I.

All the bells were ringing the Angelus. The sun was sinking;--and from

the many quaint and beautiful grey towers which crown the ancient city

of Rouen, the sacred chime pealed forth melodiously, floating with

sweet and variable tone far up into the warm autumnal air. Market women

returning to their cottage homes after a long day's chaffering disposal

of their fruit, vegetable, and flower-wares in the town, paused in

their slow trudge along the dusty road and crossed themselves

devoutly,--a bargeman, lazily gliding down the river on his flat

unwieldly craft, took his pipe from his mouth, lifted his cap

mechanically, and muttered more from habit than reflection--"Sainte

Marie, Mere de Dieu, priez pour nous!"--and some children running out

of school, came to a sudden standstill, listening and glancing at each

other, as though silently questioning whether they should say the old

church-formula among themselves or no? Whether, for example, it might

not be more foolish than wise to repeat it? Yes;--even though there was

a rumour that the Cardinal-Archbishop of a certain small,

half-forgotten, but once historically-famed Cathedral town of France

had come to visit Rouen that day,--a Cardinal-Archbishop reputed to be

so pure of heart and simple in nature, that the people of his far-off

and limited diocese regarded him almost as a saint,--would it be right

or reasonable for them, as the secularly educated children of modern

Progress, to murmur an "Angelus Domini," while the bells rang? It was a

doubtful point;--for the school they attended was a Government one, and

prayers were neither taught nor encouraged there, France having for a

time put God out of her national institutions. Nevertheless, the glory

of that banished Creator shone in the deepening glow of the splendid

heavens,--and--from the silver windings of the Seine which, turning

crimson in the light, looped and garlanded the time-honoured old city

as with festal knots of rosy ribbon, up to the trembling tops of the

tall poplar trees fringing the river banks,--the warm radiance

palpitated with a thousand ethereal hues of soft and changeful colour,

transfusing all visible things into the misty semblance of some divine

dwelling of dreams. Ding-dong--ding dong! The last echo of the last

bell died away upon the air--the last words enunciated by devout

priests in their cloistered seclusion were said--"In hora mortis

nostrae! Amen!"--the market women went on their slow way homeward,--the

children scampered off in different directions, easily forgetful of the

Old-World petition they had thought of, yet left unuttered,--the

bargeman and his barge slipped quietly away together down the windings

of the river out of sight;--the silence following the clangour of the

chimes was deep and impressive--and the great Sun had all the heaven to

himself as he went down. Through the beautiful rose-window of the

Cathedral of Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving bright

patterns of ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the ancient

pile which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as also that

of Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and lover of the

brilliant Diane de Poitiers,--and one broad beam fell purpling aslant

into the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially dedicated to the

Virgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous alabaster tomb

known as "Le Mourant" or "The Dying One." A strange and awesome piece

of sculpture truly, is this same "Mourant"!--showing, as it does with

deft and almost appalling exactitude, the last convulsion of a strong

man's body gripped in the death-agony. No delicate delineator of shams

and conventions was the artist of olden days whose ruthless chisel

shaped these stretched sinews, starting veins, and swollen eyelids

half-closed over the tired eyes!--he must have been a sculptor of

truth,--truth downright and relentless,--truth divested of all graceful

coverings, and nude as the "Dying One" thus realistically portrayed.

