The Gathering of Brother Hilarius

THROUGH this little book runs the road of life, the common road of men, the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart.

The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of the Black Death and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but for the author it is a romance of the Image of God. While the Divine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius in the masque that shocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and sin, of death and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying “little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again the Road mender’s epilogue to the story of the man of this earth, the man of the common highway:—“‘Dust and ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there comes back for answer, ‘Rex concupiscet decorem tuum.’”

CONTENTS

PART I THE SEED CHAP. PAGE I. BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST 3 II. THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN 15 III. THE KING’S SONG-BIRD 22 PART II THE FLOWER I. THE CITY OF PURE GOLD 39 II. THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW 49 III. A SENDING FROM THE LORD 55 IV. BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE 64 V. THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED 72 VI. A DARK FINDING 82 VII. THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE 97 PART III THE FRUIT I. HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! 117 II. MARY’S LILIES 124 III. OPEN EYES AT THE GATE 133 IV. THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN 141 V. “GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE 147 VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16. VI. THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN 154 VII. THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING 160 VIII. “BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE” 165

PART I THE SEED

CHAPTER I BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST

HILARIUS stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in the June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a dust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation.

On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great trees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. Twice had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and the occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St Benedict’s Day and Our Lady’s Festivals. Away to the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teeming with glad, unhurried labour.

At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, ever unfinished because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order, written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world’s treasure; a page on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of the Lord.

The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately acquired—on his face was great peace. It rested everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of the Office bell.