Part 4 (1/2)
”Listen,” said he, ”and I will tell you of One whom all your life you have injured and neglected--G.o.d.”
Philippa's protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hear such words as these.
”Nay, heed not my words,” he pursued gently. ”Your own lips shall bring you in guilty. Have you loved G.o.d with all your mind, and heart, and soul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?”
Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had not loved G.o.d, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried to her, ”Unclean!” yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She felt angry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he ”rubbed the sore, when he should bring the plaster.” Comfort she had asked, and condemnation he was giving her instead.
”Father!” she said, in mingled sadness and vexation, ”you deal me hard measure.”
”My daughter,” answered the monk very gently, ”the pitcher must be voided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vessel full of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the Living Water.”
”Is it only for saints, then?” she asked in a disappointed tone.
”It is only for sinners,” answered he: ”and according to your own belief, you are not a sinner. The Living Water is not wasted on pitchers that have been filled already at other cisterns, 'I will give unto him that is athirst'--but to him only--'of the Fountain of the Water of Life, freely.'”
”But tell me, in plain words, what is that Water of Life?”
”The Holy Spirit of G.o.d.”
Philippa's next question was not so wide of the mark as it seemed.
”Are you a true Dominican?”
”I am one of the Order of Predicant Friars.”
”From what house?”
”From Ashridge.”
”Who sent you forth to preach?”
”G.o.d.”
”Ah! yes, but I mean, what bishop or abbot?”
”Is the seal of the servant worth more than that of the Master?”
”I would know, Father,” urged Philippa.
The monk smiled. ”Archbishop Bradwardine,” he said.
”Then Ashridge is a Dominican house? I know not that vicinage.”
”Men give us another name,” responded the monk slowly, ”which I see you would know. Be it so. They call us--Boni-Homines.”
”But I thought,” said Philippa, looking bewilderedly into his face, ”I thought those were very evil men. And Archbishop Bradwardine was a very holy man--almost a saint.”
A faint ironical smile flitted for a moment over the monk's grave lips.
The gravity was again unbroken the next instant.