Ugly truth too,--unpleasant to the sight of the worldly and

pleasure-loving tribe who do not care to be reminded of the common fact

that they all, and we all, must die. Yet the late sunshine flowed very

softly on and over the ghastly white, semi-transparent form, outlining

it with as much tender glory as the gracious figure of Mary Virgin

herself, bending with outstretched hands from a grey niche, fine as a

cobweb of old lace on which a few dim jewels are sewn. Very beautiful,

calm and restful at this hour was "Our Lady's Chapel," with its high,

dark intertwisting arches, mutilated statues, and ancient tattered

battle-banners hanging from the black roof and swaying gently with

every little breath of wind. The air, perfumed with incense-odours,

seemed weighted with the memory of prayers and devotional

silences,--and in the midst of it all, surrounded by the defaced and

crumbling emblems of life and death, and the equally decaying symbols

of immortality, with the splendours of the sinking sun shedding roseate

haloes about him, walked one for whom eternal truths outweighed all

temporal seemings,--Cardinal Felix Bonpre, known favourably, and

sometimes alluded to jestingly at the Vatican, as "Our good Saint

Felix." Tall and severely thin, with fine worn features of ascetic and

spiritual delicacy, he had the indefinably removed air of a scholar and

thinker, whose life was not, and never could be in accordance with the

latter-day customs of the world; the mild blue eyes, clear and

steadfast, most eloquently suggested "the peace of God that passeth all

understanding";--and the sensitive intellectual lines of the mouth and

chin, which indicated strength and determined will, at the same time

declared that both strength and will were constantly employed in the

doing of good and the avoidance of evil. No dark furrows of hesitation,

cowardice, cunning, meanness or weakness marred the expressive dignity

and openness of the Cardinal's countenance,--the very poise of his

straight spare figure and the manner in which he moved, silently

asserted that inward grace of spirit without which there is no true

grace of body,--and as he paused in his slow pacing to and fro to gaze

half-wistfully, half-mournfully upon the almost ghastly artistic

achievement of "Le Mourant" he sighed, and his lips moved as if in

prayer. For the brief, pitiful history of human life is told in that

antique and richly-wrought alabaster,--its beginning, its ambition, and

its end. At the summit of the shrine, an exquisite bas-relief shows

first of all the infant clinging to its mother's breast,--a stage lower

down is seen the boy in the eager flush of youth, speeding an arrow to

its mark from the bent bow,--then, on a still larger, bolder scale of

design is depicted the proud man in the zenith of his career, a noble

knight riding forth to battle and to victory, armed cap-a-pie, his

war-steed richly caparisoned, his lance in rest,--and finally, on the

sarcophagus itself is stretched his nude and helpless form, with hands

clenched in the last gasping struggle for breath, and every muscle

strained and fighting against the pangs of dissolution.

"But," said the Cardinal half aloud, with the gentle dawning of a

tender smile brightening the fine firm curve of his lips,--"it is not

the end! The end here, no doubt;--but the beginning--THERE!"

He raised his eyes devoutly, and instinctively touched the silver

crucifix hanging by its purple ribbon at his breast. The orange-red

glow of the sun encompassed him with fiery rings, as though it would

fain consume his thin, black-garmented form after the fashion in which

flames consumed the martyrs of old,--the worn figures of mediaeval

saints in their half-broken niches stared down upon him stonily, as

though they would have said,--"So we thought,--even we!--and for our

thoughts and for our creed we suffered willingly,--yet lo, we have come

upon an age of the world in which the people know us not,--or knowing,

laugh us all to scorn."

But Cardinal Bonpre being only conscious of a perfect faith, discovered

no hints of injustice or despair in the mutilated shapes of the

Evangelists surrounding him,--they were the followers of Christ,--and

being such, they were bound to rejoice in the tortures which made their

glory. It was only the unhappy souls who suffered not for Christ at

all, whom he considered were truly to be compassionated.

"And if," he murmured as he moved on--"this knight of former days, who

is now known to us chiefly, alas! as 'Le Mourant', was a faithful

servant of our Blessed Lord, why then it is as well with him as with

any of the holy martyrs. May his soul rest in peace!"

