"And speak'st thou thus,
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee,
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee,
And of the Heaven that lieth far from thee?
Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door,
Whose footprints leave no print across the snow.
Thy Sun has risen with comfort in His face,
The smile of Heaven to warm thy frozen heart,
And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long
To wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go.
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes,
Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait?
Thou shalt not wait. `This night, this night,' He saith,
`I stand at the door and knock.'"
_Jean Ingelow_.
Earl Hubert went very pale when his wife told him of the conversation
which she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of his
old age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. But
the blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in a
figurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been,
physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after that
event.
The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weigh
quite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girl
weighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, she
tried to bolster up her own hopes by appeals to every other person.
"Father Nicholas, do you think my daughter looks really ill?"
Father Nicholas, lost at the moment in the Aegean Sea, came slowly back
from "the many-twinkling smile of ocean" to the consideration of the
question referred to him.
"My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well,--looking
ill? I cannot say, Lady, that I have studied the noble damsel's looks.
Perhaps--is she a little paler than she used to be? Ah, my Lady, a
course of the grand old Greek dramatists,--that would be the thing to
set her up. She could not fail to be interested and charmed."
The Countess next applied to Father Warner.
"The damsel does look pale, Lady. What wonder, when she has not
confessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will see
she will be another maiden."
"She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well," said
Levina, who was the third authority. "It strikes me, under my Lady's
pleasure, that she would be the better for a change."
This meant, that Levina was tired of Bury Saint Edmund's.
"Oh, there's nothing the matter with her!" said Eva, testily. "She
never takes things to heart as I do. She'll do well enough."
"Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret," was Doucebelle's
contribution. "I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish I
knew what to do for her."
Beatrice looked up with grave eyes. "Lady, I would so gladly say No!
But I cannot do it."
The last person interrogated was Bruno; and by the time she came to him,
the Countess was very low-spirited. His face went grave and sad.
"Lady, it never does good to shut one's eyes to the truth. It is worse
pain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying."
"Dying!" shrieked the unhappy mother. "Dying, Father Bruno! You said
_dying_!"
"Too true, my Lady."
"But what can I do? How am I to stop it?"
"Ah!" said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. "There is a `Talitha Cumi'
from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He has
called her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only too
plain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility of
disobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead to
life."
"But how am I to help it?" repeated the poor Countess.
"You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do
our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going."
"Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of
Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every
penny and every jewel that I have!"
"Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands
without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than
you."
"Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!"
"He has died for her," answered Bruno, softly. "And He is the Amen, the
Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She
cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head
of every child of His."
"But where will she be?--what will she be?" moaned the poor mother.
"If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him."
"But He does not need her, and I do!"
"Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well,
Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong
sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through
the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest.
But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early.
It is far better."
"For her,--well, perhaps--if she can be got past Purgatory. But for
me!"
"For each of you, what she needs, Lady."
"O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!"
"Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for her
salvation?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abraham
of Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civil
enough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on this
occasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly not
intended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it.
Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination to
quarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever.
She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall.
"My Belasez, light of mine eyes!" said the old man fervently, as he
folded her in his arms and blessed her. "Ah, there is not much light
for the old pedlar's eyes now!"
"Dost thou miss me, my father?"
"Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gone
down, and the heavens are covered with clouds."
"Was my mother very angry after I went away?"
It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.
"Don't mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until
Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and
cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve
tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child."
The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.
"Is she satisfied now?"
"Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the
sitten [Note 1] porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can't
eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can."
Beatrice could not help laughing.
"My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the
porridge for thee."
"Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst
scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before,
she hates them tenfold now.--Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady
lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue
Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as
well."
"I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little
doubt she will buy."
"How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to
abandon his vows?"
"He hopes to receive it in a few days."
"Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were
always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other
men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed
ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street
whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side
lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I
never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from
Satan." [Note 2.]
"Well, we all wash ourselves here," said Beatrice, laughing, "unless it
be Father Warner; I will not answer for him."
"This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and
crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!--"
Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.
"Is Cress come with thee, my father?"
"No--not _here_," answered the old Jew, emphatically. "And he never
can."
"Why?"
"Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee."
"O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?"
It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother.
"Ay, child, wrong enough!" said Abraham sadly.
