IV
THE MONASTERY BELLS
The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick anduneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on thehorizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominicanmonks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of asea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves. Herdsof fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep werenipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flourmill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing watersof the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed topoverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, inmills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.
As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, theysaw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call toevening prayer.
The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anythinglike it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hilland valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.
They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before makingtheir presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb ofthe organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whosepower he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whoseexistence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare logchurch the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. Hisfather and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be aBaptist some day. But why didn't they have stained glass windows likethose through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashinglights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. And whydidn't they have a great organ?
He was going to like these Roman Catholics. He wondered what his motherwould say to that?
It all seemed so familiar, too. Where had he heard those bells? Wherehad he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeouslights? In the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm.Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.
In a few months, he found himself the only Protestant boy in school andthe smallest of all the scholars. The monks were kind. They seemedsomehow to love him better than the others. Father Wallace reminded himof his big brother. He was so gentle.
The Boy made up his mind to join the Catholic Church and went straightto Father Wilson, the venerable head of the college.
The old man smiled pleasantly:
"And why do you wish this, my son?"
"Oh, it's so much more beautiful than the Baptist Church. Besides it'sso much easier--"
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir. The Baptists have such a hard time getting religion. Theyseek and mourn so long--"
"Really?"
"Indeed they do--yes, sir--I've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summerin three protracted meetings and then not come through!"
"And you don't like that sort of penance?"
"No, sir. I've always dreaded it. And the worst thing is the newconverts have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and telltheir experience out loud. I'd hate that--"
"And you like our ways better?"
"A great deal better. The Catholics manage things so nicely. All youhave to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priestsdo all the rest--"
"Oh--I see!"
"Yes, sir."
Father Wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the Boy's head:
"You are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. What youreally need is good Catholic food. Sit down and have a piece of breadand cheese with me."
The Boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence.
"I can't join, Father Wilson?" he asked at last.
The priest smiled again:
"No, my son."
"You don't like me, Father?" the boy asked wistfully.
"We like you very much, sir. But we are responsible for the trust yourfather and mother have put in us. In God's own time when you are olderand know the full meaning of your act, I should be glad--but not thisway."
The Boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for histender years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch thelight and shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. Andthen he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills bythe Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in thearena--of the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all otherchurches pale into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history andgave the child's mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretchdown the ages into the mists of eternity.
Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in hissoul the years could not dim.
To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougherand he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided onrevenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution.The only problem was how to put the light out in his room.
The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could blowthe candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but therebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.
"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but,by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"
"No, of course not--"
"You're one of _us_--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his oldroom, did you?"
"No."
"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick oftime. _Will_ you stand by us?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. Will you doit?"
The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:
"Yes--when everything's quiet."
The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose noiselesslyand blew the candle out.
Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads,squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the chargeof the light brigade was swift and terrible.
The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass.
When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found.They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in thelittle bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.
The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern--the firmmouth rigid with anger.
"Did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked.
The Boy trembled but held his tongue.
"Answer me, sir!"
"I didn't know just what they were going to do--"
"You knew they were up to something?"
"Yes!"
"And you didn't tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I couldn't be a traitor, sir."
"To those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--"
"I'm not a monk, Father--"
"Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."
"I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell youthat."
There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence.The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he shouldwhip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love.He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice fullof persuasive music.
He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs tothe top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece offurniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boyhad not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required nogreat learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of thatmachine.
There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard withresolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment wasthe one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. TheBoy had always thought him one of
his best friends.
Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strangeleather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamedof mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lipsto receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.
The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright,handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to strike you, my son--"
"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.
"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me whatyou know and it'll be all right."
"I can't--"
"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."
"Will you?"
"I promise."
"I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.
"Yes?"
"I know who blew out the light."
"Good!"
"If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"
"Yes, my son."
The little head wagged doubtfully:
"Honest, now, Father?"
"I give you my solemn word."
"I blew it out!"
The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed thestraps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.
"You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. Agreat diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can onlylead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don'tyou?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those fineeyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roisteringfools lead you by the nose. You wouldn't have gotten into that devilmentif they hadn't persuaded you--now would you?"
"No."
"All right. Use the brain and heart God has given you. Don't let foolsuse it for their own ends. Do your own thinking. Be your own man. Standon your own bottom."
And then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, themonk talked to his little friend of Truth and Right, of Character andPrinciple, of Love and God, until the tears began to slowly steal downthe rosy cheeks.
A new resolution fixed itself in the Boy's soul. He _would_ live his ownlife. No other human being should do it for him.