"SEMPER EADEM."
AMONG the items of intelligence floating about the city, and furnishing
food for gossip, was a statement so carelessly and indifferently
alluded to in the Government organs that it might have been a mere
trifle, affecting no one's life or honour. It was to the effect that
the Count di V— had recently been arrested for the embezzlement of
certain public funds which passed through his hands, and that he would
be tried for the offence in due time accordingly.
When the report was communicated to the Countess, she smiled scornfully.
"It is a falsehood!" she cried. "No one dares to accuse him openly; his
character stands too high for trial on such a charge."
But there were other possibilities, and she trembled for the issue.
Two more days and another night passed in the bitterness of suspense,
while from the public officials no information could gleaned, and no
legal advice availed.
"Such things could not be in England," thought Guy. "And why?"
He thankfully answered himself: "Because England's people are, by
the grace of God, freed from priestly despotism, and must be accused
and judged in open day. Thanks be to God for the Reformation, which
restored the true standard for righteous law!"
At last Pierre, at the appointed place of meeting, gave to the black
nurse the answer he had promised. He had freely used the golden key
with which he had been trusted, and had passed unscathed through many
dangers in the accomplishment of his purpose. But as he shook himself
in satisfaction that he was still sound in life and limb, he assured
Phœbe that he dared not repeat the effort if the lady would give him
the wealth of the whole city; that he must be asked no questions, and
should quit Rome with the young Englishman.
The longed-for letter broke the heart of the poor young wife. It
flashed a fearful light over the cause of the arrest, and the
cruel means used to compel the victim to criminate himself. He had
unwillingly sheltered for a night an enemy of the Government, and
of Papal rule altogether; but as the manner in which the fact had
been made known might not be told, the expedient of a false charge
on pecuniary grounds was resorted to, as the visible shield of the
invisible treachery practised upon the innocent and unsuspecting.
Phœbe watched the varying expression of her mistress's countenance as
she read the brief note, until it dropped from her hands, and with a
groan of agony and horror she exclaimed,—"I have murdered him!" And
fell senseless into the motherly arms stretched out to receive her.
"Poor chile, poor dear chile!" murmured Phœbe. "De dear Lord gib peace.
What any poor sorrowing heart do 'thout thee, Lord Jesus?"
It was long before the terrible seizure passed off, and Phœbe almost
dreaded the return of complete consciousness, for in its transient
intervals, the moan and look of anguish told eloquently of the crushing
woe within.
At last a message delivered to Phœbe seemed to rouse her attention. It
was to the effect that Father Pietro, the spiritual guide and confessor
of the family, was in attendance, anxious to minister consolation to
the dear daughter, of whose sorrow he had heard.
Instantly she rose, with form erect, and eyes flashing with rage and
scorn:
"I will go to him; and, Phœbe, you remain at my side," she said.
But the tottering limbs refused their office, and the Countess was
compelled to resume her couch, while the priest, calm and gentle, as if
he brought good tidings from some angel's lips, came softly in with an
invocation of peace and blessing.
"My daughter, I am grieved at your sorrow," he began; "but let us hope
that all will yet be well. Doubtless the Count will easily explain away
the imputation, and—"
"What imputation?" suddenly interrupted the Countess, with startling
energy.
"Concerning the funds of the State. Is he not by some strange mistake
suspected of—of misappropriating them?"
"Hypocrite! Traitor!" muttered his "daughter."
"Nay, my child, we must trust that he does not merit such terms as
those," calmly replied the priest, looking away from the fiery eyes
fixed upon him.
Suddenly her mood changed, and falling on her knees before him, she
raised her clasped hands, and implored him to save her husband, to set
him at liberty and suffer him to quit his country, to banish him for
ever,—if so he willed.
"You can do this. You can save him, and you only," she cried, "and for
this I can still crouch at your feet, and implore at your hands a mercy
that the God of heaven would not deny."
"My daughter," urged the pitiless "father," "I am powerless in this
matter. Offences against the simple laws of honest dealing must be
tried at an earthly tribunal, and—"
"Shame, shame on you, traitor!" cried the Countess, rising
passionately. "You dragged from me in your accursed confessional
the knowledge that my husband gave unwilling shelter to a suspected
patriot. You dared not be known to break the seal of confession, and
you have got up the contemptible charge on which to secure his arrest,
and bring him within your grasp."
