LIBRA, THE SCALES
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HERE was once a poor crippled man who lived in a little hut with an only son. The son was good and industrious and by constant work kept a shelter over his father's head. But one day the faithful son was brought home dead—struck down in the prime of health and youth, and then the cripple was told that he must leave his home, since there was no one to pay the rent.
It was with a heavy heart that the poor man set forth, hobbling wearily along the high road on a pair of rough crutches, his few possessions tied up in a small bundle on his back.
By and by he left the dusty road and turned up a path amongst some thick woods which bordered it on the left.
Following the path for some distance, he came at length to a white, hospitable-looking building, but of a grave and quiet aspect, before which stood two-men with shaven heads, and wearing long brown robes. They turned to look at the stranger, so he pulled off his cap and addressed them respectfully.
"Good Fathers, may a tired wayfarer rest awhile on your door-stone?"
"Surely," said the elder of the two; "but you look hungry as well as tired.
Brother Tertius, bring hither a basin of milk and a platter of food for this traveller."
The young monk bent his head, and went to do the other's bidding.
The basin of milk and platter of food looked very tempting to the poor man, so—first folding his thin hands to ask a blessing—he quickly emptied both.
He was about to resume his journey, with many expressions of gratitude, when the Abbot himself, a stout and cheerful looking person, appeared upon the scene.
The two brethren explained the presence of the stranger, whereupon the Abbot said,—
"Is not a scullion needed in the kitchen? Let this man take the post an' he will."
The cripple was very thankful to accept a position which would give him a home and a living, but he modestly expressed a fear that he could not satisfy the good monks, seeing that he was so helpless and slow as they saw him to be.
"Well, well, man," said the Abbot, "if thy legs be faulty, thou hast hands; and if thy heart be willing, it will set them to work. So get thee to the kitchen and do thy best. We will give thee a week's trial."
The poor lame scullion suited his employers so well that at the end of the week he was asked to stay with them as long as he liked. Brother Rufus, who was of a merry turn called him "Brother All-Work," because he was so willing to oblige and to take the tasks of others upon himself.
As time went on, the monks forgot that Brother All-Work had ever been a stranger. His patient face was always bright, his crutches carried him on a dozen errands in an hour; his poor, worn hands were at everybody's service, and everybody seemed to want some service of them.
It was a marvel how they had ever managed without him.
And it was also a marvel that they did not see how incessant labor was wearing out the always feeble frame.
Brother Marcus, tall, pale, and thoughtful was too deeply absorbed in meditation.
Brother Rufus had always a mirthfully cordial greeting, as he hurried by; but he was ever in haste. The brethren were all busy, each in his own way. They were holy men, with much thinking and praying to do, and Brother All-Work never would have expected them to notice the tired looks of a poor scullion, or to ask if his back ached, or his head was heavy.
He went hither and thither, day after day, doing their behests, always smiling; always with the far-away light in his eyes of One who has had a beautiful dream and believes it will come true.
One day another stranger stood at the door of the monastery,—not poor or crippled, but of kingly bearing, and with the air of one unused to beg for alms.
Brother Trophimus, a young monk who opened the door to visitors, trembled at the gaze of the august traveller.
"I come on a mission to this house," said the stranger. "Take, me to thy ruler."
His voice was like his face.
Brother Trophimus bowed low, and led the way to the Abbot's study. The stranger passed, in without asking leave, and the door was shut.
An hour passed. Brother Trophimus was summoned to his Superior's presence, and he started as he perceived how great a change had come over the Abbot's round, complacent face.
"Let the brethren, presently be gathered together in the chapel," said the Abbot.
"Let not one of them be absent," added the guest from the other end of the room, in a tone deep and musical as the vesper bell.
Greatly the brethren wondered, as they trooped in from the fields, or from their cells, where some were meditating and some sleeping, at the summons.
Into the chapel they filed, old and young, Brother Marcus looking as if half in a trance, Brother Rufus curious as a school-boy, each asking of his companions, "What can this mean?"
