Chapter XXXVI: Surgery: the Knife

“From child to youth; from youth to arduous man;
From lethargy to fever of the heart;
From faithful life to dream-dowered days apart;
From trust to doubt; from doubt to brink of ban;—
Thus much of change in one swift cycle ran
Till now. Alas, the soul!—how soon must she
Accept her primal immortality,
The flesh resume its dust whence it began?

“O Lord of work and peace! O Lord of life!
O Lord, the awful Lord of will! though late,
Even yet renew this soul with duteous breath.
That when the peace is garnered in from strife,
The work retrieved, the will regenerate,
This soul may see thy face, O Lord of death!”
—D. G. ROSSETTI, _The Heart of the Night_.

The solid library windows rattled under the onslaught of the gale; rain streamed on to them furiously, then ceased as abruptly; torn twigs dashed against the panes, and the frenzied wind seemed to be concentrating on the glass all its attempts to get into the room, though now and again a puff of smoke, bellying slowly forward, testified to a successful entrance by the chimney.

There are occasions when the elements are not at variance with the mood of the individual. The whirling wind, its noisy but useless attack, was not, apparently, unpleasing to M. des Graves as he sat at the long table in the library and looked out into its manifestations. There was a little colour in his cheeks; his lips were pressed together, his eyes very steady, and he beat gently upon the table with his pen. It was as if there sat in his familiar chair a rather different man, much younger, more alert, with a new poise of the head, who seemed to be enjoying the storm.

As a matter of fact, the priest was not acutely conscious of the elements. It was another storm which he had been contemplating, and one not yet broken. Of the three principal inmates of the château M. des Graves had, very naturally, lent the most sensitive ear during the last few days to its mutterings. For he saw quite clearly that the long-expected crisis was on them at last, and he did not shrink before it. An observer would have said that it had revivified in him some older self, had conjured up, out of its long sleep, the ghost of a man who once had—who still had—all the aptitudes of command.

Yes, he could not doubt it: the moment was approaching. And all those long two-and-twenty years spent in this obscure corner of Vendée seemed to have been but a preparation for it; and so, too, seemed the lives of the two men with whom his own existence was so intimately united. How would the emergency find them? One was out there in the gale, riding in peril of his life, with bitter hatred in his heart. It was on just such another March afternoon that he had first entered the house—a little bright-haired child who had so easily won their hearts, a child for whom happiness seemed a birthright. . . . Poor Louis!

And what of the other boy who had so often sat with his lesson books in this room, at whose feet Fate was about to fling a rôle of which he might make something great and noble . . . if he could take it up. For a man worthily to lead a religious war he must be more than a great soldier, more than a natural leader, he must be a saint. And Gilbert?

Another critic would have urged to himself that the Marquis’ private life was stainless, his dealings with his dependents marked by invariable uprightness and generosity, his ability as a soldier, though untried in actual practice, guaranteed to a large degree by his brilliant studies and by his marked capacity for organisation. M. des Graves did not cast a thought on these things; there was something deeper than all these which was lacking. The peasantry among whom Château-Foix lived, simply and without ostentation, and to whose interests he had sacrificed his own, respected, admired, perhaps a little feared him, but they did not love him. Did they, too, feel that coldness, that intense moderation, that lack of enthusiasm which had made of his existence, until lately, but half a life? Did they know—they must know—what barrenness of soul was covered by his minimum of religious observance? If they were ignorant of it now, they would learn it all too soon, and the men ready to die for their altars would find that their leader knew little of the inspiration which was theirs.

The pity of it! The pity . . . yes, and whose was the blame?

Since Gilbert’s return from England to take up his father’s estates the priest had sought, if anything, to withdraw his influence. He had carefully prepared and trained a mind, hoping that with a right prejudice it might go on to find its own perfection. And instead of this—well, Gilbert was what he was now. It was the path which the priest had chosen deliberately, carefully, not without conflict—and to what had it led? The tool which he might have fashioned for such an hour of need as this was useless. To what end, then, had he abstained from moulding that beloved spirit? All these years, when he had sought to divert allegiance from himself, he had been following an impossible and a visionary ideal. And now it was too late.

