Gathering of Brother Hilarius | Page 2

The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, with bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles.
At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared city of mystery and wonder.
It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius' eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced it--joy so great that his heart ached with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open glade, halted in amazement.
A flower incarnate stood before him; stood--nay, danced in the wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius' eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for untutored novices such as Hilarius.
His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured "Apage Sataas!"
The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind.
"O what a pretty boy!" she cried gaily. "Playing truant, I dare wager. Come and dance!"
Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. "Woman," he said, and his voice trembled somewhat, "art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this devil's guise?"
The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily.
"No more devil's guise than thine own," she retorted, eyeing his semi-monastic garb with scant favour. "Can a poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must cry devil's guise?"
As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke into peal on peal of joyous laughter. "Poor lad, with thy talk of devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?"
Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in the eyes, and now he drops his own.
"Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice men's souls to their undoing?"
"An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind sir?" she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a scolded child.
"It is wrong to deck the body," began Hilarius, softening at her attitude, "because, because--"
Again the merry laugh rang out.
"Because, because--nay, Father" (with a mock reverence), "methinks thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and I will catechise. How old art thou?" She held up her small finger admonishingly.
"Seventeen," replied Hilarius, surprised into reply.
"Art thou a monk?"
"Nay, a novice only."
"Hast thou ever loved?"
Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on unconcerned -
"'Twas a foolish question; the answer's writ large for any maid to read. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?"
Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet.
"There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and the Saints and the Brethren--"
"But not the sisters?" the wicked little laugh pealed out. "Poor sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the Saints and the Brethren, and it is good--good--good!" She opened her arms wide. "'Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?"
"It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child. That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God and the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of yesterday's homily in the Frater.
"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancer persisted.
How did he know?
"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he cried triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and anxious only to come well out of the wordy war.
But the unexpected happened.
"Dost thou