beyond this one allusion to their respective positions, christian was silent regarding his captivity. after the gale subsided the weather took a turn for the better, and clear skies by day and night rendered navigation an easy matter.
with characteristic daring the young englishman had decided to offer no resistance and to seize no opportunities of escape until the termination of the voyage. the scheme half-formed within his mind was to see the voyage through, and effect his escape soon after landing in france. it was not without a certain adventurous fascination, and in the meantime there was much to interest him in his surroundings. if this young abbé was a typical member of the society of jesus, he was worth studying. if this simplicity was an acquired cloak to deeper thought, it was worth penetrating, and if the man's entire individuality had been submerged in the mysterious system followed in the college of jesuits, it was no waste of time to seek for the real man beneath the cultivated suavity that hid all feeling.
the more the two young men saw of each other the closer grew their intimacy, and with growing intimacy the domination of the stronger individuality was more marked in its influence.
to the frail and nervous priest this young englishman was a new experience; his vitality and calm, straightforward manner of speech were such as the abbé had never met with before. such men and better men there were and are in the society of jesus, otherwise the power of the great order would not be what it is; but rené drucquer had never come in contact with them. according to the wonderful code of laws laid down by its great founder (who, in other circumstances, might have prepared the world for the coming of such a man as napoleon the first), the education of the young is entrusted to such brethren as are of slower parts; and from these honest, but by no means intelligent, men the young abbé had learnt his views upon mankind in general. the creed they taught without understanding it themselves was that no man must give way to natural impulses; that he must restrain and quell and quench himself into a machine, without individuality or impulse, without likes or dislikes; that he must persistently perform such duties as are abhorrent to him, eat such food as nauseates him, and submit to the dictates of such men as hate him. and these, forsooth, are the teachings of one who, in his zealous shortsightedness, claims to have received his inspiration direct from the lips of the great teacher.
rené drucquer found himself in the intimate society of a man who said what he thought, acted as he conceived best, and held himself responsible, for word or deed, to none on earth. it was his first mission after a long and rigorous training. this was the first enemy of the holy church against whom he had been sent to fight, armed with the immeasurable power of the greatest brotherhood the world has ever known, protected by the shadow of its blessing; and there was creeping into the young priest's heart a vague and terrible suspicion that there might be two sides to the question. all the careful years of training, all the invisible meshes of the vast net that had been gathering its folds round him since he had first donned the dress of a probationer of the college of jesuits, were powerless to restrain the flight of a pure and guileless heart to the height of truth. despite the countless one-sided and ingenious arguments instilled into his eager young mind in guise of mental armour against the dangers of the world, rené drucquer found himself, at the very first contact with the world, unconvinced that he was fighting upon the righteous side.
brest had been left behind in a shimmering blue haze. ahead lay the grim pointe de raz, with its short, thick-set lighthouse facing the vast atlantic. out to sea, in the fading glory of sunset, lay the long, low ile-de-sein, while here and there black rocks peeped above the water. the man holding the tiller was a sardine fisher, to whom every rock, every ripple, of these troubled waters was familiar. fearlessly he guided the yawl close round by the high cliff—the westernmost point of europe—but with the sunset the wind had dropped and the sails hung loosely, while the broad bows glided onwards with no sound of parted water.
the long atlantic roll was swinging lazily in, and the yawl rose to it sleepily, with a long, slow movement. the distant roar of the surf upon the finisterre coast rose in the peaceful atmosphere like a lullaby. the holy calm of sunset, the hush of lowering night, and the presence of the only man who had ever drawn him with the strange, unaccountable bond that we call sympathy, moved the heart of the young priest as it had never been moved before by anything but religious fervour.
for the first time he spoke of himself. the solitary heart suddenly broke through the restraining influence of a mistaken education, and unfolded its sad story of a misread existence. through no fault of his own, by no relaxation of supervising care on the part of his teachers, the jesuit had run headlong into the very danger which his superior had endeavoured to avoid. he had formed a friendship. fortunately the friend was a man, otherwise rené drucquer were lost indeed.
“i should think,” he said musingly, “that no two lives have ever been so widely separated as yours and mine, and yet our paths have met!”
vellacott took the cigarette from his lips. it was made of a vile tobacco, called “petit caporal,” but there was nothing better to be had, and he was in the habit of making the best of everything. therefore he blew into the air a spiral column of thin blue smoke with a certain sense of enjoyment before replying. he also was looking across the glassy expanse of water, but his gaze was steady and thoughtful, while his companion's eyes were dreamy and almost vacant. the light shone full upon his face, and a physician—or a mother—would have noticed, perhaps, that there was beneath his eyes a dull shadow, while his lips were dry and somewhat drawn.