Brother All-Work, seated wearily on the kitchen door-step for a moment's rest, watched them wistfully. He would have liked to follow, but the cook would want him presently. He arose, adjusted his crutches, and, with a longing look at the white chapel with the purple tree-shadows wavering across its walls, went indoors.
Brother Trophimus had been the last to enter, and, looking back at the moment, had caught the scullion's glance.
He hesitated. Was Brother All-Work included in the Abbot's order? Surely not. As he questioned with himself, the first note of the organ struck on his ear, and he hastened into the chapel to his place.
When the chant ended, the stranger advanced to the centre of the chancel, and, facing the expectant throng, threw back the folds of a dark cloak in which his form had been enveloped.
A thrill passed through the beholders. Dazzlingly robed in white, an angel stood before them, the feathers of his mighty wings sweeping about his feet.
In the hush of awe, where every man communed with his own soul, the angel drew from his bosom a pair of golden scales, and laid a golden heart in one of them.
The heart seemed to weigh the scale down heavily.
Then the angel raised his wonderful eyes, and swept the sea of faces before him.
"These scales weigh no earthly and visible substance," he said. "They weigh the love of God in the hearts of men. If any man love God for a selfish reason, the scales remain as now. But when a man comes who loves Him only for His own loveliness, the scales are equal. Advance now, ye brethren, from the least unto the greatest, and let your love be tested, of what sort it is!"
The monks looked doubtfully at one another.
"From the least to the greatest."
Who was least among them? No one seemed eager to take that place, and there was a pause. Then young Brother Trophimus advanced and stood before the angel.
The scales were still unequal, though the empty one looked a little nearer the other.
With flushed face, the young man made his way back. One after another, the brethren followed, each standing a moment before the angel, each stealing away with lowered eyes.
Even Brother Marcus had fallen short.
Even Brother Rufus looked downcast and sad.
And now, last of all, came the Abbot, with none of his accustomed lordly bearing, but with pale face and faltering tread. The angel's brow was clouded, and his eyes burned like lightning, as they rested sternly upon the Head of the Order.
Alas! again the scales hung uneven.
A silence deeper than they had ever before known reigned in the little chapel.
Only the birds sang gaily in the sunshine outside—the birds that had no cause to hang their heads in shame.
Then the angel spoke.
"Are all the brethren assembled here?"
The Abbot looked around, and answered, "All."
"Surely no," replied the heavenly visitant, "One is absent. Bring him to me."
The monks gazed wonderingly.
Then the Abbot said, "My lord, there is left but a poor cripple who works under the cook in the kitchen. Scarcely is he one of us."
"Perchance," replied the angel, "yet shall ye bring him hither."
Brother All-Work was on hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of the scullery, when to his amazement he saw the Abbot hurrying toward him.
He struggled up and made a low bow. Had he done something for which he was to be reproved?
"Brother All-Work," said the Superior in a tone of respect, "thy presence is required in the chapel; come straightway with me."
The scullion looked down with dismay at his soiled hands and mean clothing.
But the Abbot hurried him along, and into the chapel.
The angel saw him enter, and smiled upon him.
"Come hither, son," said the deep voice.
Tremblingly, the cripple advanced upon his crutches, and when he reached the chancel he fell upon his face in mute reverence. His eyes were hidden so that he could not see what all the others marked in wonder—that in the angel's outstretched hand the golden scales hung even.
"Arise, servant of the Most High," said the angel. "Of all these present, thine is the one heart which is right in the sight of God, because thou lovest Him for His own sake, and not for thine own good."
The bright being laid his hand upon the cripple's shoulder, and he stood upright, with no more need of crutches.
"Say what shall be done for thee," said the angel, tenderly gazing upon him.
Brother All-Work lifted his thin, worn face, bright beyond all earthly brightness.
"That I may 'see the King in His beauty'" he murmured.
Then the heavenly messenger folded his strong arms about the cripple's frail body, and, spreading his golden wings, floated up, past the white-robed saints in the eastern window, past the groined arches of the roof, beyond the eyes of all.
