Chapter Eleven.What came of it.“Content to fill Religion’s vacant placeWith hollow form, and gesture, and grimace.”Cowper.“Nay, my son, it is of no use. I shall never forsake the faith of my fathers. For this child, if she can believe it,—well: she is more thine than mine,—ay Dios! And perhaps there is this much change in me, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not be idolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? We know so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easily transplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oak alone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son,—a maiden whom I should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew may bow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, but which seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave is bound by his master. I cannot take up with those.”“Nor I,” said Belasez in a low voice.“Then do not,” was the quiet answer of Bruno. “I shall never ask it of either of you.”“But thou believest all these?” said Abraham.“I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very little matter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another man think he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before God. For Mary, Mother and Maid, I honour her, as you maybe honour your mother.Ido not worship her: about other men I say nothing. And as to the Church,—why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, to whom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, then they have no right to be hers.”“Ah Bruno,” said Abraham rather sadly, “thy religion is not that of other Christians.”“It is better,” said Belasez softly.“Father, my Christianity is Christ. I concern not myself with other men, except to save them, so far as it pleases God to work by me.”“Well, well! May Adonai forgive us all!—My son, what dost thou mean to do with the child? It is for thee to decide now.”“My father, I shall endeavour to obtain absolution from my vows, and to become once more a parish priest, so that my Beatrice may dwell with me. Until then, choose thou whether she shall remain with thee, or go back to Bury Castle. I am sure the Lady would gladly receive her.”“Nay, Bruno, do not ask me to choose! If the child be here when Licorice returns, she will never dwell with thee. I believe she would well-nigh stab us both to the heart sooner than permit it. And I fear she may come any day.”“Then she had better come with me to Bury.”“‘It is Adonai!’ So be it.”“But I shall see thee, my father?” asked Belasez, addressing Abraham.“Trust me for that, my Belasez! I can come to thee on my trade journeys, so long as it pleases the Holy One that I have strength to take them. And after that—He will provide. My son, wilt thou come for the child to-morrow? I will let thee out at the postern door; for thou hadst better not meet Delecresse.”And Abraham drew back the bolt, and opened the baize door.“Father Jacob!” they heard him instantly ejaculate, in a very different tone from that of his last words.“What hast thou been about now?” demanded the shrill voice of Licorice in the passage outside. “When folks are frightened at the sight of their lawful wives, it is a sure sign they have been after some mischief. Is there any one in yon chamber except thyself?—Ah, Belasez, I am glad to see thee; ’tis more than I expected. But, child, thou shouldst have set the porridge on half an hour ago; go down and look to it.—Any body else? Come, I had best see for myself.”And Licorice pushed past her husband, and walked into the room where Bruno was standing. He came forward to meet her, with far more apparent calmness than Abraham seemed to feel.“Good even, my mother,” he said courteously.“If I were thy mother, I would hang myself from the first gable,” hissed Licorice between her closed teeth. “I know thee, Bruno de Malpas, thou vile grandson of a locust! Nay, locust is too good for thee: they are clean beasts, and thou art an unclean. Thou hare, camel, coney, night-hawk, raven, lobster, earwig, hog! I spit on thee seven times,”—and she did it—“I deliver thee over to Satan thy master—”“That thou canst not,” quietly said Bruno.“I sweep thee out of my house!” And suiting the action to the word, Licorice caught up a broom which stood in the corner, and proceeded to apply it with good will. Bruno retreated, as was but natural he should.“Licorice, my dear wife!”“I’ll sweeptheeout next!” cried Licorice, brandishing her broom in the very face of her lord and master. “I’ll have no Christians, nor Christian blood, nor Christian faith, in my house, as I am a living daughter of Abraham! Get you all out hence, ye loathsome creeping things, which whosoever toucheth shall be unclean! Get ye out, I say!—Belasez, bring me soap and water. I’ll not sleep till I’ve washed the floor. I’d wash the air if I could.”“Your pardon, Mother, but if you will have no Christian blood in your house, you must sweep me out,” answered Belasez, with a mixture of dignity and irrepressible amusement.Licorice turned round to Abraham.“Thou hast told her?”“It was better she should know, wife.”“I’ll chop thy head off, if I hear thee say that again!—And dost thou mean to be a Christian, thou wicked girl?”“I do, Mother. And I mean to go with my father.”“Go, then—like to like!—and all the angels of Satan go with thee!”And the broom came flying after Belasez.“Nay, wife, give the child her raiment and jewels.”“I’ll give her what belongs to her, and that’s a hot iron, if she does not get out of that door this minute!”“Wife!”“I’ll spoil her pretty face for her!” shrieked Licorice. “I never liked the vain chit overmuch, nor Anegay neither: but if she does not go, I’ll give her something she won’t forget in a hurry!”“Come, my Beatrice,—quick!” said Bruno.“Go, go, my Belasez, and God keep thee!” sobbed Abraham.And so Belasez was driven away from her old home. She had hardly expected it. It had always been a trouble to her, and a cause of self-reproach, that she and Licorice did not love each other better: and she was not able to repress a sensation of satisfaction in making the discovery that Licorice was not her mother. Yet Belasez had not looked for this.“What are we to do, Father?” she asked rather blankly.“I must lodge thee with the Sisters of Saint Clare, my child; there is nothing else to be done. I will come and fetch thee away so soon as my arrangements can be made.”Beatrice,—as we must henceforth call her,—did not fancy this arrangement at all. Bruno detected as much in her face.“Thou dost not like it, my dove?”“I do not like being with strangers,” she said frankly. “And I am afraid the nuns will think me a variety of heathen, for I cannot do all they will want me.”“They will not, if I tell the Abbess that thou art a new convert,” said Bruno. “They may very likely attempt to instruct thee.”“Father, why should there be any nuns?”Beatrice did not know how she astonished Bruno. But he only smiled.“Thine eyes are unaccustomed to the light,” was all he answered.“But, Father, among our people of old,—I mean,” said Beatrice hesitatingly, “my mother’s people—”“Go on, my Beatrice. Let it be ‘our people.’ Speak as it is nature to thee to do.”“Thank you, my father. Among our people, there were no nuns. So far from it, that for a woman to remain unwed was considered a reproach.”“Why?—dost thou know?”“I think, because every woman longed for the glory of being the mother of the Messiah.”“True. Therefore, Christ being come, that reproach is done away. Let each woman choose for herself. ‘If a virgin marry, she hath not sinned.’ Nevertheless, ‘she that is unmarried thinks of the things of the Lord, that she may be holy, body and soul.’”“Father, do you wishmeto be a nun?”“Never!” hastily answered Bruno. “Nay, my Beatrice; I should not have said that. Be thou what the Lord thinks best to make thee. But I do not want to be left alone again.”Beatrice’s heart was set at rest. She had terribly feared for a moment lest Bruno, being himself a monk, might think her absolutely bound to be a nun.They soon reached the Franciscan Convent. The Abbess, a rather stiffly-mannered, grey-haired woman, received her young guest with sedate kindliness, and committed her to the special charge of Sister Eularia. This was a young woman of about twenty-five, in whose mind curiosity was strongly developed. She took Beatrice up to the dormitory, showed her where she was to sleep, and gave her a seat on the form beside her at supper, which was almost immediately served. Beatrice noticed that whenever Eularia helped herself to any thing edible, she made the sign of the cross over it.“Why dost thou do that?” asked the young Jewess.“It is according to our rule,” replied the nun. “Surely thou knowest how to cross thyself?”“Indeed I do not. And I do not see why I should.”“Poor thing!—how sadly thou lackest teaching! Dost thou not know that our Lord Christ suffered on the cross?”“Oh yes! But why must I cross myself on that account?”“In respect to Him!” exclaimed Eularia.“Pardon me. If one whom I loved were slain by the sword, I should not courtesy to every sword I saw, because I loved him. I should hate the very sight of one.”Eularia was scarcely less puzzled than Beatrice.“It is the symbol of our salvation,” she said.“I should look on it rather as the symbol of His suffering.”“True: but He suffered for us.”“For which reason I should still less admire that which made Him suffer.”Eularia shrugged her shoulders.“Thou art very ignorant.”The discussion slumbered until they rose from supper; when Eularia seated Beatrice beside her on the settle, and offered to instruct her in the use of the rosary.“What a pretty necklace! I thought nuns did not wear ornaments?”“Ornaments! Of course not.”“Then what do you do with that?”“We pray by it.”“Pray—by—it! I do not understand.”“We keep count of our prayers.”“Count!—why?”“Why, how could we remember them else?”“But why should you remember?”“Poor ignorant child! When thou comest to make confession, thou wilt find that the priest will set thee for penance, so many Aves and so many Paternosters.”“What are those?”“Dost thou never pray?” gasped Eularia.“I never say so many of one thing, and so many of another,” answered Beatrice, half laughing. “I never heard anything so absurd. The holy prophets did not pray in that way.”“Of course they did!” exclaimed Eularia. “How could they obtain help of our Lady, without repeating Ave and Salve?”“How could they, indeed, before she was born?” was the retort.“Oh dear, dear!” said Eularia. “Why, thou knowest nothing.”Beatrice privately thought that she would prefer not to know all that rubbish. Plenty of it was served up to her before she left the convent, by the holy Sisters of Saint Clare.It was nearly three weeks before Bruno came for her, and very weary of her hosts she was. They were no less astonished and dismayed by her. The ignorant heathen would not worship the holy images, would not use holy water, would not kneel before the holy Sacrament, would not do this, that, and the other: and, not content with this series of negations, she actually presumed to reason about them!“What dost thou believe?” despairingly demanded Sister Eularia at last.“I believe in God,” said Beatrice gravely. “And I believe that Jesus of Nazareth was the Sent of God.”“And in the Holy Ghost?” asked Eularia.“If I understand you, certainly. Is it not written, ‘The Spirit of God hath made me’?”“And in holy Church?”“I do not know. What is it?”“How shocking! And in the forgiveness of sins?”“Assuredly.”“And in the resurrection and eternal life?”“Undoubtedly.”“And in the invocation of the holy saints?”“I believe that there have been holy men and women.”“And dost thou invoke them?”“Do you mean, pray to them?”“Dost thou beg of them to intercede for thee?”“No, indeed, not I!”“Did I ever see such ignorance! And thou wilt not learn.”“I will learn of my father, and no one else. I am sure he does not believe half the rubbish you do.”“Sancta Hilaria, or a pro nobis!”“What language is that?” innocently asked Beatrice.“The holy tongue, of course.”“It is not our holy tongue.”“Have Jews a holy tongue?” responded Eularia, in surprise.“Yes, indeed,—Hebrew.”“I did not know they believed any thing to be holy. Have they any relics?”“I do not know what those are.”Eularia led the way to the sacristy.“Look here,” she said, reverently opening a golden reliquary set with rubies. “Here is a small piece of the holy veil of our foundress, Saint Clare. This is the finger-bone of the blessed Evangelist Matthew. Here is a piece of the hoof of the holy ass on which our Lord rode. Now thou knowest what relics are.”