"Poor troubled one, thy passion is mastering thy reason, and needs our
prayers and pity. I will come in thy calmer future, and speak peace
to thy wounded spirit. But beware, daughter, how thou bearest false
accusation against the servants of the Church."
"I will," replied the Countess, proudly; "the truth only will I speak.
Now hear, if it please you, my last confession."
"We are not alone, my daughter," said the priest, with a glance towards
Phœbe, who stood scowling her darkest upon him.
"It matters not. I confess what all the world may hear: A deadly,
soul-destroying crime,—a sin that has blasted my happiness, and will
eat as a canker in my heart so long as I exist on earth. I have yet to
learn whether it can be forgiven in heaven."
"Doubt it not, daughter. All power is committed to us, the ministers of
pardon and condemnation, and when convinced of your penitence, it will
be my pleasure and duty to absolve you from this sin, be it what it
may."
"It is this," she replied, solemnly, her eyes gazing into vacancy, and
her hands clasped convulsively: "I turned from a religion of purity
and truth, and peace and freedom, to a system of lies and treachery,
of slavish degradation and spiritual thraldom. I did it as if there
were no difference; I did it for the love of a fellow sinner. I cared
nothing for God and His word; and now I am reaping as I sowed. Nay,
patience, sir, you must hear how penitent I am. From this hour I
renounce the Church of Rome, and abhor and defy her as the foul enemy
of God's truth, and the hinderer of human peace and salvation; and her
ministers as the serpents who creep into their victims' confidence,
under plea of divine authority, to sting and destroy. Oh, what penance
is too heavy for the soul that has yielded to her blasphemy?"
"Silence, Madam!" exclaimed the astonished priest, for the moment off
his guard. But quickly resuming his official bearing, he added calmly,—
"There are holy refuges within the Church for raving ones like thee,
and there thou shalt learn submission and humility."
But the effort had been too great for the failing strength of his
victim, and as he quitted the room with angry step, she lay again
unconscious on her couch, tended by the faithful nurse, and ignorant of
the threat his ominous words implied.
Certain decided proclamations and measures on the part of the
Government at last satisfied Guy Falconer of the propriety of leaving
Rome, and having, with Pierre's faithful help, made all the needful
arrangements, he sought a farewell interview with the Countess.
"Poor missy, she fail bery fast," said Phœbe, sorrowfully, in answer
to his inquiries. "She done eberyting, but all no use. Dey got fast
hold, and dey keep it. De priest him come to see her, but she faint
away dead, and know noting. Him try ole Phœbe, and she 'bliged hold her
tongue, fear him drive her away. Him tink to convert heathen! Sooner
Phœbe lay her ole bones under car ob Juggernaut dan take up with his
'refuge ob lies.'"
"Right, Phœbe," said Guy. "But you must carry that resolve out of
hearing of Rome, it seems."
"Ah, massa, what me do? Dis priest, him say soon as dear missy be well
again, she go to convent to be comforted, and take care ob little
chile. Does massa tink him eber let her out ob dat?"
From the knowledge he had acquired of the Romish system, Guy could too
easily guess the drift of the arrangement, and when admitted to her
presence, earnestly entreated the Countess to accept such assistance as
he could offer in leaving Italy at once.
"Not while my husband lives," she said mournfully. "I will at least be
near the prison to which my apostasy has consigned him. Don't you know
that Rome can forgive everything but thought, word, or deed that seems
to favour the cause of liberty, national or individual? Revenge, not
justice, is her main-spring in this matter."
"But can he not claim a trial for the real offence, and explain how he
innocently yielded hospitality to an unexpected guest?"
"Read," said the Countess, placing her husband's note in his hand.
It was short, but tender and touching, and concluded with all
injunction to train up their child as anything rather than a Catholic.
