Then this brief service over, they began to disperse. Without any
scramble or rush, but in perfect order and with quiet and reverent
demeanour, they left their seats and began to make their way out. None
of them were seen gossiping together, or smiling or nodding over each
other's shoulders as is very often the case when a congregation
disperses from a fashionable church. For these people in their worship
of the Creator, found something reverent, something earnest, something
true, valuable and necessary to daily living,--and though there were
two peaceful-looking constables stationed at the door of egress, their
services were not required to either keep order or compel any of those
thousands of poor to "move on." They kept order for themselves, and
were too busy with practical life and thought, to hang about or gossip
on the way to their various homes. Several members of the congregation
on hearing that their friend Leigh was going to take his marriage vows
before them all, had provided themselves with flowers, and these
managed to pass in front of the platform where, simply and without
ostentation, they handed up their little bouquets and clusters of such
blossoms as they had been able to obtain and afford in winter,--violets
especially, and white chrysanthemums, and one or two rare roses. These
floral offerings meant much sacrifice on the part of those who gave
them,--and the tears filled Sylvie's eyes as she noted the eagerness
with which poor women with worn sad faces, and hands wrinkled and brown
with toil, handed up their little posies for her to take from them, or
laid them with a touching humility at her feet. What a wonderful
wedding hers was, she thought!--far removed from all the world of
fashion, without any of the hypocritical congratulations of "society"
friends,--without the sickening, foolish waste, expense and
artificiality, which nowadays makes a marriage a mere millinery parade.
She had spoken her vows before thousands whom her husband had helped
and rescued from heathenism and misery, and all their good wishes and
prayers for her happiness were wedding gifts such as no money could
purchase. With a heart full of emotion and gratitude she watched the
crowd break up and disappear, till when the last few were passing out
of the building, she said to her husband--
"Let us leave the flowers they have given me here, Aubrey,--here, just
at the foot of the Cross where you have so often spoken to them. I
shall feel they will bring me a blessing!"
"It shall be as you wish, sweetheart!" he answered tenderly,--"and I
must thank you for having entered so readily into the spirit of this
strange marriage before my poor friends, Sylvie,--for it must have
seemed very strange to you!--and yet believe me,--no more binding one
was ever consummated!" He took her hand and kissed it,--then turned to
Cardinal Bonpre, who had risen and was gazing round the bare common
building with dreamy eyes of wistful wonderment.
"I thank you too, my dear friend! You have learned something of my work
since we came to London, and I think you understand thoroughly the true
sanctity and force of my marriage?"
"I--do!--I do understand it!" said the Cardinal slowly. "And I wish
with all my heart that all marriage vows could be so solemnly and truly
taken! But my heart aches--my heart aches for the world! These
thousands you have helped and taught are but a few,--and they were as
you have told me, little better than heathen when you came amongst them
to tell them the true meaning of Christ's message--what of the millions
more waiting to know what the Church is failing to teach? What have the
priests of the Lord been doing for nearly two thousand years, that
there should still be doubters of God!"
Over his face swept a shadow of deep pain, and at that moment Manuel
left the Cross where he had been leaning and came up and stood beside
him. The Cardinal looked at his waif wistfully.
"What did you think of this service, my child?"
"I thought that the Master of all these His servants could not be very
far away!" answered Manuel softly,--"And that if He came suddenly, He
would find none sleeping!"
"May it prove so!" said Aubrey fervently. "But we own ourselves to be
unprofitable servants at best,--we can only try to fulfil our Lord's
commands as nearly to the letter as possible,--and we often fail;--but
we do honestly make the effort. Shall we go now, my lord Cardinal? You
look fatigued."
Bonpre sighed heavily. "My spirit is broken, my son!" he answered. "I
dare not think of what will happen--what is beginning to happen for the
Christian world! I shall not live to see it; but I have sinned, in
passing my days in too much peace. Dwelling for many years away in my
far-off diocese, I have forgotten the hurrying rush of life. I should
have been more active long ago,--and I fear I shall have but a poor
account to give of my stewardship when I am called to render it up.
This is what troubles both my heart and my conscience!"
"Dear friend, you have no cause for trouble!" said Sylvie earnestly.
"Among all the servants of our Master surely you are one of the most
faithful!"