“But what can make you keep such things as those?” asked Beatrice, opening wide her lustrous eyes.“And this,” enthusiastically added Eularia, opening another reliquary set with emeralds and pearls, “is our most precious relic,—one of the small feathers from the wing of the holy angel, Saint Gabriel.”To the intense horror of Eularia, a silver laugh of unmistakable amusement greeted this holy relic.“Beatrice! hast thou no reverence?”“Not for angels’ feathers,” answered Beatrice, still laughing. “Well, I did think you had more sense!”“I can assure thee, thou wilt shock Father Bruno if thou allowest thyself to commit such improprieties.”“I shall shock him, then. How excessively absurd!”Eularia took her unpromising pupil out of the sacristy more hastily than she had led her in. And perhaps it was as well for Beatrice that Father Bruno arrived the next day.They reached Bury Castle in safety. The Countess had been very much interested in Father Bruno’s story, and most readily acceded to his request to leave Beatrice as her visitor until he should have a home to which he could take her. And Beatrice de Malpas, the daughter of a baronial house in Cheshire, was a very different person in the estimation of a Christian noble from Belasez, daughter of the Jew pedlar.Rather to her surprise, she found herself seated above the salt, that is, treated as a lady of rank: and the embargo being over which had confined her to Margaret’s apartments, she took her place at the Earl’s table in the banquet-hall. Earl Hubert’s quick eyes soon found out the addition to his supper-party, and he condescended to remark that she was extremely pretty, and quite an ornament to the hall. Beatrice herself was much pleased to find her old friend Doucebelle seated next to her, and they soon began to converse on recent events.It is a curious fact as concerns human nature, that however long friends may have been parted, their conversation nearly always turns on what has happened just before they met again. They do not speak of what delighted or agonised them ten years ago, though the effect may have extended to the whole of their subsequent lives. They talk of last week’s journey, or of yesterday’s snow-storm.Beatrice fully expected Doucebelle’s sympathy on the subject of relics, and she was disappointed to find it not forthcoming. Doucebelle was rather inclined to be shocked than amused. The angel’s feather, in her eyes, was provocative of any thing rather than ridicule: and Beatrice, who had anticipated her taking the common-sense view of the matter, felt chilled by the result.Life had fallen back into its old grooves at Bury Castle. Grief, with the Countess, was usually a passionate, but also a transitory feeling. Her extremely easy temper led her to get rid of a sorrow as soon as ever she could. Pain, whether mental or bodily, was in her eyes not a necessary discipline, but an unpleasant disturbance of the proper order of events. In fact, she was one of those persons who are always popular by reason of their gracious affability, but in whom, below the fair flow of sweet waters, there is a strong substratum of stony selfishness. She objected to people being in distress, not because it hurt them, but because it hurt her to see them. And the difference between the two, though it may scarcely show at times on the surface, lies in an entire and essential variety of the strata underneath.It was only natural that, with this character, the Countess should expect others to be as little impressed by suffering as herself. She really had no conception of a disposition to which sorrow was not an easily-healed scratch, but a scar that would be carried to the grave. In her eyes, the calamity which had happened to her daughter was a disappointment, undoubtedly, but one which she would find no difficulty in surmounting at all. There were plenty of other men in the world, quite as handsome, as amiable, as rich, and as noble, as Richard de Clare. If such a grief had happened to herself, she would have wept incessantly for a week, been low-spirited for a month, and in a year would have been wreathed with smiles, and arranging her trousseau for a wedding with another bridegroom. The only thing which could really have distressed her long, would have been if the vacant place in her life hadnotbeen refilled.But Margaret’s character was of a deeper type. For her the world held no other man, and life’s blossom once blighted, no second crop of happiness could grow, at least on the same tree. To such a character as this, the only possibility of throwing out fresh bloom is when the tree is grafted by the great Husbandman with amaranth from Heaven.Yet it was not in Margaret’s nature—it would have been in her mother’s—to say much of what she felt. Outwardly, she showed no difference, except that hercoeur légerwas gone, never to return. She did not shut herself up and refuse to join in the employments or amusements of those around her. And the majority of those around never suspected that the work and the amusement alike had no interest for her, nor would ever have any: that she “could never think as she had thought, or be as she had been, again.”One person only perceived the truth, and that was because he was cast in a like mould. Bruno saw too plainly that the hope expressed by the Countess that “Magot was getting nicely over her disappointment” was not true,—never would be true. In his case the amaranth had been grafted in, and the plant was blossoming again. But there was no such hope for her, at least as yet.Beatrice was unable to enter into Margaret’s feelings, not so much through want of capacity as of experience. Eva was equally unable, being naturally at once of a more selfish and a less concentrated disposition: her mind would have been more easily drawn from her sorrow,—an important item of the healing process. Doucebelle came nearest; but as she was the most selfless of all, her grief in like case would have been rather for the sufferings of Richard than for her own.Beatrice soon carried the relic question to her father for decision; though with some trepidation as to what he would say. If he should not agree with her, she would be sorely disappointed. Bruno’s smile half reassured her.“So thou canst not believe in the genuineness of these relics?” said he. “Well, my child, so that thou hast full faith in Christ and His salvation, I cannot think it much matters whether thou believest a certain piece of stuff to be the veil of Saint Clare or not. Neither Saint Clare nor her veil is concerned in thine eternal safety.”“But Doucebelle seems almost shocked. She does believe in them.”“Perhaps it will not harm her—with the like proviso.”“But, Father!—the honour in which they hold these rags and bones seems to me like idolatry!”“Then be careful thou commit it not.”“Butyoudo not worship such things?”“Dear child, I find too much in Christ and in this perishing world, to have much time to think of them.”Beatrice was only half satisfied. She would have felt more contented had Bruno warmly disclaimed the charge. It was at the cost of some distress that she realised that what were serious essentials to her were comparatively trivial matters to him. The wafts of polluted air were only too patent to her, which were lost in the purer atmosphere, at the altitude where Bruno stood.The girls were gathered together one afternoon in the ante-chamber of Margaret’s apartments, and Bruno, who had come up to speak to his daughter, was with them. Except in special cases, no chamber of any house was sacred from a priest. Eva was busy spinning, but it would be more accurate to say that Marie, who was supposed to be spinning also, was engaged in breaking threads. Margaret was employed on tapestry-work; Doucebelle in plain sewing; and Beatrice with her delicate embroidery.“Father,” said Beatrice, looking up suddenly, “I was taught that it was sin to make images of created things, on account of the words of the second commandment. What do you say?”“‘Non fades tibi sculptile, neque omnem similitudinem,’” murmured Bruno, reflectively. “I think, my child, that it depends very much on the meaning of ‘tibi’ Ah, I see in thy face thou hast learned no Latin. ‘Thou shalt not maketo theeany sculptured image.’ Then a sculptured image may be made otherwise. The latter half of the commandment, I think, shows what is meant. ‘Non adorabis ea, neque coles’—‘thou shalt not worship them.’ At the same time, Saint Paul saith, ‘Omne autem, quod non est ex fide, peccatum est’—‘all that is not of faith is sin;’ and ‘nisi ei qui existimat quid commune esse, illi commune est’: namely, ‘to him who esteemeth a thing unclean, to him it is unclean.’ If thou really believest it sin, by no means allow thyself to do it.”“But, Father, suppose we cannot be sure?” said Doucebelle.“Thou needst not fear that thou wilt ever walktooclose to Christ, daughter,” quietly answered Bruno.“But, Father I are we bound to give up all that can possibly be sin, or even can become sin?” asked Eva, in a tone which decidedly indicated dissent.“I should like to hear thy objection, daughter.”“Why, we should have to give up every thing nice!” said Eva, disconsolately. “There are all sorts of delightful things, which are not exactly sins, but—”“Not quite virtues,” interposed Beatrice, with an amused expression, as Eva paused.“Well, no. Still they are not wrong—in themselves. But they make one waste one’s time, or forget to say one’s beads, or be cross to one’s sister,—just because they are so delightful, and one does not want to give over. And being cross is sin, I suppose; and so it is when one forgets to say one’s prayers: I don’t know whether wasting time is exactly a sin.”“I see,” said Bruno, in the same quiet tone. “Had our Lord sent thee to clear His Temple of the profane who desecrated it by traffic, thou wouldst have overthrown the tables of the money-changers, but not the seats of them that sold doves.”Beatrice and Doucebelle answered by a smile of intelligence; Eva looked rather dissatisfied.“But it is not a sin to be happy, Father?” asked Margaret in a low voice.“Not if God give thee the happiness.”“That is just it!” said Eva, discontentedly. “How is one to know?”“My child,” answered Bruno, ignoring the tone, “God never means His children to put any thing into the place of Himself. The moment thou dost that, that thing is sin to thee.”“But when do we do that, Father?” asked Doucebelle.“When it makes thee forget to say thy prayers, I should think,” drily observed Beatrice.“When it comes in the way between Him and thee,” said Bruno.“And is it a sin to waste time, Father?” queried Eva.“It is a sin to waste any thing,” answered Bruno. “But if it be more a sin to waste one thing than another, surely it is to waste life itself.”He rose and went away. Eva shrugged her shoulders with a wry face.“There never was any body so precise as Father Bruno! I would rather ask questions of Father Nicholas, ten times over.”“Well, I don’t like asking questions of Father Nicholas,” responded Doucebelle, “because he never answers them. He never goes down to the bottom of things.”“Ha, chétife!” cried Eva. “Dost thou want to get to the bottom of things? That is just why I like Father Nicholas, because he never bothers one with reasons and distinctions. It is only, ‘Yes, thou mayest do so,’ or ‘No, do not do that,’—and then I am satisfied. Now, Father Bruno will persist in explaining why I am not to do it, and that sometimes makes me want to do it all the more. It seems to leave it in one’s own hands.”Beatrice broke into a laugh. “Why, Eva, thou wouldst rather be a chair to be moved about, than a woman to be able to go at pleasure.”“I would rather have a distinct order,” said Eva, a little scornfully. “‘Do,’ or ‘Don’t,’ I can understand. But, ‘Saint Paul says this,’ or ‘Saint John says that,’ and to have to make up one’s own mind,—I detest it.”“And I should detest the opposite.”“I am afraid, Beatrice, thou art greatly wanting in the virtue of holy obedience. But of course one can make allowances for thine unhappy education.”Eva had occasion to leave the room at the conclusion of this unflattering speech: and Beatrice indulged in a long laugh.“Well, what I am afraid of,” she said to Margaret and Doucebelle, “is that Eva is rather wanting in the virtue of common-sense. But whether I am to lay that on her education, I do not know.”There was no answer: but the thoughts of the hearers were almost opposites. Margaret considered Beatrice rash and self-satisfied. Doucebelle thought heartily with her, and only wished that she had as much courage to say so.
