from the Bishop, announcing that he had been compelled to write, instead of coming in person, because, although his spirit was unfailing, his flesh was all too weak to stand the great burden of his calling. The scathing denunciations in the letter proved indeed that the prelate's "spirit was unfailing," but, severe as they were, the Abbot thanked his stars that at least he had escaped a visit. Before dictating a proper answer to the pastoral letter, an answer that should breathe a spirit of the most complete contrition and humility, once more the abbot read it from beginning to end:—

"Thomas, by divine compassion, Bishop of Ely, for Christ's sake—Greeting to John Wallingham, Abbot of the Abbey of St. Dunstan.

"Since we, although unworthy, are by the requirements of our office bound to render account of you and all our people before the eternal Judge 'terrible among kings of the earth,' we, therefore, are moved inwardly by grief of heart and pained even to the very marrow of our soul that evils so base, so loathsome, so shameful, so diabolical, so infamous, and so impious, separate you from the body of Christ and join you to the body of our ancient adversary. For the name of Christ is blasphemed by you, and the Holy Scriptures through you who by the mouth of your detestably vile body presume to teach and guide others.

"Now, though absent in body, yet present in spirit, we attempt in writing what we cannot at present accomplish by word of mouth. We admonish you that you take heed to receive this writing of ours as though it were the word of the Lord Himself with awe and humility of mind.

"Therefore we beseech you and command you: let the remembrance of your profession come to you; bring often before your eyes the sacred order to which you belong, to which is joined the vow of chastity; consider also the guidance of souls which you have undertaken, in which should be shown the example of chastity. In addition to these things, ponder, I specially entreat, over the fear of hell, and the love of celestial pleasures. Occupy yourself, I beseech you, by the crucifixion of Christ, for the future, with the importance of a holy conduct of life, cleanse yourself of the stain of crime, and by the radiance of good deeds flee the darkness of your past life, and by the fragrance of a good reputation dispel the repulsive odors which have arisen.

"And so, with the tenderness of my inmost soul, I ask that you drink the bitter portion of this page, inasmuch as it is offered lovingly and that through it you may profit and benefit. Drink, therefore, not only willingly, but eagerly, the bitter cup of your transformation into a new man.

"Farewell in Christ, Farewell."

What could the Abbot write in reply, to convince the Bishop that a visit in person was not necessary? There was a strong probability that a smooth, repentant letter might deceive the old man; but once let his penetrating eyes fall on the Abbot himself, let him come near enough to hear the thousand and one bits of scandal that were floating about the neighborhood, and the Abbot's occupancy of the monastery was but a question of hours. Besides, the Abbot needed time to set in motion an earnest appeal to the Archbishop to relieve him of the "inquisitorial jurisdiction of the Bishop of Ely." And if that did not succeed, there still would be Rome to appeal to. Plenty of Abbeys had received this privilege, and the Abbey of St. Dunstan had grown rich and had more moneys to spend than even the powerful Bishop, who had his great estate to keep up and who could not mortgage his properties beyond his own lifetime. The monastery of St. Dunstan had indeed thrived off the popularity of its shrine to St. Mary, to which women came who were desirous of becoming mothers. The divine afflatus had worked so many miracles upon wives who had long disappointed the hopes of their husbands, that its reputation had spread throughout the land. For a while vast content filled the breasts of the fortunate fathers, but little by little certain ugly rumors began to be whispered, and it was these that caused the Bishop's letter.

The patient scribe awaited the Abbot's pleasure. The Abbot fumed and scowled. At last,—

"Most dearly beloved Brother in Christ," he began.

Just then a monk stood before him. "What do you want?" asked the Abbot, somewhat impatiently, since he was at last launched upon the important letter, and it would not do to put off answering it too long, or the writer might suddenly find strength to come in person. "What is it?"

"There stands before the gate a russet priest who begs admission," spoke up the monk.

"Admit him. Why come you to me for that? I am occupied. Begone!"

"But, most revered Father, by his own admission he is under the ban of the Church."

"Ah, so? Let me see him." And the Abbot slowly waddled to the gate, and peered through the bars. There he saw a young poor priest upon his knees.

"What do you wish?" he asked.

"I wish to be received again into the bosom of the Church."

"Do you wish it?"

"Yes, I wish and desire it."

"Your name?"

"Robert Annys."

The Abbot's eyes lit up with triumph. He knew well the story of this wilful young poor priest, who had refused high office at the hand of the Hierarchy and defied it. Perchance if he converted this notorious sinner, the Bishop might be brought to look less severely on his own past sins. The Abbot looked down upon the young man complacently. "The fellow looks meek enough now," he thought. He drew himself up, and spoke in solemn tones the words that would receive the erring one back into the bosom of the Church. Pleasanter work this, by far, and more soothing to his pride, than penning letters of contrition and obeisance.

"Receive, then," he recited, "the sign of the Cross of Jesus Christ and of Christianity, which you have hitherto borne and which the error which had deceived you caused you to lose most miserably."

Then he swung wide the ponderous gate, saying:

"Enter into the house of God, after having departed therefrom, bewildered unhappily by error. Know you that you have been snatched from the snares which are Death and Destruction."