Stopping an instant at the next sculptural wonder in his way--the

elaborately designed tomb of Cardinal Amboise, concerning the eternal

fate of which "brother in Christ" the good Felix had no scruples or

fears whatever, he stepped softly down from the choir-chapel where he

had been wandering to and fro for some time in solitary musings, and

went towards the great central nave. It was quite empty,--not even a

weary silk-weaver, escaped from one of the ever-working looms of the

city, had crept in to tell her beads. Broad, vacant, vast, and

suggestive of a sublime desolation, the grand length and width of the

Latin Cross which shapes the holy precincts, stretched into vague

distance, one or two lamps were burning dimly at little shrines set in

misty dark recesses,--a few votive candles, some lit, some smouldered

out, leaned against each other crookedly in their ricketty brass stand,

fronting a battered statue of the Virgin. The Angelus had ceased

ringing some ten minutes since,--and now one solemn bell, swinging high

up in the Cathedral towers, tolled forth the hour of six, slowly and

with a strong pulsating sound which seemed to shake the building down

to its very vaults and deep foundations. As the last stroke shivered

and thundered through the air, a strain of music, commencing softly,

then swelling into fuller melody, came floating from aloft, following

the great bell's vibration. Half way down the nave, just as he was

advancing slowly towards the door of egress, this music overtook the

Cardinal like an arresting angel, bringing him to a sudden pause.

"The organist practises late," he said aloud, as though speaking to

some invisible companion, and then was silent, listening. Round him and

above him surged the flood of rich and dulcet harmony,--the sunset

light through the blue and red stained-glass windows grew paler and

paler--the towering arches which sprang, as it were, from slender

stem-like side-columns up to full-flowering boughs of Gothic

ornamentation, crossing and re-crossing above the great High Altar,

melted into a black dimness,--and then--all at once, without any

apparent cause, a strange, vague suggestion of something supernatural

and unseen began suddenly to oppress the mind of the venerable prelate

with a curious sense of mingled awe and fear. Trembling a little, he

knew not why, he softly drew a chair from one of the shadowy corners,

where all such seats were piled away out of sight so that they might

not disfigure the broad and open beauty of the nave, and, sitting down,

he covered his eyes with one hand and strove to rouse himself from the

odd, half-fainting sensation which possessed him. How glorious now was

the music that poured like a torrent from the hidden organ-loft! How

full of searching and potential proclamation!--the proclamation of an

eternal, unguessed mystery, for which no merely human speech might ever

find fit utterance! Some divine declaration of God's absolute

omnipresence,--or of Heaven's sure nearness,--touched the heart of

Felix Bonpre, as he sat like an enchanted dreamer among the tender

interweavings of solemn and soothing sound;--carried out of himself and

beyond his own existence, he could neither pray nor think, till, all at

once, upon the peaceful and devout silence of his soul, some very old,

very familiar words struck sharply as though they were quite new,--as

though they were invested suddenly with strange and startling

significance--

"When the son of Man cometh, think ye He shall find faith on earth?"

Slowly he withdrew his hand from his eyes and gazed about him,

half-startled, half-appalled. Had anyone spoken these words?--or had

they risen of themselves as it were in letters of fire out of the sea

of music that was heaving and breaking tumultuously about him?

"WHEN THE SON OF MAN COMETH, THINK YE HE SHALL FIND FAITH ON EARTH?"