And he loved Gilbert so dearly! Above all others he would fain have called him his son; it was for that very reason that he had kept himself apart from him. And this son would soon be fighting in a holy war, living in hourly danger of death, perhaps dying alone, unreconciled to the Church. His was not only the yearning of the priest, but of the childless man also. What would he not give in exchange for Gilbert’s soul, if only it might be granted to him? Yes, awful though they were, those words, he could use them. . . . For Gilbert’s sake he was willing to be himself a castaway.

His hands slid from his face and knitted themselves together in front of him on the table, and his head fell forward on to them. If it were possible. . . . God! God! if it were possible. . . .

The rain beat still more violently upon the panes, but in the room was a long stillness like death, and in that stillness, while his body lay bowed over the table, the priest’s will, rising into regions not subject to space and time, made at last the supreme act of surrender, and yielded up to the Divine Purpose, not its own eternal welfare, but that of its best beloved.

* * * * * *

When he came back to the world of sense, M. des Graves discovered himself leaning back in his chair, his hands no longer clenched in entreaty but lying open on the table, palms uppermost, in a gesture of offering. He remained so for a moment, and putting up a hand to his forehead, found it dripping with sweat. After that he sat a long time motionless, looking at the crucifix which stood in front of him.

And in his mind, not as a sudden after-revelation, but quite clear and developed, as if he had brought it back from the mysterious places in which he had been, was the sense that the circumstances for Gilbert’s salvation existed, ready and waiting, if only he could be brought to use them.

When the priest had first read Lucienne’s appealing letter, he had said, “This must not go on.” After his stormy interview with Louis he had pondered the situation deeply, not indeed because it involved two aching hearts—for suffering or joy were to him only the accompaniments of life, not life itself—but because of the wrong that Gilbert was doing. Now he saw that, if it were the will of God, Gilbert’s love, just because it had come to mean so much to him, might be the saving of him . . . if he would renounce it. For at last the real reason of the change in Château-Foix was fully apparent to him. The cold, passionless man was living at fever-heat, devoured with a love begotten of jealousy, filled with the lust of possession; he had his motive force now. It was this overbearing spirit, this determination to possess, this stiff-neckedness which was so well hidden that only at a crisis could the outside world perceive it—it was this that must be slain. If Gilbert’s passion could be diverted, then elements which, unchecked, would go on to complete the ruin of a character might be the means of the saving of a soul. Torn and beaten down in the struggle Gilbert would be more receptive than at any other period of his life. There are some, as M. des Graves knew, who will never behold the gate of heaven save from the very dust of earth.

But the stakes were terribly high. If he failed, he lost for ever Gilbert’s love and such influence as he had with him. If he won, it would mean horrible suffering to the being whom he loved best on earth.

* * * * * *

It was the same evening after supper, a meal at which they had spoken little. The Marquis had been sitting idly in a low chair before the fire, his eyes half closed, listening to the unceasing scratching of the priest’s pen. At last the sound stopped, and the Curé, turning suddenly in his chair, began to address him.

“Gilbert, I want to say something to you to-night.”

Château-Foix opened his eyes and regarded the speaker attentively. He seemed a little startled.

“You know,” continued the priest, looking down at what he had just written, “that there is very little doubt of the peasants coming and asking you to lead them if war breaks out.”

“I do know it,” said the Marquis.

There was silence for a few moments; then M. des Graves began again. “You have lived among these people all your life, you are their natural leader, and they respect and trust you.”

“Yes,” assented Gilbert; “they respect me, but they do not love me. I suppose I could not expect it otherwise, and yet I have given up a good deal for them.”

“They cannot understand you,” said M. des Graves shortly.

Again there was silence. “Tell me,” said the priest at length—“all these years I have never asked you to give me a reason, but I ask it now—why cannot you accept the Catholic faith?”

A deep flush spread over the Marquis’ dark features. Without moving a muscle, and looking straight before him, he replied somewhat haughtily: “I have appreciated your silence, and honoured you for it, though I acknowledge the right by which you have thought to break it. You think my lack of orthodoxy will sit ill upon the shoulders of one who presumes to lead your flock?”

The priest vouchsafed no reply.

Presently Gilbert turned round. “Forgive me,” he said in a softer tone. “I know that I am no fit leader for them. I may try to deceive them, but it will not be for long. There is no Château-Foix for me to go to at Easter now.”