"One of the most faithful, and therefore considered one of the most
faithless!" said Manuel. "Come, let us go now,--and leave these bridal
flowers where the bride wishes them to be,--at the foot of the Cross,
as a symbol of her husband's service! Let us go,--the Cardinal has need
of rest."
They returned to their respective homes,--Aubrey and his wife to a
little tenement house they had taken for a few weeks in the district in
order that Sylvie might be able to see and to study for herself the sad
and bitter lives of those who from birth to death are deprived of all
the natural joys of happy and wholesome existence,--whose children are
born and bred up in crime,--where girls are depraved and ruined before
they are in their teens,--and where nothing of God is ever taught
beyond that He is a Being who punishes the wicked and rewards the
good,--and where in the general apathy of utter wretchedness, people
decide that unless there is something given them in this world to be
good for, they would rather be bad like the rest of the folks they see
about them. The Cardinal and Manuel dwelt in rooms not very far away,
and every day and every hour almost was occupied by them in going among
these poor, helpless, hopeless ones of the world, bringing them comfort
and aid and sympathy. Wherever Manuel went, there brightness followed;
the sick were healed, the starving were fed, the lonely and desolate
were strengthened and encouraged, and the people who knew no more of
the Cardinal than that "he was a priest of some sort or other," began
to watch eagerly for the appearance of the Cardinal's foundling, "the
child that seemed to love them," as they described him,--and to long
for even a passing glimpse of the fair face, the steadfast blue eyes,
the tender smile, of one before whom all rough words were silenced--all
weeping stilled.
But on this night of all--the night of Sylvie's "religious" marriage,
the Cardinal was stricken by a heavy blow. He had expected some
misfortune, but had not realized that it would be quite so heavy as it
proved. The sum and substance of his trouble was contained in a
"confidential" letter from Monsignor Moretti, and was worded as
follows--
"My Lord Cardinal,--It has come to the knowledge of the Holy Father
that you have not only left Rome without signifying the intention of
your departure to the Vatican as custom and courtesy should have
compelled you to do, but that instead of returning to your rightful
diocese, you have travelled to London, and are there engaged in working
with the socialist and heretic Aubrey Leigh, who is spreading
pernicious doctrine among the already distracted and discordant of the
poorer classes. This fact has to be coupled with the grave offence
committed against the Holy Father by the street-foundling to whom you
accord your favour and protection, and whose origin you are unable to
account for; and the two things taken together, constitute a serious
breach of conduct on the part of so eminent a dignitary of the Church
as yourself, and compel the Holy Father most unwillingly and
sorrowfully to enquire whether he is justified in retaining among his
servants of the Holy See one who so openly betrays its counsels and
commands. It is also a matter of the deepest distress to the Holy
Father, that a picture painted by your niece Donna Angela Sovrani and
entitled 'The Coming of Christ,' in which the Church itself is depicted
as under the displeasure of our Lord, should be permitted to
contaminate the minds of the nations by public exhibition. Through the
Vatican press, the supreme Pontiff has placed his ban against this most
infamous picture, and all that the true servants of the Church can do
to check its pernicious influence, will be done. But it cannot be
forgotten that Your Eminence is closely connected with all these
regrettable events, and as we have no actual proof of the authenticity
of the miracle you are alleged to have performed at Rouen, the Holy
Father is reluctantly compelled to leave that open to doubt. The
Archbishop of Rouen very strenuously denies the honesty of the mother
of the child supposed to be healed by you, and states that she has not
attended Mass or availed herself of any of the Sacraments for many
years. We are willing to admit that Your Eminence may personally have
been unsuspectingly made party to a fraud,--but this does not free you
from the other charges, (notably that of exonerating the late Abbe
Vergniaud,) of which you stand arraigned. Remembering, however, the
high repute enjoyed by Your Eminence throughout your career, and taking
into kindly consideration your increasing age and failing health, the
Holy Father commissions me to say that all these grievous backslidings
on your part shall be freely pardoned if you will,--Firstly,--repudiate
all connection with your niece, Angela Sovrani, and hold no further
communication with her or her father Prince Sovrani,--Secondly,--that
you will break off your acquaintance with the socialist Aubrey Leigh
and his companion Sylvie Hermenstein, the renegade from the Church of
her fathers,--and Thirdly,--that you will sever yourself at once and
forever from the boy you have taken under your protection. This last
clause is the most important in the opinion of His Holiness. These
three things being done, you will be permitted to return to your
diocese, and pursue the usual round of your duties there to the end.