“Content to fill Religion’s vacant placeWith hollow form, and gesture, and grimace.”Cowper.
“Content to fill Religion’s vacant placeWith hollow form, and gesture, and grimace.”Cowper.
“Nay, my son, it is of no use. I shall never forsake the faith of my fathers. For this child, if she can believe it,—well: she is more thine than mine,—ay Dios! And perhaps there is this much change in me, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not be idolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? We know so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easily transplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oak alone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son,—a maiden whom I should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew may bow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, but which seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave is bound by his master. I cannot take up with those.”
“Nor I,” said Belasez in a low voice.
“Then do not,” was the quiet answer of Bruno. “I shall never ask it of either of you.”
“But thou believest all these?” said Abraham.
“I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very little matter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another man think he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before God. For Mary, Mother and Maid, I honour her, as you maybe honour your mother.Ido not worship her: about other men I say nothing. And as to the Church,—why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, to whom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, then they have no right to be hers.”
“Ah Bruno,” said Abraham rather sadly, “thy religion is not that of other Christians.”
“It is better,” said Belasez softly.
“Father, my Christianity is Christ. I concern not myself with other men, except to save them, so far as it pleases God to work by me.”
“Well, well! May Adonai forgive us all!—My son, what dost thou mean to do with the child? It is for thee to decide now.”
“My father, I shall endeavour to obtain absolution from my vows, and to become once more a parish priest, so that my Beatrice may dwell with me. Until then, choose thou whether she shall remain with thee, or go back to Bury Castle. I am sure the Lady would gladly receive her.”
“Nay, Bruno, do not ask me to choose! If the child be here when Licorice returns, she will never dwell with thee. I believe she would well-nigh stab us both to the heart sooner than permit it. And I fear she may come any day.”
“Then she had better come with me to Bury.”
“‘It is Adonai!’ So be it.”
“But I shall see thee, my father?” asked Belasez, addressing Abraham.
“Trust me for that, my Belasez! I can come to thee on my trade journeys, so long as it pleases the Holy One that I have strength to take them. And after that—He will provide. My son, wilt thou come for the child to-morrow? I will let thee out at the postern door; for thou hadst better not meet Delecresse.”
And Abraham drew back the bolt, and opened the baize door.
“Father Jacob!” they heard him instantly ejaculate, in a very different tone from that of his last words.
“What hast thou been about now?” demanded the shrill voice of Licorice in the passage outside. “When folks are frightened at the sight of their lawful wives, it is a sure sign they have been after some mischief. Is there any one in yon chamber except thyself?—Ah, Belasez, I am glad to see thee; ’tis more than I expected. But, child, thou shouldst have set the porridge on half an hour ago; go down and look to it.—Any body else? Come, I had best see for myself.”
And Licorice pushed past her husband, and walked into the room where Bruno was standing. He came forward to meet her, with far more apparent calmness than Abraham seemed to feel.
“Good even, my mother,” he said courteously.
“If I were thy mother, I would hang myself from the first gable,” hissed Licorice between her closed teeth. “I know thee, Bruno de Malpas, thou vile grandson of a locust! Nay, locust is too good for thee: they are clean beasts, and thou art an unclean. Thou hare, camel, coney, night-hawk, raven, lobster, earwig, hog! I spit on thee seven times,”—and she did it—“I deliver thee over to Satan thy master—”
“That thou canst not,” quietly said Bruno.
“I sweep thee out of my house!” And suiting the action to the word, Licorice caught up a broom which stood in the corner, and proceeded to apply it with good will. Bruno retreated, as was but natural he should.
“Licorice, my dear wife!”
“I’ll sweeptheeout next!” cried Licorice, brandishing her broom in the very face of her lord and master. “I’ll have no Christians, nor Christian blood, nor Christian faith, in my house, as I am a living daughter of Abraham! Get you all out hence, ye loathsome creeping things, which whosoever toucheth shall be unclean! Get ye out, I say!—Belasez, bring me soap and water. I’ll not sleep till I’ve washed the floor. I’d wash the air if I could.”
“Your pardon, Mother, but if you will have no Christian blood in your house, you must sweep me out,” answered Belasez, with a mixture of dignity and irrepressible amusement.
Licorice turned round to Abraham.
“Thou hast told her?”
“It was better she should know, wife.”
“I’ll chop thy head off, if I hear thee say that again!—And dost thou mean to be a Christian, thou wicked girl?”
“I do, Mother. And I mean to go with my father.”
“Go, then—like to like!—and all the angels of Satan go with thee!”
And the broom came flying after Belasez.
“Nay, wife, give the child her raiment and jewels.”
“I’ll give her what belongs to her, and that’s a hot iron, if she does not get out of that door this minute!”
“Wife!”
“I’ll spoil her pretty face for her!” shrieked Licorice. “I never liked the vain chit overmuch, nor Anegay neither: but if she does not go, I’ll give her something she won’t forget in a hurry!”
“Come, my Beatrice,—quick!” said Bruno.
“Go, go, my Belasez, and God keep thee!” sobbed Abraham.
And so Belasez was driven away from her old home. She had hardly expected it. It had always been a trouble to her, and a cause of self-reproach, that she and Licorice did not love each other better: and she was not able to repress a sensation of satisfaction in making the discovery that Licorice was not her mother. Yet Belasez had not looked for this.
“What are we to do, Father?” she asked rather blankly.
“I must lodge thee with the Sisters of Saint Clare, my child; there is nothing else to be done. I will come and fetch thee away so soon as my arrangements can be made.”
Beatrice,—as we must henceforth call her,—did not fancy this arrangement at all. Bruno detected as much in her face.
“Thou dost not like it, my dove?”
“I do not like being with strangers,” she said frankly. “And I am afraid the nuns will think me a variety of heathen, for I cannot do all they will want me.”
“They will not, if I tell the Abbess that thou art a new convert,” said Bruno. “They may very likely attempt to instruct thee.”
“Father, why should there be any nuns?”
Beatrice did not know how she astonished Bruno. But he only smiled.
“Thine eyes are unaccustomed to the light,” was all he answered.
“But, Father, among our people of old,—I mean,” said Beatrice hesitatingly, “my mother’s people—”
“Go on, my Beatrice. Let it be ‘our people.’ Speak as it is nature to thee to do.”
“Thank you, my father. Among our people, there were no nuns. So far from it, that for a woman to remain unwed was considered a reproach.”
“Why?—dost thou know?”
“I think, because every woman longed for the glory of being the mother of the Messiah.”
“True. Therefore, Christ being come, that reproach is done away. Let each woman choose for herself. ‘If a virgin marry, she hath not sinned.’ Nevertheless, ‘she that is unmarried thinks of the things of the Lord, that she may be holy, body and soul.’”
“Father, do you wishmeto be a nun?”
“Never!” hastily answered Bruno. “Nay, my Beatrice; I should not have said that. Be thou what the Lord thinks best to make thee. But I do not want to be left alone again.”
Beatrice’s heart was set at rest. She had terribly feared for a moment lest Bruno, being himself a monk, might think her absolutely bound to be a nun.
They soon reached the Franciscan Convent. The Abbess, a rather stiffly-mannered, grey-haired woman, received her young guest with sedate kindliness, and committed her to the special charge of Sister Eularia. This was a young woman of about twenty-five, in whose mind curiosity was strongly developed. She took Beatrice up to the dormitory, showed her where she was to sleep, and gave her a seat on the form beside her at supper, which was almost immediately served. Beatrice noticed that whenever Eularia helped herself to any thing edible, she made the sign of the cross over it.
“Why dost thou do that?” asked the young Jewess.
“It is according to our rule,” replied the nun. “Surely thou knowest how to cross thyself?”
“Indeed I do not. And I do not see why I should.”
“Poor thing!—how sadly thou lackest teaching! Dost thou not know that our Lord Christ suffered on the cross?”
“Oh yes! But why must I cross myself on that account?”
“In respect to Him!” exclaimed Eularia.
“Pardon me. If one whom I loved were slain by the sword, I should not courtesy to every sword I saw, because I loved him. I should hate the very sight of one.”
Eularia was scarcely less puzzled than Beatrice.
“It is the symbol of our salvation,” she said.
“I should look on it rather as the symbol of His suffering.”
“True: but He suffered for us.”
“For which reason I should still less admire that which made Him suffer.”
Eularia shrugged her shoulders.
“Thou art very ignorant.”
The discussion slumbered until they rose from supper; when Eularia seated Beatrice beside her on the settle, and offered to instruct her in the use of the rosary.
“What a pretty necklace! I thought nuns did not wear ornaments?”
“Ornaments! Of course not.”
“Then what do you do with that?”
“We pray by it.”
“Pray—by—it! I do not understand.”
“We keep count of our prayers.”
“Count!—why?”
“Why, how could we remember them else?”
“But why should you remember?”
“Poor ignorant child! When thou comest to make confession, thou wilt find that the priest will set thee for penance, so many Aves and so many Paternosters.”
“What are those?”
“Dost thou never pray?” gasped Eularia.