The question seemed to be whispered in his ears with a thrilling

intensity of meaning; and moved by a sudden introspective and

retrospective repentance, the gentle old man began mentally to grope

his way back over the past years of his life, and to ask himself

whether in very truth that life had been well or ill spent? Viewed by

his own inner contemplative vision, Cardinal Felix Bonpre saw in

himself nothing but wilful sin and total unworthiness;--but in the eyes

of those he had served and assisted, he was a blameless priest,--a man

beloved of God, and almost visibly encompassed by the guardianship of

angels. He had been singularly happy in his election to a diocese

which, though it had always had an Archbishop for its spiritual head,

boasted scarce as many inhabitants as a prosperous English

village,--and the result of this was that he had lived altogether away

from the modern world, passing most of his time in reading and

study,--while for relaxation, he permitted himself only the innocent

delight of growing the finest roses in his neighbourhood. But he had

pious scruples even about this rose-growing fancy of his,--he had a

lurking distrust of himself in it, as to whether it was not a purely

selfish pleasure,--and therefore, to somewhat smooth the circumstance,

he never kept any of the choice blooms for his own gratification, but

gave the best of them with a trust, as simple as it was beautiful, to

the altar of the Virgin, sending all the rest to the bedsides of the

sick and sorrowful, or to the coffins of the dead. It never once

occurred to him that the "Cardinal's roses," as they were called, were

looked upon by the poor people who received them as miraculous flowers

long after they had withered,--that special virtues were assigned to

them--and that dying lips kissed their fragrant petals with almost as

much devotion as the holy crucifix, because it was instinctively

believed that they contained a mystic blessing. He knew nothing of all

this;--he was too painfully conscious of his own shortcomings,--and of

late years, feeling himself growing old, and realising that every day

brought him nearer to that verge which all must cross in passing from

Time into Eternity, he had been sorely troubled in mind. He was wise

with the wisdom which comes of deep reading, lonely meditation, and

fervent study,--he had instructed himself in the modern schools of

thought as well as the ancient,--and though his own soul was

steadfastly set upon the faith he followed, he was compassionately

aware of a strange and growing confusion in the world,--a combination

of the elements of evil, which threatened, or seemed to threaten, some

terrible and imminent disaster. This sorrowful foreboding had for a

long time preyed upon him, physically as well as mentally; always thin,

he had grown thinner and more careworn, till at the beginning of the

year his health had threatened to break down altogether. Whereupon

those who loved him, growing alarmed, summoned a physician, who, (with

that sage experience of doctors to whom thought-trouble is an

inexplicable and incurable complication) at once pronounced change of

air to be absolutely necessary. Cardinal Bonpre must travel, he said,

and seek rest and minddistraction in the contemplation of new and

varying scenes. With smiling and resigned patience the Cardinal obeyed

not so much the command of his medical attendant, as the anxious desire

of his people,--and thereupon departed from his own Cathedral-town on a

tour of several months, during which time he inwardly resolved to try

and probe for himself the truth of how the world was going,--whether on

the downward road to destruction and death, or up the high ascents of

progress and life. He went alone and unattended,--he had arranged to

meet his niece in Paris and accompany her to her father's house in

Rome,--and he was on his way to Paris now. But he had purposely made a

long and round-about journey through France with the intention of

studying the religious condition of the people; and by the time he

reached Rouen, the old sickness at his heart had rather increased than

diminished. The confusion and the trouble of the world were not mere

hearsay,--they in very truth existed. And what seemed to the Cardinal

to be the chief cause of the general bewilderment of things, was the

growing lack of faith in God and a Hereafter. How came this lack of

faith into the Christian world? Sorrowfully he considered the

question,--and persistently the same answer always asserted

itself--that the blame rested principally with the Church itself, and

its teachers and preachers, and not only in one, but in all forms of

Creed.

"We have erred in some vital manner," mused the Cardinal, with a

feeling of strange personal contrition, as though he were more to blame

than any of his compeers--"We have failed to follow the Master's

teaching in its true perfection. We have planted in ourselves a seed of

corruption, and we have permitted--nay, some of us have encouraged--its

poisonous growth, till it now threatens to contaminate the whole field

of labour."

And he thought of the words of St. John the Divine to the Church of

Sardis--

"_I_ KNOW THY WORKS,--THAT THOU HAST A NAME THAT THOU LIVEST AND ART

DEAD.

"BE WATCHFUL, AND STRENGTHEN THE THINGS THAT REMAIN, THAT ARE READY TO

DIE,--FOR _I_ HAVE NOT FOUND THY WORKS PERFECT BEFORE GOD. REMEMBER

THEREFORE HOW THOU HAST RECEIVED AND HEARD, AND HOLD FAST AND REPENT.

"IF, THEREFORE, THOU SHALT NOT WATCH, _I_ WILL COME ON THEE AS A THIEF,

AND THOU SHALL NOT KNOW WHAT HOUR I WILL COME UPON THEE.

"THOU HAST A FEW NAMES EVEN IN SARDIS, WHICH HAVE NOT DEFILED THEIR

GARMENTS, AND THEY SHALL WALK WITH ME IN WHITE, FOR THEY ARE WORTHY.

"HE THAT OVERCOMETH, THE SAME SHALL BE CLOTHED IN WHITE RAIMENT; AND I

WILL NOT BLOT HIS NAME OUT OF THE BOOK OF LIFE, BUT I WILL CONFESS HIS

NAME BEFORE MY FATHER AND BEFORE HIS ANGELS."

