The Well in the Desert | Page 9

asked it was a monk in the habit of the Dominican Order, and
very worn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her
women, and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as
was manifest from the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had
given back the goblet, and the woman was gone, the monk turned
towards Philippa, and uttered words which astonished her no little.
"`Quy de cette eaw boyra Ancor soyf aura; Mays quy de l'eaw boyra
Que moy luy donneray, Jamays soyf n'aura A l'eternite.'"
"You know that, brother?" she said breathlessly.
"Do you, Lady?" asked the monk--as Philippa felt, with a deeper than
the merely literal meaning.

"I know the `ancor soyf aura,'" she said, mournfully; "I have not
reached beyond that."
"Then did you ask, and He did not give?" inquired the stranger.
"No--I never asked, for--" she was going on to add, "I never knew
where to ask."
"Then 'tis little marvel you never had, Lady," answered the monk.
"But how to ask?--whom to ask? There may be the Well, but where is
the way?"
"How to ask, Lady? As I asked you but now for that lower, poorer
water, whereof whosoever drinketh shall thirst again. Whom to ask? Be
there more Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants.
And where is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred
years ago, when `one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, and
forthwith came thereout blood and water.' Over that stream of blood is
the way to the Well of Living Water."
"I do not fully understand you," returned Philippa.
"You look weary, Lady," said the monk, changing his tone.
"I am weary," she answered; "wearier than you--in one sense."
"Ay, wearier than I," he replied; "for I have been to the Well, and have
found rest."
"Are you a priest?" asked Philippa suddenly.
The monk nodded.
"Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy you
might tell me what would help me."
The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour later
he sat in Philippa's bower, and she knelt before him.

"Father," she said, at the close of her tale, "I have never known rest nor
love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is there any
balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?--any healing virtue
in its waters that could comfort me?"
"Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?" asked the monk
quietly.
"Never!" she said, almost indignantly.
"I cannot hold with you there," he replied.
"Whom have I ever injured?" exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, half
amazed.
"Listen," said he, "and I will tell you of One whom all your life you
have injured and neglected--God."
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 God 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
God, 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 God."
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?"
"God."
"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.