“I never say so many of one thing, and so many of another,” answered Beatrice, half laughing. “I never heard anything so absurd. The holy prophets did not pray in that way.”
“Of course they did!” exclaimed Eularia. “How could they obtain help of our Lady, without repeating Ave and Salve?”
“How could they, indeed, before she was born?” was the retort.
“Oh dear, dear!” said Eularia. “Why, thou knowest nothing.”
Beatrice privately thought that she would prefer not to know all that rubbish. Plenty of it was served up to her before she left the convent, by the holy Sisters of Saint Clare.
It was nearly three weeks before Bruno came for her, and very weary of her hosts she was. They were no less astonished and dismayed by her. The ignorant heathen would not worship the holy images, would not use holy water, would not kneel before the holy Sacrament, would not do this, that, and the other: and, not content with this series of negations, she actually presumed to reason about them!
“What dost thou believe?” despairingly demanded Sister Eularia at last.
“I believe in God,” said Beatrice gravely. “And I believe that Jesus of Nazareth was the Sent of God.”
“And in the Holy Ghost?” asked Eularia.
“If I understand you, certainly. Is it not written, ‘The Spirit of God hath made me’?”
“And in holy Church?”
“I do not know. What is it?”
“How shocking! And in the forgiveness of sins?”
“Assuredly.”
“And in the resurrection and eternal life?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And in the invocation of the holy saints?”
“I believe that there have been holy men and women.”
“And dost thou invoke them?”
“Do you mean, pray to them?”
“Dost thou beg of them to intercede for thee?”
“No, indeed, not I!”
“Did I ever see such ignorance! And thou wilt not learn.”
“I will learn of my father, and no one else. I am sure he does not believe half the rubbish you do.”
“Sancta Hilaria, or a pro nobis!”
“What language is that?” innocently asked Beatrice.
“The holy tongue, of course.”
“It is not our holy tongue.”
“Have Jews a holy tongue?” responded Eularia, in surprise.
“Yes, indeed,—Hebrew.”
“I did not know they believed any thing to be holy. Have they any relics?”
“I do not know what those are.”
Eularia led the way to the sacristy.
“Look here,” she said, reverently opening a golden reliquary set with rubies. “Here is a small piece of the holy veil of our foundress, Saint Clare. This is the finger-bone of the blessed Evangelist Matthew. Here is a piece of the hoof of the holy ass on which our Lord rode. Now thou knowest what relics are.”
“But what can make you keep such things as those?” asked Beatrice, opening wide her lustrous eyes.
“And this,” enthusiastically added Eularia, opening another reliquary set with emeralds and pearls, “is our most precious relic,—one of the small feathers from the wing of the holy angel, Saint Gabriel.”
To the intense horror of Eularia, a silver laugh of unmistakable amusement greeted this holy relic.
“Beatrice! hast thou no reverence?”
“Not for angels’ feathers,” answered Beatrice, still laughing. “Well, I did think you had more sense!”
“I can assure thee, thou wilt shock Father Bruno if thou allowest thyself to commit such improprieties.”
“I shall shock him, then. How excessively absurd!”
Eularia took her unpromising pupil out of the sacristy more hastily than she had led her in. And perhaps it was as well for Beatrice that Father Bruno arrived the next day.
They reached Bury Castle in safety. The Countess had been very much interested in Father Bruno’s story, and most readily acceded to his request to leave Beatrice as her visitor until he should have a home to which he could take her. And Beatrice de Malpas, the daughter of a baronial house in Cheshire, was a very different person in the estimation of a Christian noble from Belasez, daughter of the Jew pedlar.
Rather to her surprise, she found herself seated above the salt, that is, treated as a lady of rank: and the embargo being over which had confined her to Margaret’s apartments, she took her place at the Earl’s table in the banquet-hall. Earl Hubert’s quick eyes soon found out the addition to his supper-party, and he condescended to remark that she was extremely pretty, and quite an ornament to the hall. Beatrice herself was much pleased to find her old friend Doucebelle seated next to her, and they soon began to converse on recent events.
It is a curious fact as concerns human nature, that however long friends may have been parted, their conversation nearly always turns on what has happened just before they met again. They do not speak of what delighted or agonised them ten years ago, though the effect may have extended to the whole of their subsequent lives. They talk of last week’s journey, or of yesterday’s snow-storm.
Beatrice fully expected Doucebelle’s sympathy on the subject of relics, and she was disappointed to find it not forthcoming. Doucebelle was rather inclined to be shocked than amused. The angel’s feather, in her eyes, was provocative of any thing rather than ridicule: and Beatrice, who had anticipated her taking the common-sense view of the matter, felt chilled by the result.
Life had fallen back into its old grooves at Bury Castle. Grief, with the Countess, was usually a passionate, but also a transitory feeling. Her extremely easy temper led her to get rid of a sorrow as soon as ever she could. Pain, whether mental or bodily, was in her eyes not a necessary discipline, but an unpleasant disturbance of the proper order of events. In fact, she was one of those persons who are always popular by reason of their gracious affability, but in whom, below the fair flow of sweet waters, there is a strong substratum of stony selfishness. She objected to people being in distress, not because it hurt them, but because it hurt her to see them. And the difference between the two, though it may scarcely show at times on the surface, lies in an entire and essential variety of the strata underneath.
It was only natural that, with this character, the Countess should expect others to be as little impressed by suffering as herself. She really had no conception of a disposition to which sorrow was not an easily-healed scratch, but a scar that would be carried to the grave. In her eyes, the calamity which had happened to her daughter was a disappointment, undoubtedly, but one which she would find no difficulty in surmounting at all. There were plenty of other men in the world, quite as handsome, as amiable, as rich, and as noble, as Richard de Clare. If such a grief had happened to herself, she would have wept incessantly for a week, been low-spirited for a month, and in a year would have been wreathed with smiles, and arranging her trousseau for a wedding with another bridegroom. The only thing which could really have distressed her long, would have been if the vacant place in her life hadnotbeen refilled.
But Margaret’s character was of a deeper type. For her the world held no other man, and life’s blossom once blighted, no second crop of happiness could grow, at least on the same tree. To such a character as this, the only possibility of throwing out fresh bloom is when the tree is grafted by the great Husbandman with amaranth from Heaven.
Yet it was not in Margaret’s nature—it would have been in her mother’s—to say much of what she felt. Outwardly, she showed no difference, except that hercoeur légerwas gone, never to return. She did not shut herself up and refuse to join in the employments or amusements of those around her. And the majority of those around never suspected that the work and the amusement alike had no interest for her, nor would ever have any: that she “could never think as she had thought, or be as she had been, again.”
One person only perceived the truth, and that was because he was cast in a like mould. Bruno saw too plainly that the hope expressed by the Countess that “Magot was getting nicely over her disappointment” was not true,—never would be true. In his case the amaranth had been grafted in, and the plant was blossoming again. But there was no such hope for her, at least as yet.
Beatrice was unable to enter into Margaret’s feelings, not so much through want of capacity as of experience. Eva was equally unable, being naturally at once of a more selfish and a less concentrated disposition: her mind would have been more easily drawn from her sorrow,—an important item of the healing process. Doucebelle came nearest; but as she was the most selfless of all, her grief in like case would have been rather for the sufferings of Richard than for her own.
Beatrice soon carried the relic question to her father for decision; though with some trepidation as to what he would say. If he should not agree with her, she would be sorely disappointed. Bruno’s smile half reassured her.
“So thou canst not believe in the genuineness of these relics?” said he. “Well, my child, so that thou hast full faith in Christ and His salvation, I cannot think it much matters whether thou believest a certain piece of stuff to be the veil of Saint Clare or not. Neither Saint Clare nor her veil is concerned in thine eternal safety.”
“But Doucebelle seems almost shocked. She does believe in them.”
“Perhaps it will not harm her—with the like proviso.”
“But, Father!—the honour in which they hold these rags and bones seems to me like idolatry!”
“Then be careful thou commit it not.”
“Butyoudo not worship such things?”
“Dear child, I find too much in Christ and in this perishing world, to have much time to think of them.”
Beatrice was only half satisfied. She would have felt more contented had Bruno warmly disclaimed the charge. It was at the cost of some distress that she realised that what were serious essentials to her were comparatively trivial matters to him. The wafts of polluted air were only too patent to her, which were lost in the purer atmosphere, at the altitude where Bruno stood.
The girls were gathered together one afternoon in the ante-chamber of Margaret’s apartments, and Bruno, who had come up to speak to his daughter, was with them. Except in special cases, no chamber of any house was sacred from a priest. Eva was busy spinning, but it would be more accurate to say that Marie, who was supposed to be spinning also, was engaged in breaking threads. Margaret was employed on tapestry-work; Doucebelle in plain sewing; and Beatrice with her delicate embroidery.
“Father,” said Beatrice, looking up suddenly, “I was taught that it was sin to make images of created things, on account of the words of the second commandment. What do you say?”
“‘Non fades tibi sculptile, neque omnem similitudinem,’” murmured Bruno, reflectively. “I think, my child, that it depends very much on the meaning of ‘tibi’ Ah, I see in thy face thou hast learned no Latin. ‘Thou shalt not maketo theeany sculptured image.’ Then a sculptured image may be made otherwise. The latter half of the commandment, I think, shows what is meant. ‘Non adorabis ea, neque coles’—‘thou shalt not worship them.’ At the same time, Saint Paul saith, ‘Omne autem, quod non est ex fide, peccatum est’—‘all that is not of faith is sin;’ and ‘nisi ei qui existimat quid commune esse, illi commune est’: namely, ‘to him who esteemeth a thing unclean, to him it is unclean.’ If thou really believest it sin, by no means allow thyself to do it.”
“But, Father, suppose we cannot be sure?” said Doucebelle.
“Thou needst not fear that thou wilt ever walktooclose to Christ, daughter,” quietly answered Bruno.
“But, Father I are we bound to give up all that can possibly be sin, or even can become sin?” asked Eva, in a tone which decidedly indicated dissent.
“I should like to hear thy objection, daughter.”
“Why, we should have to give up every thing nice!” said Eva, disconsolately. “There are all sorts of delightful things, which are not exactly sins, but—”
“Not quite virtues,” interposed Beatrice, with an amused expression, as Eva paused.