Dimmer and duskier grew the long shadows now gathering in the

Cathedral,--two of the twinkling candles near the Virgin's statue

suddenly sank in their sockets with a spluttering noise and guttered

out,--the solemn music of the organ continued, growing softer and

softer as it sounded, till it crept through the vastness of the

building like a light breeze wafted from the sea, bringing with it

suggestions of far flower-islands in the tropics, golden shores kissed

by languid foam, and sweet-throated birds singing, and still the

Cardinal sat thinking of griefs and cares and inexplicable human

perplexities, which were not his own, but which seemed to burden the

greater portion of the world. He drew no comparisons,--he never

considered that, as absolutely as day is day and night is night, his

own beautiful and placid life, lived in the faith of God and Christ,

was tortured by no such storm-tossed tribulation as that which affected

the lives of many others,--and that the old trite saying, almost

despised because so commonplace, namely that "goodness makes

happiness," is as eternally true as that the sun shines in heaven, and

that it is only evil which creates misery. To think of himself in the

matter never occurred to him; had he for a moment entertained the

merest glimmering of an idea that he was better, and therefore happier

than most men, he would, in his own opinion, have been guilty of

unpardonable arrogance and presumption. What he saw, and what sincerely

and unselfishly grieved him, was that the people of this present age

were unhappy--discontented--restless,--that something of the simple joy

of existence had gone out of the world,--that even the brilliant

discoveries of science and the so-called "progress" of men only served

apparently to increase their discontent,--that when they were overcome

by sorrow, sickness, or death, they had little philosophy and less

faith to support them,--and that except in the few cases where Christ

was still believed in, they gave way altogether and broke down like

frightened children in a storm.

"Thou hast a few names, even in Sardis!" A few names! But how few!

Universal weariness of life seemed a disease of the time,--there was

nothing that seemed to satisfy--even the newest and most miraculous

results of scientific research and knowledge ceased to be interesting

after the first week of their triumphant public demonstration and

acceptance.

"The world must be growing old," said the Cardinal sadly,--"It must be

losing its vigour,--it is too tired to lift itself to the light; too

weary and worn out to pray. Perhaps the end of all present things is at

hand,--perhaps it is the beginning of the promised 'new heavens and new

earth.'"

Just then the organ-music ceased abruptly, and the Cardinal, waking

from his thoughts as from a trance, rose up slowly and stood for a

moment facing the great High Altar, which at that distance could only

just be discerned among its darkening surroundings by the little

flickering flame of the suspended lamp burning dimly before the holy

Tabernacle, wherein was locked with golden key behind snowy doors of

spotless marble, the sacred and mysterious Host.

"WHEN THE SON OF MAN COMETH, THINK YE HE SHALL FIND FAITH ON EARTH?"

Again that searching question repeated itself in his mind so distinctly

as to be echoed in his ears,--the deep silence around him seemed

waiting expectantly for some reply, and moved by a strange spirit of

exaltation within him, he answered half aloud--

"Yes! Surely He will find faith,--if only in the few! There are 'a few

names, even in Sardis!' In the sorrowful and meek,--in the poor and

patient and downtrodden martyrs of humanity, He will find faith;--in

the very people He died to save He will discover that most precious and

inspiring of all virtues! But in the so-called wise and brilliant

favourites of the world He will not find it,--in the teachers of the

people He will search for it in vain. By the writers of many books He

shall find Himself scorned and rejected,--in the cheap and spurious

philosophy of modern egotists He will see His doctrines mocked at and

denounced as futile. Few men there are in these days who would deny

themselves for His sake, or sacrifice a personal passion for the purer

honouring of His name. Inasmuch as the pride of great learning breeds

arrogance, so the more the wonder of God's work is displayed to us, the

more are we dazzled and confounded; and so in our blindness we turn

from the worship of the Creator to that of His creation, forgetting

that all the visible universe is but the outcome or expression of the

hidden Divine Intelligence behind it. What of the marvels of the

age!--the results of science!--the strange psychic prescience and

knowledge of things more miraculous yet to be!--these are but hints and

warnings of the approach of God himself--'coming in a cloud with power

and great glory'!"