“Why not remove for ever the need to go away at Easter?” asked his companion.

“You are suggesting, I suppose, that, for the sake of the peasants, I should go to my Easter duties as though, for one in my position, such a course would not be a sacrilege? I have been thinking over the matter myself, and, if you consider it absolutely necessary, I am willing to sacrifice my self-respect to their ideals. Will that do?”

“That was the last thing which I meant to suggest,” replied the priest very gravely. “I meant what I said, that I want to know why you cannot make a genuine submission, and be received back into communion.”

The Marquis leant back in his chair, a tiny mocking smile about his lips. “Do you really want a list of my intellectual stumbling-blocks, Father? I am afraid that they are too many to be demolished between now and midnight—or even before Easter.”

Again the priest put by the gibe. “My son,” he said, “I have no wish to belittle any man’s intellectual difficulties, but the time is past for argument. You know, we both know, that in a world where we cannot have intellectual certainty for many of the truths which we, nevertheless, hold with unshakable conviction, such difficulties are not the real barrier. . . . Gilbert, we shall soon be face to face with the realities of life and death. We may both of us, for aught we know, be dying men. By all that I hold sacred I conjure you to look into your own soul, lest, too late, you find in yourself the obstacle to faith.”

“What do you mean?” asked the young man curtly.

“I mean,” continued M. des Graves, and his voice was cold, “that I believe your own hardness of heart to have been the cause of your lukewarmness all these years. I mean that you cannot now make your submission to the Church because submission is a mere name to you. Only once in your life have you known what it is to surrender your own wishes; you have never known what it is to take the second place—except for your own convenience or when you had no choice.”

The Marquis settled himself again in his chair, an almost amused expression playing about his mouth, but when he spoke his voice sounded a long way off.

“You are fluent to-night, mon père,” he said. “Pray go on! Will you not illustrate my hardness of heart, my—what am I to call it?—my overbearing nature?”

“Yes,” returned the priest; “since you ask I will illustrate it. The girl whom you intend to make your wife loves and is loved in turn by another man. You——”

Gilbert started angrily from his chair. “Great Heavens!” he cried, “you presume too much! How do you know this? It is false—I tell you that it is a lie!”

M. des Graves had risen also. “My son,” he said, “sit down. It is not false. You shall hear me to the end, and you shall not ask me how I know what I know.”

A very definite majesty hung about the priest as he stood with one hand raised in expostulation. No one could have guessed that the tumult in his mind almost equalled that of Gilbert’s. They stood thus for several seconds, measuring swords against each other, till at last, when the tension began to get unbearable, the Marquis suddenly sat down.

“Go on,” he said harshly; “I will hear you to the end.”

M. des Graves walked over to the fire, turned, and began to speak. “I am in possession of certain facts, which you know to be true. I do not speak idly. I am not accustomed to play with words, nor is my information derived dishonourably. You know that Lucienne loves Louis; you know also that long ago they agreed to see no more of each other. You have taken no account of the suffering that went to that resolution. You intend to marry that unhappy lady with the consent of her will but not of her heart. You have been wronged in thought, I grant you; you are within your rights, I grant you—but have you no chivalry, have you no pity? Do you really mean to wreck two lives, and your own also—for nothing but misery and disillusionment can come of such a union?”

“You would suggest that I abdicate in favour of my cousin?” asked the Marquis.

“That is my meaning,” answered M. des Graves.

There was another long silence, while Gilbert, his head between his clenched hands, stared at his shoe buckles.

At last the priest left his place and came to him. His voice was changed, his face very sad. “My son,” he said, “I ask your forgiveness. It is because I love you that I have made myself speak thus to you. . . . Oh, believe me, if you could put aside your will, if you could only throw yourself upon the venture, it is not the intellectual difficulties that would keep you from the Divine embrace.”

And after a moment’s hesitation Château-Foix rose and took his hand. “As for forgiveness,” he said, “it is yours without the asking. It is all true. You may be right . . . I cannot tell . . . but the path you bid me tread is too steep. You ask me to put from me the traditions of a lifetime, and it is too late. I cannot.”

“‘Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me,’” said the priest. “. . . ‘For that shall bring a man peace at the last,’” he added, almost to himself, as he turned and went slowly out of the room.