“Well, no. Still they are not wrong—in themselves. But they make one waste one’s time, or forget to say one’s beads, or be cross to one’s sister,—just because they are so delightful, and one does not want to give over. And being cross is sin, I suppose; and so it is when one forgets to say one’s prayers: I don’t know whether wasting time is exactly a sin.”
“I see,” said Bruno, in the same quiet tone. “Had our Lord sent thee to clear His Temple of the profane who desecrated it by traffic, thou wouldst have overthrown the tables of the money-changers, but not the seats of them that sold doves.”
Beatrice and Doucebelle answered by a smile of intelligence; Eva looked rather dissatisfied.
“But it is not a sin to be happy, Father?” asked Margaret in a low voice.
“Not if God give thee the happiness.”
“That is just it!” said Eva, discontentedly. “How is one to know?”
“My child,” answered Bruno, ignoring the tone, “God never means His children to put any thing into the place of Himself. The moment thou dost that, that thing is sin to thee.”
“But when do we do that, Father?” asked Doucebelle.
“When it makes thee forget to say thy prayers, I should think,” drily observed Beatrice.
“When it comes in the way between Him and thee,” said Bruno.
“And is it a sin to waste time, Father?” queried Eva.
“It is a sin to waste any thing,” answered Bruno. “But if it be more a sin to waste one thing than another, surely it is to waste life itself.”
He rose and went away. Eva shrugged her shoulders with a wry face.
“There never was any body so precise as Father Bruno! I would rather ask questions of Father Nicholas, ten times over.”
“Well, I don’t like asking questions of Father Nicholas,” responded Doucebelle, “because he never answers them. He never goes down to the bottom of things.”
“Ha, chétife!” cried Eva. “Dost thou want to get to the bottom of things? That is just why I like Father Nicholas, because he never bothers one with reasons and distinctions. It is only, ‘Yes, thou mayest do so,’ or ‘No, do not do that,’—and then I am satisfied. Now, Father Bruno will persist in explaining why I am not to do it, and that sometimes makes me want to do it all the more. It seems to leave it in one’s own hands.”
Beatrice broke into a laugh. “Why, Eva, thou wouldst rather be a chair to be moved about, than a woman to be able to go at pleasure.”
“I would rather have a distinct order,” said Eva, a little scornfully. “‘Do,’ or ‘Don’t,’ I can understand. But, ‘Saint Paul says this,’ or ‘Saint John says that,’ and to have to make up one’s own mind,—I detest it.”
“And I should detest the opposite.”
“I am afraid, Beatrice, thou art greatly wanting in the virtue of holy obedience. But of course one can make allowances for thine unhappy education.”
Eva had occasion to leave the room at the conclusion of this unflattering speech: and Beatrice indulged in a long laugh.
“Well, what I am afraid of,” she said to Margaret and Doucebelle, “is that Eva is rather wanting in the virtue of common-sense. But whether I am to lay that on her education, I do not know.”
There was no answer: but the thoughts of the hearers were almost opposites. Margaret considered Beatrice rash and self-satisfied. Doucebelle thought heartily with her, and only wished that she had as much courage to say so.
Chapter Twelve.What is Love?“She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said:She said, ‘I am aweary, weary,I would that I were dead!’”Tennyson.It was fortunate for Bruno de Malpas that he had a friend in Bishop Grosteste, whose large heart and clear brain were readily interested in his wish to return from regular to secular orders. He smoothed the path considerably, and promised him a benefice in his diocese if the dispensation could be obtained. But the last was a lengthy process, and some months passed away before the answer could be received from Rome.It greatly scandalised Hawise and Eva—for different reasons—to see how very little progress was made by Beatrice in that which in their eyes was the Christian religion. It was a comfort to them to reflect that she had been baptised as an infant, and therefore in the event of sudden death had a chance of going to Heaven, instead of the dreadful certainty of being shut up in Limbo,—a place of vague locality and vaguer character, being neither pleasant nor painful, but inhabited by all the hapless innocents whose heathen or careless Christian parents suffered them to die unregenerated. But both of them were sorely shocked to discover, when she had been about two months at Bury, that poor Beatrice was still ignorant of the five commandments of the Church. Nor was this all: she irreverently persisted in her old inquiry of “What is the Church?” and sturdily demanded what right the Church had to give commandments.Hawise was quite distressed. It was notproper,—a phrase which, with her, was the strongest denunciation that could be uttered. Nobody had ever asked such questions before:ergo, they ought never to be asked. Every sane person knew perfectly well what the Church was (though, when gently urged by Beatrice, Hawise backed out of any definition), and no good Catholic could possibly require telling. And as to so shocking a supposition as that the Church had no right to issue her own commands,—well, it was not proper!Eva’s objection was quite as strong, but of a different sort. She really could not understand what Beatrice wanted. If the priest—or the Church—they were very much the same thing—told her what to do, could she not rest and be thankful? It was a great deal less trouble than everlastingly thinking for one’s self.“No one of any note ever thinks for himself,” chimed in Hawise.“Then I am glad I am not of any note!” bluntly responded Beatrice.“You a De Malpas! I am quite shocked!” said Hawise.“God made me with a heart and a conscience,” was the answer. “If He had not meant me to use them, He would not have given them to me.”At that point Beatrice left the room in answer to a call from the Countess; and Hawise, turning to her companions, remarked in a whisper that it must be that dreadful Jewish blood on the mother’s side which had given her such very improper notions. They weresolow! “For my part,” she added, “if it were proper to say so, I should remark that I cannot imagine why Father Bruno does not see that she understands something of Christianity—but of course one must not criticise a priest.”“Speak truth, my daughter,” said a voice from the doorway which rather disconcerted Hawise. “Thou canst not understand my actions—in what respect?”“I humbly crave your pardon, Father; but I am really distressed about Beatrice.”“Indeed!—how so?”“She understands nothing about Christian duties.”“I hope that is a little more than truth. But if not,—let her understand Christ first, my child: Christian duties will come after.”“Forgiveme, Father—without teaching?”“Not without His teaching,” said Bruno, gravely. “Without mine, it may be.”“But, Father, she does not know the five commandments of holy Church. Nay, she asks what ‘the Church’ means.”“If she be in the Church, she can wait to know it. Thy garments will not keep thee less warm because thou hast never learned how to weave them.”Hawise did not reply, but she looked unconvinced.A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she had been so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex of feminine ambition.“I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe.”Margaret sighed.“Dost thou like him?” asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, which was sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into asking direct questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate to leave unasked.Eva blushed and simpered.“I’ll tell thee, Beatrice,” said little Marie, dancing up. “She’s over head and ears in love—so much over head,”—and Marie’s hand went as high as it would go above her own: “but it’s my belief she has tumbled in on the wrong side.”“‘The wrong side’!” answered Beatrice, laughing. “The wrong side of love? or the wrong side of Eva?”“The wrong side of Eva,” responded Marie, with a positive little nod. “As to love, I’m not quite sure that she knows much about it: for I don’t believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares for being married. That’s the grand thing with her, so far as I can make out. And that’s not my notion of love.”“Thou silly little child of twelve, what dost thou know about it?” contemptuously demanded Eva. “Thy time is not come.”“No, and I hope it won’t,” said Marie, “if I’m to make such a goose of myself over it as thou dost.”“Marie, Marie!”“It’s true, Margaret!—Now, Beatrice, dost thou not think so? She makes a regular misery of it. There is no living with her for a day or two before he comes to see her. She never gives him a minute’s peace when he is here; and if he looks at somebody else, she goes as black as a thunder-cloud. If he’s half an hour late, she’s quite sure he is visiting some other gentlewoman, whom he loves better than he loves her. She’s for ever making little bits of misery out of nothing. If he were to call her ‘honey-sweet Eva’ to-day, and only ‘sweet Eva’ to-morrow, she would be positive there was some shocking reason for it, instead of, like a sensible girl, never thinking about it in that way at all.”Beatrice and Doucebelle were both laughing, and even Margaret joined in a little.“Of course,” said Marie by way of postscript, “if Sir William had been badly hurt in a tournament, or anything of that sort, I could understand her worrying about it: or if he had told her that he did not love her, I could understand that: but she worries for nothing at all! If he does not tell her that he loves her every time he comes, she fancies he doesn’t.”“Marie, don’t be so silly!”“Thanks, I’ll try not,” said Marie keenly. “And she calls that love! What dost thou think, Beatrice?”“Why, I think it does not sound much like it, Marie—in thy description.”“Why, what notion of love hast thou?” said Eva scornfully. “I have not forgotten how thou wert wont to talk of thy betrothed.”“But I never professed to love Leo,” said Beatrice, looking up. “How could I, when I had not seen him?”“Dost thou want to see, in order to love?” sentimentally inquired Eva.“No,” answered Beatrice, thoughtfully. “But I want to know. I might easily love some one whom I had not seen with my eyes, if he were always sending me messages and doing kind actions for me: but I could not love somebody who was to me a mere name, and nothing more.”“It is plain thou hast no sensitiveness, Beatrice.”“I’d rather have sense,—wouldn’t you?” said little Marie.“As if one could not have both!” sneered Eva.“Well, if one could, I should have thought thou wouldst,” retorted Marie.“Well! I don’t understand you!” said Eva. “I cannot care to be loved with less than the whole heart. I should not thank you for just the love that you can spare from other people.”“But should not one have some to spare for other people?” suggested Marie.“That sounds as if one’s heart were a box,” said Beatrice, “that would hold so much and no more. Is it not more like a fountain, that can give out perpetually and always have fresh supplies within?”“Yes, for the beloved one,” replied Eva, warmly.“For all,” answered Beatrice. “That is a narrow heart which will hold but one person.”“Well, I would rather be loved with the whole of a narrow heart than with a piece of a broad one.”“O Eva!”“What dost thou mean, Doucebelle?” said Eva, sharply, turning on her new assailant. “Indeed I would! The man who loves me must love me supremely—must care for nothing but me: must find his sweetest reward for every thing in my smile, and his bitterest pain in my displeasure. That is what I call love.”“Well! I should call that something else—if Margaret wouldn’t scold,” murmured Marie in an undertone.“What is that, Marie?” asked Margaret, with a smile.“Self-conceit; and plenty of it,” said the child.“Ask Father Bruno what he thinks, Beatrice,” suggested Margaret, after a gentle “Hush!” to the somewhat too plain-spoken Marie. “Thou canst do it, but it would not come so well from us.”“Dost thou mean to say I am conceited, little piece of impertinence?” inquired Eva, in no dulcet tones.“Well, I thought thou saidst it thyself,” was the response, for which Marie got chased round the room with the wooden side of an embroidery frame, and, being lithe as a monkey, escaped by flying to the Countess’s rooms, which communicated with those of her daughter by a private staircase.Father Bruno came up, as he often did, the same evening: but before Beatrice had time to consult him, the small Countess of Eu appeared from nowhere in particular, and put the crucial question in its crudest form.“Please, Father Bruno, what is love?”“Dost thou want telling?” inquired Bruno with evident amusement.“Please, we all want telling, because we can’t agree.”Bruno very rarely laughed, but he did now.“Then, if you cannot agree, you certainly do need it. I should rather like to hear the various opinions.”“Oh! Eva says—” began the child eagerly; but Bruno’s hand, laid gently on her head, stopped her.“Wait, my child. Let each speak for herself.”There was silence for a moment, for no one liked to begin—except Marie, whom decorum alone kept silent.“What didst thou say, Eva?”“I believe I said, good Father, that I cared not for the love of any that did not hold me first and best. Nor do I.”