The Abbot’s voice trembled with anger. Benedetto obeyed. Hardly had he reached the corridor when he heard the angry man thundering on the piano.
Before entering Don Clemente’s little cell, Benedetto stopped before the great window at the end of the corridor. Here, a few hours earlier, the master himself had lingered, contemplating the lights of Subiaco, and thinking of the enemy, the creature of beauty, of genius, of natural kindliness, who was perhaps come to strive with him for possession of his spiritual son, to strive with God Himself. Now the spiritual son felt a mysterious certainty that the woman he had loved so ill, during the time of his blind and ardent leaning towards inferior things, had discovered his presence in the monastery, and would come in search of him. Seeking deep in his own heart for the Spirit which dwelt there, he gained from it a pious sense of the Divine, which was surely in her also, hidden even from herself; and he felt a mystic hope that, by some dark way, she also would one day reach the sea of eternal truth and love, which awaits so many poor wandering souls.
Don Clemente had heard him coming, and had set his door ajar. Benedetto entered, and offered him the Abbot’s letter. “I must leave the monastery,” he said, very calmly. “At once, and for ever.”
Don Clemente did not answer, but opened the letter. When he had read it he observed, smiling, that Benedetto’s departure for Jenne had been decided upon the night before. True, but the Abbot had said never to return, Don Clemente’s eyes were full of tears, but he still smiled.
“You are glad?” said Benedetto, almost plaintively,
Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad! Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto did he not interpret it for himself.
“Not glad,” he said, “but at peace. We understand each other, do we not? And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you will cherish.”
Don Clemente’s whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.
Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with gentle dignity.