Failing to fulfil the Holy Father's commands, the alternative is that
you be deprived of your Cardinal's hat and your diocese together.
"It is with considerable pain that I undertake the transcribing of the
commands of the Holy Father, and I much desired Monsignor Gherardi to
follow you to London and lay these matters before you privately, with
all the personal kindness which his friendship for you makes possible,
but I regret to say, and you will no doubt regret to learn, that he has
been smitten with dangerous illness and fever, which for the time being
prevents his attention to duty. Trusting to hear from you with all
possible speed that Your Eminence is in readiness to obey the Holy
Father's paternal wish and high command, I am,
"Your Eminence's obedient servant in Christ,
"Lorenzo Moretti."
The Cardinal read this letter through once--twice--then the paper
dropped from his hands.
"My God, my God! why hast Thou forsaken me!" he murmured. "What have I
done in these few months! What must I do!"
A light touch on his arm roused him. Manuel confronted him.
"Why are you sorrowful, dear friend? Have you sad news?"
"Yes, my child! Sad news indeed! I am commanded by the Pope to give up
all I have in the world! If it were to give to my Master Christ I would
give it gladly,--but to the Church--I cannot!"
"What does the Pope ask you to resign?" said Manuel.
"My niece Angela and all her love for me!--my friendship with this
brave man Aubrey Leigh who works among the outcast and the poor,--but
more than all this,--he asks me to give You up--you! My child, I
cannot!"
He stretched his thin withered hands out to the slight boyish figure in
front of him.
"I cannot! I am an old man, near--very near--to the grave--and I love
you! I need you!--without you the world is dark! I found you all
alone--I have cared for you and guarded you and served you--I cannot
let you go!" The tears filled his. eyes and rolled down his worn
cheeks. "I cannot lose my last comfort!" he repeated feebly. "I cannot
let You go!"
Silently the boy gave his hands into the old man's fervent clasp, and
as Bonpre bent his head upon them a sense of peace stole over him,--a
great and solemn calm. Looking up he saw Manuel earnestly regarding him
with eyes full of tenderness and light, and a smile upon his lips.
"Be of good courage, dear friend!" he said. "The time of trial is hard,
but it will soon be over. You must needs part from Angela!--but
remember she has great work still to do, and she is not left without
love! You must also part from Aubrey and his wife--but they too are
given high tasks to fulfil for God's glory--and,--they have each other!
Yes!--you must part with all these things, dear friend--they are not
yours to retain;--and if you would keep your place in this world you
must part with Me!"
"Never!" cried Bonpre, moved to sudden passion. "I cannot! To me the
world without you would be empty!"
As he spoke these words a sudden memory rang in his brain like a chime
from some far-distant tower echoing over a width of barren land. "For
me the world is empty!" had been the words spoken by Manuel when he had
first found him leaning against the locked Cathedral door in Rouen. And
with this memory came another, the vision he had seen of the end of the
world, and the words he had heard spoken by some mysterious voice in
his sleep,--"The light shineth in darkness and the darkness
comprehendeth it not!" And still he looked pleadingly, earnestly,
almost fearingly, into the face of his foundling.
"We must speak of this again," said Manuel then, gently. "But to-night,
for at least some hours, you must rest! Have patience with your own
thoughts, dear friend! To part with earthly loves is a sorrow that must
always be;--Angela is young and you are old!--she has her task to do,
and yours is nearly finished! You must part with Aubrey Leigh,--you
cannot help him,--his work is planned,--his ways ordained. Thus, you
have no one to command your life save the Church,--and it seems that
you must choose between the Church and me! To keep Me, you must forego
the Church. To keep the Church you must say farewell to Me! But think
no more of it just now--sleep and rest--leave all to God!"
The Cardinal still looked at him earnestly.
"You will not leave me? You will not, for a thought of saving me from
my difficulties, go from me? If I sleep I shall find you when I wake?"
"I will never leave you till you bid me go!" answered Manuel. "And if I
am taken far from hence you shall go with me! Rest, dear friend--rest,
true servant of God! Rest without thought--without care--till I call
you!"