“‘Love seeketh not her own,’” said Bruno. “That which seeks its own is not love.”“What is it, Father?” modestly asked Doucebelle.“It is self-love, my daughter; the worst enemy that can be to the true love of God and man. Real love is unselfish, unexacting, and immortal.”“But love can die, surely!”“Saint Paul says the contrary, my daughter.”“It can kill, I suppose,” said Margaret, in a low tone.“Yes, the weak,” replied Bruno.“But, Father, was the holy Apostle not speaking of religious love?” suggested Eva, trying to find a loophole.“What is the alternative,—irreligious love? I do not know of such a thing, my daughter.”“But there is a wicked sort of love.”“Certainly not. There are wicked passions. But love can never be wicked, because God is love.”“But people can love wickedly?” asked Eva, looking puzzled.“I fail to see how any one canlovewickedly. Self-love is always wicked.”“Then, Father, if it be wicked, you call it self-love?” said Eva, leaping (very cleverly, as she thought) to a conclusion.“Scarcely,” said Bruno, with a quiet smile. “Say rather, my daughter, that if it be self-love, I call it wicked.”The perplexed expression returned to Eva’s face.“My child, what is love?”“Why, Father, that is just what we want to know,” said Marie.But Bruno waited for Eva’s answer.“I suppose,” she said nervously, “it means liking a person, and wishing for his company, and wanting him to love one.”“And I suppose that it is caring for him so much that thou wouldst count nothing too great a sacrifice, to attain his highest good. That is how God loved us, my children.”Eva thought this extremely poor and tame, beside her own lovely ideal.“Then,” said Marie, “if I love Margaret, I shall wantherto be happy. I shall not want her to make me happy, unless it would make her so.”“Right, my child,” said Bruno, with a smile of approbation. “To do otherwise would be loving Marie, not Margaret.”“But, Father!” exclaimed Eva. “Do you mean to say that if my betrothed prefers to go hawking rather than sit with me, if I love him I shall wish him to leave me?”“Whom wouldst thou be loving, if not?”“I could not wish him to go and leave me!”“My child, there is a divine self-abnegation to which very few attain. But those few come nearest to the imitation of Him who ‘pleased not Himself,’ and I think—God knoweth—often they are the happiest. Let us all ask God for grace to reach it. ‘This is My commandment, that ye have love one to another.’”And, as was generally the case when he had said all he thought necessary at the moment, Bruno rose, and with a benediction quitted the room.“Call that loving!” said Eva, contemptuously, when he was gone. “Poor tame stuff! I should not thank you for it.”“Well, I should,” said Doucebelle, quietly.“Oh, thou!” was Eva’s answer, in the same tone. “Why, thou hast no heart to begin with.”Doucebelle silently doubted that statement.“O Eva, for shame!” said Marie. “Doucebelle always does what every body wants her, unless she thinks it is wrong.”“Thou dost not call that love, I hope?”“I think it is quite as like it as wishing people to do what they don’t want, to please you,” said Marie, sturdily.“I don’t believe one of you knows any thing about it,” loftily returned Eva. “If I had been Margaret, now, I could not have sat quietly to that broidery. I could not have borne it!”Margaret looked up quickly, changed colour, and with a slight compression of her lower lip, went back to her work in silence.“But what wouldst thou have done, Eva?” demanded the practical little Marie. “Wouldst thou have stared out of the window all day long?”“No!” returned Eva with fervent emphasis. “I should have wept my life away. But Margaret is not like me. She can get interested in work and other things, and forget a hapless love, and outlive it. It would kill me in a month.”Margaret rose very quietly, put her frame by in the corner, and left the room. Beatrice, who had been silent for some time, looked up then with expressive eyes.“It is killing her, Eva. My father told me so a week since. He says he is quite sure that the Countess is mistaken in fancying that she is getting over it.”“She! She is as strong as a horse. And I don’t think she ever felt it much! Not as I should have done. I should have taken the veil that very day. Earth would have been a dreary waste to me from that instant. I could not have borne to see a man again. However many years I might have lived, no sound but theMiserere—”“But, Eva! I thought thou wert going to die in a month.”“It is very rude to interrupt, Marie. No sound but theMisererewould ever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should any raiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blighted heart!”“I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth,” put in the irrepressible little Lady of Eu.“But what good would all that do, Eva?”“Good, Beatrice! What canst thou mean? I tell thee, I could not have borne any thing else.”“I don’t believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever such a fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck and rubbed it, and Levina ran a ribbon down to keep it off thee.”“Don’t be impertinent, Marie. Of course, in such a case as that, I could not think of mere inconveniences.”“Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, I would try to make less fuss over them when I was happy.”“I am not happy, foolish child.”“Why, what’s the matter? Did Sir William look at thee only twenty-nine times, instead of thirty, when he was here?”“Thou art the silliest maiden of whom any one ever heard!”“No, Eva; her match might be found, I think,” said Beatrice.Marie went off into convulsions of laughter, and flung herself on the rushes to enjoy it with more freedom.“I wonder which of you two is the funnier!” said she.“What on earth is there comical aboutme?” exclaimed Eva, the more put out because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie’s amusement.“It is of no use to tell thee, Eva,” replied Beatrice; “thou wouldst not be able to see it.”“Can’t I see any thing you can?” demanded Eva, irritably.“Why, no!” said Marie, with a fresh burst: “canst thou see thine own face?”“What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!”“No, Eva,” said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased by Marie’s witticism: “the child is any thing but silly.”“Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you any more,” retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she was answered only by a third explosion from Marie.Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startled to find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden in the coverlet, and her sunny cedar hair flowing over it in disorder.“Why, what—Magot! my darling Magot! what aileth thee, my white dove?”Margaret lifted her head when her mother spoke. She had not been shedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan and woeful if she had done so.“Pardon me, Lady! I came here to be alone.”The Countess sat down in the low curule chair beside her bed, and drew her daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on her mother’s knee, and cowered down again at her feet.“And what made thee wish to be alone, my rosebud?”“Something that somebody said.”“Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?”“No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of the sort. But—things sting—when people do not mean it.”The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood the explanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this she understood and felt full sympathy with—that her one cherished darling was in trouble.“Who was it, Magot?”“Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. And nobody intended to hurt me.”“What did she say?”“She said,”—something like a sob came here—“that I was one who could settle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lost love. But, she said, it would kill her in a month.”“Well, darling? I began to hope that was true.”“No,” came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial like that of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. “No. O Mother, no!”“And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?”“I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say—dying.”“Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!”“It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do not think it will be over in a month.”The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking the soft hair.“Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with.”“When what is done with?” asked the Countess, in a husky tone.“Living,” said the girl. “This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may lie down to sleep and not wake to-morrow,—I feel as if that were the only thing which would ever make me glad any more.”“My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?”“I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But I cannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scent any more. It is not me,—me, your Margaret—that works, and talks, and does all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite so fast as my soul. My heart is dead already.”“My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I really hoped thou wert getting over it.”“It is of no use trying to keep me,” she answered quietly. “You had better let me go—Mother.”The Countess’s reply was to clap her hands—at that time the usual method of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, instead of bidding her enter, her mistress spoke through it.“Tell Master Aristoteles that I would speak with him in this chamber.”The mother and daughter were both very still until the shuffling of the physician’s slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countess roused herself and answered the appeal with “Come in.”“My Lady desired my attendance?”“I did, Master. I would fain have you examine this child. She has a strange fancy, which I should like to have uprooted from her mind. She imagines that she is going to die.”“A strange fancy indeed, if it please my Lady. I see no sign of disease at all about the damsel. A little weakness, and low spirits,—no real complaint whatever. She might with some advantage wear the fleminum (Note 1),—the blood seems a little too much in the head: and warm fomentations would help to restore her strength. Almond blossoms, pounded with pearl, might also do something. But, if it please my Lady—let my Lady speak.”“I was only going to ask, Master, whether viper broth would be good for her?”“A most excellent suggestion, my Lady. But, I was about to remark, the physician of Saint Albans hath given me a most precious thing, which would infallibly restore the damsel, even if she were at the gates of death. Three hairs of the beard of the blessed Dominic (Note 2), whom our holy Father hath but now canonised. If the damsel were to take one of these, fasting, in holy water, no influence of the Devil could have any longer power over her.”“Ha, jolife!” cried the Countess, clasping her hands. “Magot, my love, this is the very thing. Thou must take it.”“I will take what you command, Lady.”But there was no enthusiasm in Margaret’s voice.“Then to-morrow morning, Master, do, I beseech you, administer this precious cordial!”“Lady, I will do so. But it would increase the efficacy, if the damsel would devoutly repeat this evening the Rosary of the holy Virgin, with twelve Glorias and one hundred Aves.”“Get thee to it, quickly, Magot, my darling, and I will say them with thee, which will surely be of still more benefit Master, I thank you inexpressibly!”And hastily rising, the Countess repaired to her oratory, whither Margaret followed her. Father Warner was there already, and he joined in the prayers, which made them of infallible efficacy in the eyes of the Countess.At five o’clock the next morning, in the oratory, the holy hair was duly administered to the patient. All the priests were present except Bruno. Master Aristoteles himself, after high mass, came forward with the blessed relic,—a long, thick, black hair, immersed in holy water, in a golden goblet set with pearls. This Margaret obediently swallowed (of course exclusive of the goblet); and it is not very surprising that a fit of coughing succeeded the process.“Avaunt thee, Satanas!” said Father Warner, making the sign of the cross in the air above Margaret’s head.Father Nicholas kindly suggested that a little more of the holy water might be efficacious against the manifest enmity of the foul Fiend. Master Aristoteles readily assented; and the additional dose calmed the cough: but probably it did not occur to any one to think whether unholy water would not have done quite as well.When they had come out into the bower, the Countess took her daughter in her arms, and kissed her brow.“Now, my Magot,” said she playfully—it was not much forced, for her faith was great in the blessed hair—“now, my Magot, thou wilt get well again. Thou must!”Margaret looked up into the loving face above her, and a faint, sad smile flitted across her lips.“Think so, dear Lady, if it comfort thee,” she said. “It will not be for long!”Note 1. A garment which was supposed to draw the blood downwards from the brain.Note 2. “Hairs of a saint’s beard, dipped in holy water, and taken inwardly,” are given by Fosbroke (Encyclopaedia of Antiquities, page 479) in his list of medieval remedies.