"My own words to you, my wife, were quoted to me concerning our
ill-starred guest, and then I knew what instrument of torture had wrung
the secret from you, and why a lying charge must be trumped up to
legalize my sudden arrest. Rome may claim omniscience and omnipotence
while her priests sit in the confessional, and men and women kneel
crushed slaves at their feet. I have groaned beneath this bondage, and
secretly resented it for you, but now I will be free, and the God of
the free and true shall alone hear my last confession."
"Countess," cried Guy with animation, "the Spirit of that God cannot be
excluded by prison walls. If He teach at all, He teaches only truth,
and 'if the truth make him free, he is free indeed.' Whatever is to
occur on earth, you may by God's grace be one in Christ in heaven."
"I!" said the Countess. "I,—an apostate, a murderess! There is no hope
for me in this world or the next. I turned from light to darkness: I
deserve all I suffer and more, if more can be."
"Did you live in God's light of holiness and truth? Did you ever
realize His love in Jesus Christ? Have you ever really felt the power
and sweetness of forgiving grace?"
The Countess raised her eyes with interest to his face. He was in
earnest, he knew of what he was speaking, and she meekly replied at
once,—
"No, never."
"Then you could not turn from what you never knew, or saw, or felt.
You are not an apostate, but a poor lost sinner, not more astray now
than always, and needing pity and salvation. You disregarded God in
prosperity and happiness, but He will not reject you in your need and
sorrow. Try Him, dear Countess, and He will in no wise cast you out."
"Guy Falconer," said the unhappy mourner with awakening energy, "do you
mean to say that the great good God can have anything to do with me
excepting in terrible judgment?"
Guy's answer was from "the word of the Lord, which endureth for ever."
Contemplations of pity, invitations of love, assurances of pardon,
winding as it were a string of pearls around her; silencing objections,
meeting doubts, soothing fears, and simply resolving all into the one
intelligible proposition, "Will you take this salvation and have peace,
or will you refuse it and remain miserable for ever?"
"Oh, if I may, I will, for I am intensely wretched. I know now the
meaning of despair."
Then a Psalm of David in his trouble spoke of anguish and of hope, and
so sweetly fell the balm over the wounded spirit, so greedily opened
the heart to the hitherto unheeded truths of Divine revelation, that a
manifest change passed over the clouded brow and tear-worn face; and
eagerly taking Guy's Bible from his hands,—
"You will leave me this?" she said. "Such a thing may not be procured
in Rome, and you can soon obtain another."
"But may it not be seen and taken from you?" asked Guy, with some
perception of the danger.
"Perhaps not, if I am careful, until I have done with it," she said.
"And if I can, I will return it to you then, and you will like to
have back the lamp which may yet light my dreary path to the heaven
it tells of. And now, dear friend, one favour more. Pray for me—and
my husband. Oh, that we had thought of God in our past happy days—so
few, so wickedly ended! Oh, Guy, if ever you see a fellow creature in
danger of being misled by affection or any other snare towards this
religion of hollow shows and blighting treachery, use my sad experience
to warn; and bring to the front at once that real chief object which
Rome hides until the last, the secret of her power, the essence of her
existence—the confessional. It is no means of Divine consolation; it is
a human contrivance, by means of which a proud domineering priesthood
may enslave and rule the world. I see it all now, but not until I have
become its victim."
Kneeling fora few moments by her side, the young missionary artist,
conquering natural feeling as in the presence of Him who has bidden His
children "ask what they will," pleaded in the simplicity of faith for
the suffering separated ones; and over the weary heart and fading form
of the Countess left a sense of rest and peace which was not there when
he came.
Phœbe placed her little charge in its mother's arms, and followed him
out.
"Massa Guy," said she, bravely driving back her tears, "she not be here
long. You make her see de dear Lord Jesus, den she ready to go; den she
say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' Now you not be
'bove old Phœbe's blessing. Go away safe with de angels ob de Lord, and
bine by, all work done, we hab massa and missy and all in hebben."
"Amen," said Guy, grasping the honest black hand; "and, Phœbe, we must
hear of you again. You have done me faithful, loving service, and you
do not know the value of that pocket-book to my dear mother: she will
want to thank you herself."