“yes,” he said at length, with grave sympathy, “we have drifted together like two logs in a torrent.”
the young priest changed his position, drawing in one leg and clasping his hands round his knee. the movement caused his long black garment to fall aside, displaying the dark purple stockings and rough shoes. the hands clasped round his knee were long and white, with peculiarly flat wrists.
“one log,” he said vaguely, “was bound for a certain goal, the other was drifting.”
vellacott turned slowly and glanced at his companion's face. the smoke from the bad cigarette drifted past their heads to windward. he was not sure whether the priest was speaking from a professional point of view, with reference to heresy and the unknown goal to which all heretics are drifting, or not. had rené drucquer been a good jesuit, he would have seen his opportunity of saying a word in season. but this estimable desire found no place in his heart just then.
“your life,” he continued in a monotone, “is already mapped out—like the voyage of a ship traced across a chart. is it not so? i have imagined it like that.”
vellacott continued to smoke for some moments in silence. he sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his back against the rail, and his rough blue jersey wrinkled up so that he could keep one hand in his pocket. the priest turned to look at him with a sudden fear that his motives might be misread. vellacott interpreted his movement thus, for he spoke at once with a smile on his face.
“i think it is best,” he said, “not to think too much about it. from what experience i have had, i have come to the humiliating conclusion that men have very little to do with the formation of their own lives. a ship-captain may sit down and mark his course across the chart with the greatest accuracy, the most profound knowledge of wind and current, and the keenest foresight; but that will have very little effect upon the actual voyage.”
“but,” argued the priest in a low voice, “is it not better to have an end in view—to have a certain aim, and a method, more or less formed, of attaining it?”
“most men have that,” answered christian, “but do not know that they have it!”
“you have?”
christian smoked meditatively. a month ago he would have said “yes” without a moment's hesitation.
“and you know it, i think,” added the priest slowly. he was perfectly innocent of any desire to extract details of his companion's life from unwilling lips, and christian knew it. he was convinced that, whatever part rené drucquer had attempted to play in the past, he was sincere at that moment, and he divined that the young jesuit was weakly giving way to a sudden desire to speak to some fellow-being of his own life—to lay aside the strict reserve demanded by the tenets of the society to which he was irrevocably bound. in his superficial way, christian vellacott had studied men as well as letters, and he was not ignorant of the influence exercised over the human mind by such trifling circumstances as moonshine upon placid water, distant music, the solemn hush of eventide, or the subtle odour of a beloved flower. if rené drucquer was on the point of committing a great mistake, he at least would not urge him on towards it, so he smoked in silence, looking practical and unsympathetic.
the priest laughed a little short, deprecating laugh, in which there was no shadow of mirth.
“i have not,” he said, rubbing his slim hands together, palm to palm, slowly, “and—i know it.”
“it will come,” suggested the englishman, after a pause.
the priest shook his head with a little smile, which was infinitely sadder than tears. his cold silence was worse than an outburst of grief; it was like the keen frost that comes before snow, harder to bear than the snow itself. presently he moved slightly towards his companion so that their arms were touching, and in his soft modulated voice, trained to conceal emotion, he told his story.
“my friend,” he said, intertwining his fingers, which were very restless, “no man can be the worse for hearing the story of another man's life. before you judge of me, listen to what my life has been. i have never known a friend or relation. i have never had a boy companion. since the age of thirteen, when i was placed under the care of the holy fathers, i have never spoken to a woman. i have been taught that life was given us to be spent in prayer; to study, to train ourselves, and to follow in the footsteps of the blessed saint ignatius. but how are we who have only lived half a life, to imitate him, whose youth and middle-age were passed in one of the most vicious courts of europe before he thought of turning to holy things? how are we, who are buried in an atmosphere of mystic religion, to cope with sin of which we know nothing, and when we are profoundly ignorant of its evil results? these things i know now, but i did not suspect them when i was in the college. there all manliness, and all sense of manly honour, were suppressed and insidiously forbidden. we were taught to be spies upon each other, to cringe servilely to our superiors, and to deal treacherously with such as were beneath us. hypocrisy—innate, unfathomable hypocrisy—was instilled into our minds so cunningly that we did not recognise it. every movement of the head or hands, every glance of the eyes, and every word from the lips was to be the outcome—not of our own hearts—but of a law laid down by the general himself. it simply comes to this: we are not men at all, but machines carefully planned and fitted together, so as to render sin almost an impossibility. when tempted to sin we are held back, not by the fear of god, but by the thought that discovery is almost certain, and that the wrath of our superior is withheld by no scruple of human kindness.... but remember, i knew nothing of this before i took my vows. to me it was a glorious career. i became an enthusiast. at last the time came when i was eligible; i offered myself to the society, and was accepted. then followed a period of hard work; i learned spanish and italian, giving myself body and soul to the work. even the spies set to watch me day and night, waking and sleeping, feeding and fasting, could but confess that i was sincere. one day the provincial sent for me—my mission had come. i was at last to go forth into the world to do the work of my master. trembling with eagerness, i went to his room; the provincial was a young man with a beautiful face, but it was like the face of the dead. there was no colour, no life, no soul, no heart in it. he spoke in a low, measured voice that had neither pity nor love.