“She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said:She said, ‘I am aweary, weary,I would that I were dead!’”Tennyson.
“She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said:She said, ‘I am aweary, weary,I would that I were dead!’”Tennyson.
It was fortunate for Bruno de Malpas that he had a friend in Bishop Grosteste, whose large heart and clear brain were readily interested in his wish to return from regular to secular orders. He smoothed the path considerably, and promised him a benefice in his diocese if the dispensation could be obtained. But the last was a lengthy process, and some months passed away before the answer could be received from Rome.
It greatly scandalised Hawise and Eva—for different reasons—to see how very little progress was made by Beatrice in that which in their eyes was the Christian religion. It was a comfort to them to reflect that she had been baptised as an infant, and therefore in the event of sudden death had a chance of going to Heaven, instead of the dreadful certainty of being shut up in Limbo,—a place of vague locality and vaguer character, being neither pleasant nor painful, but inhabited by all the hapless innocents whose heathen or careless Christian parents suffered them to die unregenerated. But both of them were sorely shocked to discover, when she had been about two months at Bury, that poor Beatrice was still ignorant of the five commandments of the Church. Nor was this all: she irreverently persisted in her old inquiry of “What is the Church?” and sturdily demanded what right the Church had to give commandments.
Hawise was quite distressed. It was notproper,—a phrase which, with her, was the strongest denunciation that could be uttered. Nobody had ever asked such questions before:ergo, they ought never to be asked. Every sane person knew perfectly well what the Church was (though, when gently urged by Beatrice, Hawise backed out of any definition), and no good Catholic could possibly require telling. And as to so shocking a supposition as that the Church had no right to issue her own commands,—well, it was not proper!
Eva’s objection was quite as strong, but of a different sort. She really could not understand what Beatrice wanted. If the priest—or the Church—they were very much the same thing—told her what to do, could she not rest and be thankful? It was a great deal less trouble than everlastingly thinking for one’s self.
“No one of any note ever thinks for himself,” chimed in Hawise.
“Then I am glad I am not of any note!” bluntly responded Beatrice.
“You a De Malpas! I am quite shocked!” said Hawise.
“God made me with a heart and a conscience,” was the answer. “If He had not meant me to use them, He would not have given them to me.”
At that point Beatrice left the room in answer to a call from the Countess; and Hawise, turning to her companions, remarked in a whisper that it must be that dreadful Jewish blood on the mother’s side which had given her such very improper notions. They weresolow! “For my part,” she added, “if it were proper to say so, I should remark that I cannot imagine why Father Bruno does not see that she understands something of Christianity—but of course one must not criticise a priest.”
“Speak truth, my daughter,” said a voice from the doorway which rather disconcerted Hawise. “Thou canst not understand my actions—in what respect?”
“I humbly crave your pardon, Father; but I am really distressed about Beatrice.”
“Indeed!—how so?”
“She understands nothing about Christian duties.”
“I hope that is a little more than truth. But if not,—let her understand Christ first, my child: Christian duties will come after.”
“Forgiveme, Father—without teaching?”
“Not without His teaching,” said Bruno, gravely. “Without mine, it may be.”
“But, Father, she does not know the five commandments of holy Church. Nay, she asks what ‘the Church’ means.”
“If she be in the Church, she can wait to know it. Thy garments will not keep thee less warm because thou hast never learned how to weave them.”
Hawise did not reply, but she looked unconvinced.
A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she had been so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex of feminine ambition.
“I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe.”
Margaret sighed.
“Dost thou like him?” asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, which was sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into asking direct questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate to leave unasked.
Eva blushed and simpered.
“I’ll tell thee, Beatrice,” said little Marie, dancing up. “She’s over head and ears in love—so much over head,”—and Marie’s hand went as high as it would go above her own: “but it’s my belief she has tumbled in on the wrong side.”
“‘The wrong side’!” answered Beatrice, laughing. “The wrong side of love? or the wrong side of Eva?”
“The wrong side of Eva,” responded Marie, with a positive little nod. “As to love, I’m not quite sure that she knows much about it: for I don’t believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares for being married. That’s the grand thing with her, so far as I can make out. And that’s not my notion of love.”
“Thou silly little child of twelve, what dost thou know about it?” contemptuously demanded Eva. “Thy time is not come.”
“No, and I hope it won’t,” said Marie, “if I’m to make such a goose of myself over it as thou dost.”
“Marie, Marie!”
“It’s true, Margaret!—Now, Beatrice, dost thou not think so? She makes a regular misery of it. There is no living with her for a day or two before he comes to see her. She never gives him a minute’s peace when he is here; and if he looks at somebody else, she goes as black as a thunder-cloud. If he’s half an hour late, she’s quite sure he is visiting some other gentlewoman, whom he loves better than he loves her. She’s for ever making little bits of misery out of nothing. If he were to call her ‘honey-sweet Eva’ to-day, and only ‘sweet Eva’ to-morrow, she would be positive there was some shocking reason for it, instead of, like a sensible girl, never thinking about it in that way at all.”
Beatrice and Doucebelle were both laughing, and even Margaret joined in a little.
“Of course,” said Marie by way of postscript, “if Sir William had been badly hurt in a tournament, or anything of that sort, I could understand her worrying about it: or if he had told her that he did not love her, I could understand that: but she worries for nothing at all! If he does not tell her that he loves her every time he comes, she fancies he doesn’t.”
“Marie, don’t be so silly!”
“Thanks, I’ll try not,” said Marie keenly. “And she calls that love! What dost thou think, Beatrice?”
“Why, I think it does not sound much like it, Marie—in thy description.”
“Why, what notion of love hast thou?” said Eva scornfully. “I have not forgotten how thou wert wont to talk of thy betrothed.”
“But I never professed to love Leo,” said Beatrice, looking up. “How could I, when I had not seen him?”
“Dost thou want to see, in order to love?” sentimentally inquired Eva.
“No,” answered Beatrice, thoughtfully. “But I want to know. I might easily love some one whom I had not seen with my eyes, if he were always sending me messages and doing kind actions for me: but I could not love somebody who was to me a mere name, and nothing more.”
“It is plain thou hast no sensitiveness, Beatrice.”
“I’d rather have sense,—wouldn’t you?” said little Marie.
“As if one could not have both!” sneered Eva.
“Well, if one could, I should have thought thou wouldst,” retorted Marie.
“Well! I don’t understand you!” said Eva. “I cannot care to be loved with less than the whole heart. I should not thank you for just the love that you can spare from other people.”
“But should not one have some to spare for other people?” suggested Marie.
“That sounds as if one’s heart were a box,” said Beatrice, “that would hold so much and no more. Is it not more like a fountain, that can give out perpetually and always have fresh supplies within?”
“Yes, for the beloved one,” replied Eva, warmly.
“For all,” answered Beatrice. “That is a narrow heart which will hold but one person.”
“Well, I would rather be loved with the whole of a narrow heart than with a piece of a broad one.”
“O Eva!”
“What dost thou mean, Doucebelle?” said Eva, sharply, turning on her new assailant. “Indeed I would! The man who loves me must love me supremely—must care for nothing but me: must find his sweetest reward for every thing in my smile, and his bitterest pain in my displeasure. That is what I call love.”
“Well! I should call that something else—if Margaret wouldn’t scold,” murmured Marie in an undertone.
“What is that, Marie?” asked Margaret, with a smile.
“Self-conceit; and plenty of it,” said the child.
“Ask Father Bruno what he thinks, Beatrice,” suggested Margaret, after a gentle “Hush!” to the somewhat too plain-spoken Marie. “Thou canst do it, but it would not come so well from us.”
“Dost thou mean to say I am conceited, little piece of impertinence?” inquired Eva, in no dulcet tones.
“Well, I thought thou saidst it thyself,” was the response, for which Marie got chased round the room with the wooden side of an embroidery frame, and, being lithe as a monkey, escaped by flying to the Countess’s rooms, which communicated with those of her daughter by a private staircase.
Father Bruno came up, as he often did, the same evening: but before Beatrice had time to consult him, the small Countess of Eu appeared from nowhere in particular, and put the crucial question in its crudest form.
“Please, Father Bruno, what is love?”
“Dost thou want telling?” inquired Bruno with evident amusement.
“Please, we all want telling, because we can’t agree.”
Bruno very rarely laughed, but he did now.
“Then, if you cannot agree, you certainly do need it. I should rather like to hear the various opinions.”
“Oh! Eva says—” began the child eagerly; but Bruno’s hand, laid gently on her head, stopped her.
“Wait, my child. Let each speak for herself.”
There was silence for a moment, for no one liked to begin—except Marie, whom decorum alone kept silent.
“What didst thou say, Eva?”
“I believe I said, good Father, that I cared not for the love of any that did not hold me first and best. Nor do I.”
“‘Love seeketh not her own,’” said Bruno. “That which seeks its own is not love.”
“What is it, Father?” modestly asked Doucebelle.
“It is self-love, my daughter; the worst enemy that can be to the true love of God and man. Real love is unselfish, unexacting, and immortal.”
“But love can die, surely!”