"S'pose Phœbe come some day to ole Moat House, she be took in?" asked
Phœbe, quaintly.
"Aye, gladly Phœbe; remember to try it."
"As de Lord please," said Phœbe. "Me tink de world better outside dis
city, all stifle with dem priests; can't 'bide 'em. Satan lookin' out
dere eyes all round."
Guy could not conceal his acquiescence in Phœbe's opinion, and did
not fully realize his personal safety until far away from the city of
priests, where the religion they teach is a travesty of truth, human
hearts their playthings, the game ambition, and the prize dominion.
The health of the Countess visibly declined, and the unwelcome
visits of the confessor produced alarming effects upon her system.
Sometimes she fainted away; sometimes she raised her eyes to his cold
hard face with a look of anguish and entreaty, softly murmuring, "My
husband,—save my husband," and he would be fain to excuse her any
further effort.
Then he would warn Phœbe of careful obedience to the physician's
orders, that the Countess might be enabled to bear removal. And kind
friends called to inquire, and wonder what the end of the sad story
would be.
The old nurse knew that the death-blow had been struck, and that all
hope and desire of life had departed from the mind of the sufferer.
Guy's Bible was studied in secret, and justified its priceless value,
affording comfort and satisfaction beyond language to express, when
the Eternal Spirit fulfils His enlightening office, and takes "of the
things of Jesus, and shows them" to the sinner's heart. They alone
can fill the sore gap bleeding from the wrenching away of earthly
happiness, and they alone abound in blessed hopes which cannot be
disappointed; and they alone, of all the favours man has ever heard
of, are limited by no conditions, bounded by no exhaustion: "Whosoever
will, let him take."
As long as there is the cry "I need"—the answer from heaven is "I
supply." And this between man and God, through the God-man only,
independent of pope or priest, form or ceremony, mass or sacrament,
Mary or Peter, confession to, or absolution from, any man on earth.
Pressed almost to despair at the condition of her mistress, Phœbe
resolved to overcome her reluctance to any conversation with the
confessor, and to try if he could be moved to pity.
"Please, sar," she began in her meekest tone and manner, "dear young
missy be dying since heart-break. Might do her good to know when massa
be tried, and when she see him again."
"I cannot tell her. I have no power in such matters," replied he,
blandly.
"P'raps him be so good to find out? Dey do anyting the priest please to
say."
"You mistake, daughter. The priest's power is altogether spiritual, and
I am ready to exercise it on your behalf, for I find that you are a
Christian, and yet have never sought me for confession."
Phœbe winced, and with difficulty repressed the words which rushed to
her lips; but she wanted to serve her mistress, and persevered.
"Would de priest please see massa Count in him prison, and tell poor
missy 'bout him? Dey let him confess, sure?"
"He refuses to confess, he is a heretic, and it would add the last drop
to the sorrow of the Countess, as a daughter of the Church, to hear
that he abjures the faith."
"Please what be heretic?" asked Phœbe, demurely, and looking down to
conceal the flash of pleasure that danced in her eyes.
"A thing to be abhorred of all Christians. A lost soul defying our holy
mother. Beware, daughter, of all such."
"Poor massa!" returned Phœbe. "What him do? When Phœbe gib up idols,
she get Jesus. What massa get?"
"There remains nothing for him but the Church's curse, and
then—perdition," he solemnly replied.
"Him quite lost den? Do him know it?" asked Phœbe.
"It seems so, and in his apostasy, he is willing it should be so.
Be assured, daughter, that nothing has been omitted in the Church's
yearning love to bring him to repentance."
"Lost, lost," repeated Phœbe softly; "den de priest can tell ob Him who
came to seek and to save the lost. P'raps when de Church put him down,
de dear Lord take him up; who knows! De Lord didn't let no meddlin'
come to thief on the cross—did it all Hisself."
"Woman! The Lord of the Church acts through His ministers. You talk
ignorantly and need instruction, or you also will be a heretic. Beware
how you make mistakes."
"Yes, sar, ole Phœbe be bery much 'ware. De debble, him go about here
badly," she replied, with a quaint curtsey.