"Is he so ill, my father?"
"Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of the
body. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child,
hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of the
damsel's marriage--she that is the Lady's daughter?"
"Margaret? I never could tell how it was."
"It was Delecresse who told him."
"Delecresse!"
"Ah, yes--may the God of Israel forgive him!"
"But how did Delecresse know?"
"I fancy he guessed it, partly--and perhaps subtly extracted some avowal
from thee, in a way which thou didst not understand at the time."
"But, Father, I could not have told him, even unwittingly, for I did not
know it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as we
passed through the hall,--yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed him
a grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached to
Margaret."
"What didst thou say?"
"That I thought it might be so; but I did not know."
"Well! I am thankful thou couldst tell him no more. I suppose he
pieced things together, and very likely jumped the last yard. Howbeit,
he did it. My son, my only one! If there were an altar yet left in
Israel, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him."
"All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think all
Gentiles fair prey."
"What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady had
been kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head she
loved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made our
bond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I might
free her without an instant's suspense."
"Yes, my father, _thou_ wouldst," answered Beatrice, affectionately.
"But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of our
nation do."
"Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove's
heart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, more
than thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hated
what she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?"
Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she looked
up and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordial
now. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits of
Licorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression came
into his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse.
"Keep it quiet, my father," he said. "The Lord will repay. May it be
not in justice, but with His mercy!"
Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchases
made of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walked
with him across the yard, and as they clasped hands in farewell,
suddenly asked him what he thought of the damsel Margaret.
"Can there be any question?" answered Abraham, pityingly. "Hath not
Azrael [the Angel of Death] stamped her with his signet?"
"I fear so. Wilt thou pray for her, my father?"
Abraham looked up in amazement.
"A Christian ask the prayers of a Jew!" exclaimed he.
"Why not?" replied Bruno. "Were not Christ and all His apostles Jews?
And thou art a good and true man, my father. The God of Israel heareth
the prayers of the righteous."
"Canst thou account a Jew righteous?--one who believes not in thy
Messiah?"
"I am not so sure of that," said Bruno, his eyes meeting those of
Abraham in full. "I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, but
thou art afraid to declare it."
Abraham's colour rose a little.
"May Adonai lead us both to His truth!" he replied.
But Bruno noticed that he made no attempt to deny the charge.
Bruno's chief wish now was to get hold of Margaret, and find out the
exact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him by
asking him to hear her confession. Bruno rose at once.
"Now?" said Margaret, with a little surprise.
"There is no time but now," was the reply.
They went into the oratory, and closed the door on curious ears; and
Margaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart.
"I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you would
understand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; I
am not sure that they do: and Father Warner at least thinks it weakness,
if not sin. And now tell me, have you any balm for such a sorrow as
mine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I do
not think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If I
only knew where it is that I am going!"
"Let the where alone," answered Bruno. "Daughter, to whom art thou
going? Is it to a Stranger, or to Him whom thy soul loveth?"
Not unnaturally, she misunderstood the allusion.
"No; he will not necessarily die, because I do."
She was only thinking of Richard.
"My child!" said Bruno, gently, "thou art going to the presence of the
Lord Jesus Christ. Dost thou know any thing about Him?"
"I know, of course, what the Church teaches."
"Well; but dost thou know what He teaches? Is He as dear to thee as
thine earthly love?"
"No." The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was no
hesitation about it.
"Is He as dear to thee as the Earl thy father?"
"No."
"Is He as dear to thee as any person in this house, whomsoever it be,--
such as thou hast been acquainted with, and accustomed to, all thy
life?"
"Father," said the low, sad voice, "I am afraid you are right. I do not
know Him."
"Wilt thou not ask Him, then, to reveal Himself to thee?"
"Will He do it, Father?"
"`Will He'! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wert
brought to Him in baptism?"
"But He can never fill up this void in my heart!"
"He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world.
I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee
early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold."
"Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, if _he_ were
not there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest and
silence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have in
Heaven,--Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I would
rather stay on earth--where Richard is."
"Poor child!" said Bruno half involuntarily. "My daughter, it is very
natural. It must be so. `Where is thy treasure, there is also thine
heart.'"
"And," the low voice went on, "if I could know that he had given over
loving me, I fancy it would be easier to go."
Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channel
than to encourage them to flow in it.
"My child, Christ has not given over loving thee."
"That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is not
Richard!"
"Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to suffer
thine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying to
thee in this very sorrow, `Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest'?"
"It would be rest, if He would give me Richard," she said. "There is
but that one thing for me in all the world."
Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he had
supposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it was
rebellious. She was hardening herself against God.
"No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peace
between the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret de
Burgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King's mercy."
"Father!" said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise and
alarm.
"Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditional
submission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst fain
dictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into His
terms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even for
thee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thine
heart. Listen to His voice,--`It is hard _for thee_ to kick against the
pricks.' It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thine
allegiance."
The answer was scarcely what he expected.
"Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course;
but it does me no good. My heart is numb."
"Thou art right," gently replied Bruno. "The south wind must blow upon
the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord--I will ask Him
also--to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost."
"How many Paters?" said the girl in a weary tone. "One will do, my
daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it."
"I can put my heart into nothing."
"Then say to Him this only--`Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thou
mayest give it life.'"
She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating a
lesson. "How long will it take?"
"He knows--not I."
"But suppose I die first?"
"The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish for
salvation. He wants it more than thou."
"He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wants
thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly?
Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside
thee."
"I did not think I was that to any one--except my parents and--and
Richard."
"Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the Lord
Jesus."
The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.
"Well!" she said, with a dreary sigh. "It may be so. But I cannot care
about it."
Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret.
"Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she may
live! Save her in spite of herself!"
There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution,
and the confession was over.
The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon after
vespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached at
all, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. Father
Warner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both were
concerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. Father
Nicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues--dreary
classical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a Good
Friday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion.
But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topic
from any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a much
more interesting sound than Father Nicholas's drowsy monotone, or Father
Warner's dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; no
one could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant had
died away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had given
due notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice in
particular) was prepared to listen to him.
The text itself--to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture--was
rather a startling one.
"`O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow like
unto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press,
in the day of the wrath of His anger.'"
Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of her
own heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.
Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even have
thought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words.
From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome have
been enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay,
blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmly
arrogated to herself--without even offering proof of it--that right to
the promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs in
a higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to the
literal and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: for
in her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies the
lower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any national
restoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be true
or false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome.
With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become so
customary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its original
application to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten.
But here, Bruno's Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. He
delighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of the
passage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable to
the Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been another
sorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared--to
which no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for a
moment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours'
darkness that might be felt--of that "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani" into
which was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since the
beginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight into
the heart's depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each one
of those hearts, "This was your doing!" He told them that for every sin
of every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: and
that if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was not
Christ's fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper for
every pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were not
there, it would be because he had refused the invitation.
Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked that
every man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow like
to his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only to
be had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bear
the weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins and
sorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear any
sorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, "_My_ will be
done," he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him.
"Not my will, but Thine," must always precede the sending of the
strengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent grief
to them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him no
pleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children of
men. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health:
and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at the
right time.
"And now," said Bruno at last, "ye into whose hands the Great Physician
hath put this wholesome yet bitter cup,--how are ye going to treat it?
Will ye dash it down, and say, `I will have none of this remedy?' For
the end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, only
because ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue,
blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; it
will work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving on
your lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will is
better than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no man
can know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spare
you? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbed
from lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.
"And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. `Death there shall be no
more, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more.' [Note
3.] We who are Christ's shall be there before long."
He ended thus, almost abruptly.
The chapel was empty, and the congregation were critical. Earl Hubert
thought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preach
an excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a different
subject: it was so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man had
been wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just what
was proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva was
astonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuff
as that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; she
had enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, and
dreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons.
There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too full
for speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. On
that lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, and
had said, "Live!"
Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew that
His best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her away
from the evil to come.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish to
taste twice.
Note 2. "These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to a
saint's filthiness--Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience,
that the devils... were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seduce
the wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls are
in the dirtiest bodies... Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectly
pious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this species
of mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose Brother
Juniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were at
the due point."--Disraeli's _Curiosities of Literature_, Volume One,
page 92.
Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course taken
from the Vulgate, except those made by Jews.