“Saint Paul says the contrary, my daughter.”
“It can kill, I suppose,” said Margaret, in a low tone.
“Yes, the weak,” replied Bruno.
“But, Father, was the holy Apostle not speaking of religious love?” suggested Eva, trying to find a loophole.
“What is the alternative,—irreligious love? I do not know of such a thing, my daughter.”
“But there is a wicked sort of love.”
“Certainly not. There are wicked passions. But love can never be wicked, because God is love.”
“But people can love wickedly?” asked Eva, looking puzzled.
“I fail to see how any one canlovewickedly. Self-love is always wicked.”
“Then, Father, if it be wicked, you call it self-love?” said Eva, leaping (very cleverly, as she thought) to a conclusion.
“Scarcely,” said Bruno, with a quiet smile. “Say rather, my daughter, that if it be self-love, I call it wicked.”
The perplexed expression returned to Eva’s face.
“My child, what is love?”
“Why, Father, that is just what we want to know,” said Marie.
But Bruno waited for Eva’s answer.
“I suppose,” she said nervously, “it means liking a person, and wishing for his company, and wanting him to love one.”
“And I suppose that it is caring for him so much that thou wouldst count nothing too great a sacrifice, to attain his highest good. That is how God loved us, my children.”
Eva thought this extremely poor and tame, beside her own lovely ideal.
“Then,” said Marie, “if I love Margaret, I shall wantherto be happy. I shall not want her to make me happy, unless it would make her so.”
“Right, my child,” said Bruno, with a smile of approbation. “To do otherwise would be loving Marie, not Margaret.”
“But, Father!” exclaimed Eva. “Do you mean to say that if my betrothed prefers to go hawking rather than sit with me, if I love him I shall wish him to leave me?”
“Whom wouldst thou be loving, if not?”
“I could not wish him to go and leave me!”
“My child, there is a divine self-abnegation to which very few attain. But those few come nearest to the imitation of Him who ‘pleased not Himself,’ and I think—God knoweth—often they are the happiest. Let us all ask God for grace to reach it. ‘This is My commandment, that ye have love one to another.’”
And, as was generally the case when he had said all he thought necessary at the moment, Bruno rose, and with a benediction quitted the room.
“Call that loving!” said Eva, contemptuously, when he was gone. “Poor tame stuff! I should not thank you for it.”
“Well, I should,” said Doucebelle, quietly.
“Oh, thou!” was Eva’s answer, in the same tone. “Why, thou hast no heart to begin with.”
Doucebelle silently doubted that statement.
“O Eva, for shame!” said Marie. “Doucebelle always does what every body wants her, unless she thinks it is wrong.”
“Thou dost not call that love, I hope?”
“I think it is quite as like it as wishing people to do what they don’t want, to please you,” said Marie, sturdily.
“I don’t believe one of you knows any thing about it,” loftily returned Eva. “If I had been Margaret, now, I could not have sat quietly to that broidery. I could not have borne it!”
Margaret looked up quickly, changed colour, and with a slight compression of her lower lip, went back to her work in silence.
“But what wouldst thou have done, Eva?” demanded the practical little Marie. “Wouldst thou have stared out of the window all day long?”
“No!” returned Eva with fervent emphasis. “I should have wept my life away. But Margaret is not like me. She can get interested in work and other things, and forget a hapless love, and outlive it. It would kill me in a month.”
Margaret rose very quietly, put her frame by in the corner, and left the room. Beatrice, who had been silent for some time, looked up then with expressive eyes.
“It is killing her, Eva. My father told me so a week since. He says he is quite sure that the Countess is mistaken in fancying that she is getting over it.”
“She! She is as strong as a horse. And I don’t think she ever felt it much! Not as I should have done. I should have taken the veil that very day. Earth would have been a dreary waste to me from that instant. I could not have borne to see a man again. However many years I might have lived, no sound but theMiserere—”
“But, Eva! I thought thou wert going to die in a month.”
“It is very rude to interrupt, Marie. No sound but theMisererewould ever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should any raiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blighted heart!”
“I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth,” put in the irrepressible little Lady of Eu.
“But what good would all that do, Eva?”
“Good, Beatrice! What canst thou mean? I tell thee, I could not have borne any thing else.”
“I don’t believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever such a fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck and rubbed it, and Levina ran a ribbon down to keep it off thee.”
“Don’t be impertinent, Marie. Of course, in such a case as that, I could not think of mere inconveniences.”
“Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, I would try to make less fuss over them when I was happy.”
“I am not happy, foolish child.”
“Why, what’s the matter? Did Sir William look at thee only twenty-nine times, instead of thirty, when he was here?”
“Thou art the silliest maiden of whom any one ever heard!”
“No, Eva; her match might be found, I think,” said Beatrice.
Marie went off into convulsions of laughter, and flung herself on the rushes to enjoy it with more freedom.
“I wonder which of you two is the funnier!” said she.
“What on earth is there comical aboutme?” exclaimed Eva, the more put out because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie’s amusement.
“It is of no use to tell thee, Eva,” replied Beatrice; “thou wouldst not be able to see it.”
“Can’t I see any thing you can?” demanded Eva, irritably.
“Why, no!” said Marie, with a fresh burst: “canst thou see thine own face?”
“What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!”
“No, Eva,” said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased by Marie’s witticism: “the child is any thing but silly.”
“Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you any more,” retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she was answered only by a third explosion from Marie.
Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startled to find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden in the coverlet, and her sunny cedar hair flowing over it in disorder.
“Why, what—Magot! my darling Magot! what aileth thee, my white dove?”
Margaret lifted her head when her mother spoke. She had not been shedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan and woeful if she had done so.
“Pardon me, Lady! I came here to be alone.”
The Countess sat down in the low curule chair beside her bed, and drew her daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on her mother’s knee, and cowered down again at her feet.
“And what made thee wish to be alone, my rosebud?”
“Something that somebody said.”
“Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?”
“No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of the sort. But—things sting—when people do not mean it.”
The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood the explanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this she understood and felt full sympathy with—that her one cherished darling was in trouble.
“Who was it, Magot?”
“Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. And nobody intended to hurt me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said,”—something like a sob came here—“that I was one who could settle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lost love. But, she said, it would kill her in a month.”
“Well, darling? I began to hope that was true.”
“No,” came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial like that of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. “No. O Mother, no!”
“And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?”
“I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say—dying.”
“Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!”
“It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do not think it will be over in a month.”
The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking the soft hair.
“Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with.”
“When what is done with?” asked the Countess, in a husky tone.
“Living,” said the girl. “This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may lie down to sleep and not wake to-morrow,—I feel as if that were the only thing which would ever make me glad any more.”
“My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?”
“I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But I cannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scent any more. It is not me,—me, your Margaret—that works, and talks, and does all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite so fast as my soul. My heart is dead already.”
“My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I really hoped thou wert getting over it.”
“It is of no use trying to keep me,” she answered quietly. “You had better let me go—Mother.”
The Countess’s reply was to clap her hands—at that time the usual method of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, instead of bidding her enter, her mistress spoke through it.
“Tell Master Aristoteles that I would speak with him in this chamber.”
The mother and daughter were both very still until the shuffling of the physician’s slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countess roused herself and answered the appeal with “Come in.”
“My Lady desired my attendance?”
“I did, Master. I would fain have you examine this child. She has a strange fancy, which I should like to have uprooted from her mind. She imagines that she is going to die.”
“A strange fancy indeed, if it please my Lady. I see no sign of disease at all about the damsel. A little weakness, and low spirits,—no real complaint whatever. She might with some advantage wear the fleminum (Note 1),—the blood seems a little too much in the head: and warm fomentations would help to restore her strength. Almond blossoms, pounded with pearl, might also do something. But, if it please my Lady—let my Lady speak.”
“I was only going to ask, Master, whether viper broth would be good for her?”
“A most excellent suggestion, my Lady. But, I was about to remark, the physician of Saint Albans hath given me a most precious thing, which would infallibly restore the damsel, even if she were at the gates of death. Three hairs of the beard of the blessed Dominic (Note 2), whom our holy Father hath but now canonised. If the damsel were to take one of these, fasting, in holy water, no influence of the Devil could have any longer power over her.”
“Ha, jolife!” cried the Countess, clasping her hands. “Magot, my love, this is the very thing. Thou must take it.”
“I will take what you command, Lady.”
But there was no enthusiasm in Margaret’s voice.
“Then to-morrow morning, Master, do, I beseech you, administer this precious cordial!”
“Lady, I will do so. But it would increase the efficacy, if the damsel would devoutly repeat this evening the Rosary of the holy Virgin, with twelve Glorias and one hundred Aves.”
“Get thee to it, quickly, Magot, my darling, and I will say them with thee, which will surely be of still more benefit Master, I thank you inexpressibly!”
And hastily rising, the Countess repaired to her oratory, whither Margaret followed her. Father Warner was there already, and he joined in the prayers, which made them of infallible efficacy in the eyes of the Countess.
At five o’clock the next morning, in the oratory, the holy hair was duly administered to the patient. All the priests were present except Bruno. Master Aristoteles himself, after high mass, came forward with the blessed relic,—a long, thick, black hair, immersed in holy water, in a golden goblet set with pearls. This Margaret obediently swallowed (of course exclusive of the goblet); and it is not very surprising that a fit of coughing succeeded the process.
“Avaunt thee, Satanas!” said Father Warner, making the sign of the cross in the air above Margaret’s head.
Father Nicholas kindly suggested that a little more of the holy water might be efficacious against the manifest enmity of the foul Fiend. Master Aristoteles readily assented; and the additional dose calmed the cough: but probably it did not occur to any one to think whether unholy water would not have done quite as well.
When they had come out into the bower, the Countess took her daughter in her arms, and kissed her brow.
“Now, my Magot,” said she playfully—it was not much forced, for her faith was great in the blessed hair—“now, my Magot, thou wilt get well again. Thou must!”
Margaret looked up into the loving face above her, and a faint, sad smile flitted across her lips.
“Think so, dear Lady, if it comfort thee,” she said. “It will not be for long!”
Note 1. A garment which was supposed to draw the blood downwards from the brain.
Note 2. “Hairs of a saint’s beard, dipped in holy water, and taken inwardly,” are given by Fosbroke (Encyclopaedia of Antiquities, page 479) in his list of medieval remedies.