"It will be good that you are removed soon then," he added, perplexed,
apparently, by her manner. "And it may be well to inform your mistress
that the Count has been removed for change of air, and that his trial
is deferred in consequence."
"Him bery ill?" asked Phœbe quickly.
"Not hopelessly. But the Church in mercy afflicts that she may heal. Be
content to trust her wisdom."
Then turning back as he was leaving, he added peremptorily,—"We shall
not trifle any longer. Prepare your mistress for travelling, and I
shall provide for her reception in a safe and peaceful retreat, where
she may recover health and obtain resignation."
Again Phœbe curtseyed, for she was too much choked with sorrow and
anger to speak, and kneeling down she groaned within her soul:
"Oh, dear Lord, what me do? Oh save, save! Thou art mighty to save, do
it, O Lord, and make ole Phœbe praise Thee!"
"It is all right, Phœbe," said the Countess, after hearing what had
passed. "We will prepare: listen how ready I am for my journey."
And opening Guy's Bible, she read in musical tones of triumph:
"'The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth
my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's
sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they
comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'
"There, Phœbe, your beloved Lord Jesus has done all this for me. My
Shepherd, seeking and saving His poor lost sheep, leading away from the
strife of this life's turmoil, to nourishing pastures and refreshing
waters. My staff and stay, my table of provision, my cup of blessing;
and now I am going to the place He has prepared for me, in the house of
the Lord for ever."
"Yes, dear missy, bery bad heretic; hope massa Count him ob de same
sort—den meet in de glory, sing togeder Hallelujah; happier dan eber be
down here. Ole Phœbe cry for joy, tink dem safe from prison and priest
for evermore."
"Perhaps we are both on the journey, Phœbe,—both washed in the blood
of the Lamb, and safe for the golden city. You will do all I have said
for our babe, and train her in the faith of the Bible. Tell her my sad
story, and tell her how all is forgiven in Christ Jesus. I am a warning
to those who 'stand,' that they may shun my sin, and escape my sorrow;
and I am an encouragement to those who have fallen into sin and sorrow,
that they may look unto Him who only can save and comfort, and who
says,—
"'Thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help found.'
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy
name.'
"Say the next, Phœbe, for I am very tired,—that is, my voice fails, but
my soul is growing its wings."
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who
forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases,'"
continued the faithful nurse, repeating the beautiful psalm throughout
with tender emphasis, while holy calmness spread over the dying face,
and those "ministers of his that do his pleasure" waited around until
the time for their joyful mission came.
"Phœbe," said the Countess, "we shall be ready for our journey—you
understand?"
"Yes dear missy, all ready. Phœbe do all, or she die in it."
"And what is left, dear Phœbe, when we are gone, they can take; it will
not matter then."
"De good Lord gib dem a big disappointment," murmured Phœbe; "but me
terribly 'fraid dey come too soon."
"No, it is all right. One comes before them at the 'appointed time,' to
take me to the true 'sanctuary.'
"'I will extol thee, O Lord; for thou has lifted me up, and hast not
made my foes to rejoice over me.'
"'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"
The confessor permitted more time for preparation than Phœbe expected,
and of which she made diligent use, receiving in silence all his
commands, and satisfying all his inquiries concerning his "dear
daughter's" health with the information that she "wander a little in
her mind, tinking she see de Count in him prison, and dat he got de
Lord Jesus to take care of his soul," then that "she want sleep very
much," and then that "she sleep," but he did not hear her add "in
Jesus."
When next the reverend "Father," visited the object of his paternal
solicitude, the weeping attendants silently marshalled him to the room
where she lay on her couch, robed in white, a lily on her breast, and
perfect peace written on her fair young face. But that was all: the
spirit he had tortured "for the Church's interest" was not there, the
victim of the confessional had escaped; and the Ayah and infant had
disappeared, none there knew when, nor whither.
The Roman relatives of the Count were in time informed that he had died
in prison, his crimes multiplied in the hands of his enemies, until
confiscation of his property was all too light a punishment, and as for
his anathematised soul, if his scandalised Church could give no verdict
but "heresy," there might be hope that "through much tribulation, he
had entered the kingdom of heaven."
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