Annys followed the Abbot to his private chamber. The Abbot knew well the type of man before him, the exalted, morbidly self-censorious type, which would fling itself on the cold, hard ground for an entire night for the harboring of an unholy thought. He listened with benignant countenance to the tale of the penitent man, and well he believed his word that this had been his first temptation to sin. He knew, too, that this was a case that required soothing rather than harassing. This was the kind of man whose reason becomes unseated from a real agony of contrition. He laid one fat hand upon the shoulder of the young poor priest who kneeled before him, abjectly.

"How do you know, my son, that it was a woman whom you encountered in the woods on your way here, and who tempted you so sorely?"

How did he know? How could he bring himself to say that every nerve in his body had trembled with ecstasy in her presence?

"Yea, it was a woman, Holy Father, the most beautiful woman on the earth."

The Abbot smiled; in the course of a long experience he had heard of a good many most beautiful women on the earth.

"I know well that it bore the semblance of a woman," he went on suavely, "but how know you that it was other than an evil spirit—one of Satan's minions sent to tempt you on your way to Holy Church?"

Was it possible? Was the whole thing but a horrible vision which had been sent to mock him? Horrible! Was it, then, wholly horrible? Great God! he was undone indeed. Here he kneeled at the foot of his confessor, and, instead of the countenance of his dear Lord, the tantalizing, brilliant beauty of a woman's face was before his eyes. He was utterly lost in sin.

"O Father, most Holy Father," he cried passionately, "shrive me, shrive me! I will fast three days, not even water shall pass my lips. I will spend three whole nights on my bare knees on the ground. I will bear three thousand lashes, anything, anything. Only let the countenance of my God be turned again toward me."

"Tell me, did not the form of the woman seem to disappear miraculously when you made the sign of the cross?"

"Yes, yes, Holy Father; the ground seemed to part and swallow her up, and she disappeared from my sight utterly."

"Ah, I thought as much. Doubtless she descended into the awaiting pit of hell. I shall exorcise the Evil Spirit from you, and you shall have peace. Fear not. All will yet be well."

"A penance, a penance."

The Abbot pondered for a moment. He must name something that would appeal to the penitent as sufficient, yet he dared not permit him to undergo too severe a strain in his evidently exhausted condition. Suddenly his face lit up with an inspiration. "I have heard," he said, "of your good work among the poor. The rustics believe in you and trust you. Go to the cellarer and get bread in plenty and scatter it in great largesse among the poor people" (he could yet make the monastery bear a sweeter name before the coming of the Bishop) "and give it all in the name of the Abbey of St. Dunstan, forgetting not to deliver with it the blessing of the Holy Abbot."

But Annys implored that some real penance be given him. "Besides," he added, "I have no longer the strength to go forth into the world. There will I meet with women. I desire and pray not to see the face of woman more."

The Abbot hid a smile. He had heard like protestations before. He had also known to come later the fervent appeals for permission to depart from the Abbey for a brief space. With the giving of such permissions the Abbot was notoriously generous.

"Well," returned the Abbot, "wait, and for the present remain here and spend the night on your knees on the floor saying four hundred Aves, and in the morning, before your fast is broken, one hundred lashes shall be laid across your back."

"One thousand, Holy Father."

"I have spoken."

Then the Abbot motioned Annys to follow him, and proceeded to the chapel, where they discovered all the members of the monastery assembled. At the entrance, Annys took the oath of fidelity and then prostrated himself while the monks chanted in unison the seven Penitential Psalms.

It would have taken a brazen sinner indeed to remain unmoved during the touching service of receiving the excommunicated one back again into the fold. Annys was deeply stirred. He lay on the floor of the chapel, shaken by long-drawn sobs, while the exquisite modulations of the solemn chant rose and fell about him. In the dim religious light, the monks in their flowing robes, their pallid faces standing out like carved ivory against their black cowls, seemed as spectres from another world looking on the trial of a soul before the Great Judge.

How sure, how unfaltering, was the touch of Holy Church upon the penitent soul. With what fine intuition did the service bring to the soul of the evil-doer the sense of sin, and finally through the whole gamut of human emotions,—terror, faltering hope, faith, despair,—at last, through humiliation and renunciation, lift it with rapture to God.

At first the terror of the Lord's wrath is upon him:—

Then a calmer note is struck, one of confession:—

"I acknowledged my sin unto thee,
And mine iniquity have I not hid."

Then the ardent supplication, vibrating with a passionate contrition:—

"Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean:
Wash me and I shall be clean:
Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.

Hide thy face from my sins,
And blot out all mine iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God."

Then creeps in the note of despair:—

"Hide not thy face from me in the day of my distress.
My heart is smitten like grass, and withered.
For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with weeping."

Once more the calmness of renunciation and humility:—

"Teach me to do thy will:
For thou art my God."

At last bursting forth into the glorious anthem of deliverance:—

"Blessed be the Lord my rock.

I will sing a new song unto thee, O God:
Upon a psaltery of ten strings will I sing praises unto thee."

As the last triumphant words of the refrain slowly died away, Annys was conducted to the altar, where he again prostrated himself, while the Abbot offered up a special prayer for his salvation and made the sign of the cross over him. No longer was he under the ban of the Church. He rested on her bosom as a wearied child spent with sobs.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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