“when that door closed behind me an hour later the scales had fallen from my eyes. i began to suspect that this great edifice, built not of stones but of men's hearts, was nothing less than an unrighteous mockery. with subtle, double-meaning words, the man whom i had been taught to revere as the authorised representative of our lord, unfolded to me my duties in the future. the work of god, he called it; and to do this work he placed in my hands the tools of the devil. what i suspected then, i know now.”
the young englishman sat and listened with increasing interest. his cigarette had gone out long before.
“and,” he said presently, in his quiet, reassuring voice, which seemed to infer that no difficulty in life was quite insurmountable—“and, if you did not know it then, how have you learnt it now?”
“from you, my friend,” replied the priest earnestly, “from you and from these rough sailors. they, at least, are men. but you have taught me this.”
christian vellacott made no answer. he knew that what his companion said was true. unconsciously, and with no desire to do so, he had opened this young zealot's eyes to what a man's life may be. the tale was infinitely sad, but with characteristic promptitude the journalist was already seeking a remedy without stopping to think over the pathos of this mistaken career.
presently rené drucquer's quick, painful tones broke the silence again, and he continued his story.
“he told me,” he said, “that in times gone by we had ruled the roman catholic world invisibly from the recesses of kings' cabinets and queens' boudoirs. that now the power has left us, but that the order is as firm as ever, nearly as rich, and quite as intelligent. it lies like a huge mill, perfect but idle, waiting for the grist that will never come to be crushed between its ruthless wheels. he told me that the sway over kings and princes has lapsed with the growth of education, but that we hold still within our hands a lever of greater power, though the danger of wielding it is proportionately greater to those who would use it. this power is the people. before us lies a course infinitely more perilous than the sinuous paths trodden by the first followers of st. ignatius as they advanced towards power. it lies on the troubled waters; it leads over the restless, mobile heads of the people.”
again the priest ceased speaking. there was a strange thrill of foreboding in his voice, which, however, had never been raised above a monotone. the two men sat side by side, as still as the dead. they gazed vacantly into the golden gates of the west, and each in his own way thought over these things. assuredly the angel of silence hung over that little vessel then, for no sound from earth or sea or sky came to wake those two thinkers from their reverie.
at last the englishman's full, steady tones broke the hush.
“this,” he said, “has not been learnt in two days. you must have known it before. if you knew it, why are you what you are? you never have been a real jesuit, and you never will be.”
“i swore to the mother of god—i am bound....”
“by an oath forced upon you!”
“no! by an oath i myself begged to take!”
this was the bitterest drop in the priest's cup. everything had been done of his own free will—at his own desire. during eleven years a network of perfidy had been cunningly woven around him, mesh after mesh, day after day. as he grew older, so grew in strength the warp of the net. thus, in the fulness of time, everything culminated to the one great end in view. nothing was demanded (for that is an essential rule), everything must be offered freely, to be met by an apparently hesitating acceptance. constant dropping wears the hardest stone in time.
“but,” said vellacott, “you can surely represent to your provincial that you are not fitted for the work put before you.”
“my friend,” interrupted the priest, “we can represent nothing. we are supposed to have no natural inclinations. all work should be welcome, none too difficult, no task irksome.”
“you can volunteer for certain services,” said vellacott.
the priest shrugged his shoulders.
“what services?” he asked.
the englishman looked at him for some seconds in the fading light. in his quick way he had already found a remedy, and he was wondering whether he should propose it or hold his peace. he was not afraid of incurring responsibility. the young jesuit had appealed to him, and there was a way out of the difficulty. christian felt that things could not be made worse than they were. in a moment his mind was made up.
“as you know,” he said, “the society has few friends and a multitude of enemies. i am afraid i am an enemy; but there is one redeeming point in the jesuit record which we are all bound to recognise, and i recognise it unhesitatingly. you have done more to convert the heathen than the rest of the christian church put together. whatever the motive has been, whatever the results have proved to be, the missionary work is unrivalled. why do you not offer yourself for that?”
as he asked the question christian glanced at his companion's face. he saw the sad eyes light up suddenly with a glow that was not of this dull earth at all; he saw the thin, pure face suddenly acquire a great and wondrous peace. the young priest rose to his feet, and, crossing the deck, he stood holding with one hand to the tarred rigging, his back turned towards the englishman, looking over the still waters.
presently he returned, and laying his thin hand upon christian's shoulder, he said, “my friend, you have saved me. in the first shock of my disillusion i never thought of this. i think—i think there is work for me yet.”