As he thus spoke, he raised his hand out of old habit acquired in

preaching, and a ray from the after-glow of the sunken sun lit up the

jewel in the apostolic ring he wore, warming its pale green lustre to a

dim violet spark as of living fire. His fine features were for a moment

warm with fervour and feeling,--then,--suddenly, he thought of the

great world outside all creeds,--of the millions and millions of human

beings who neither know nor accept Christ,--of the Oriental races with

their intricate and beautiful systems of philosophy,--of savage tribes,

conquered and unconquered,--of fierce yet brave Turkish warriors who

are, with all their faults, at any rate true to the faith they

profess--and lastly--more than all--of the thousands upon thousands of

Christians in Christian lands, who no more believe in Him whose holy

name they take in vain, than in any Mumbo-Jumbo fetish of untaught

barbarians. Were these to perish utterly? Had THEY no immortal souls to

save? Had the churches been at work for eighteen hundred years and

more, to bring about no better results than this,--namely that there

were only "A FEW NAMES IN SARDIS"? If so, were not the churches

criminally to blame? Yea, even holy Mother-Church, whose foundation

rested on the memory of the Lying Apostle? Rapidly, and as if suggested

by some tormenting devil, these thoughts possessed the Cardinal's

brain, burning into it and teasing and agonising the tender fibres of

his conscience and his soul. Could God, the great loving Creator of

countless universes, be so cruel as to wantonly destroy millions of

helpless creatures in one small planet, because through ignorance or

want of proper teaching they had failed to find Christ?--was it

possible that he could only extend his mercy and forgiveness to the

"few names in Sardis"?

"Yet our world is but a pin's point in the eternal immensities," argued

the Cardinal almost wistfully--"Only a few can expect to be saved."

Nevertheless, this reasoning did not satisfy him. Again, what of these

millions? Were they to be forever lost? Then why so much waste of life?

Waste of life! There is no such thing as waste of life--this much

modern science the venerable Felix knew. Nothing can be wasted,--not a

breath, not a scene, not a sound. All is treasured up in Nature's

store-house and can be eternally reproduced at Nature's will. Then what

was to become of the myriads of human beings and immortal souls whom

the Church had failed to rescue? THE CHURCH HAD FAILED! Why had it

failed? Whose the fault?--whose the weakness?--for fault and weakness

were existent somewhere.

"WHEN THE SON OF MAN COMETH, THINK YE HE SHALL FIND FAITH ON EARTH?"

"No!" whispered the Cardinal, suddenly forced, as it were in his own

despite, to contradict his former assertion--"No!" He paused, and

mechanically making his way towards the door of the Cathedral, he

dipped his fingers into the holy water that glistened dimly in its

marble basin near the black oak portal, and made the sign of the cross

on brow and breast;--"He will not find faith where faith should be

pre-eminent. It must be openly confessed--repentingly admitted,--He

will NOT find faith even in the Church He founded,--I say it to our

shame!"

His head drooped, as though his own words had wounded him, and with an

air of deep dejection he slowly passed out. The huge iron-bound door

swung noiselessly to and fro behind him,--the grave-toned bell in the

tower struck seven. Outside, a tender twilight mellowed the atmosphere

and gave brightness to approaching evening; inside, the long shadows,

gathering heavily in the aisles and richly sculptured hollows of the

side-chapels, brought night before its time. The last votive candle at

the Virgin's shrine flickered down and disappeared like a firefly in

dense blackness,--the last echo of the bell died in a tremulous

vibration up among the high-springing roof-arches, and away into the

solemn corners where the nameless dead reposed,--the last impression of

life and feeling vanished with the retreating figure of the

Cardinal--and the great Cathedral, the Sanctuary and House of God, took

upon itself the semblance of a funeral vault,--a dark, Void, wherein

but one red star, the lamp before the Altar, burned.