Chapter Thirteen.Father Bruno’s Sermon.“And speak’st thou thus,Despairing of the sun that sets to thee,And of the earthly love that wanes to thee,And of the Heaven that lieth far from thee?Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door,Whose footprints leave no print across the snow.Thy Sun has risen with comfort in His face,The smile of Heaven to warm thy frozen heart,And bless with saintly hand. What! is it longTo wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go.Behold, across the snow to thee He comes,Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait?Thou shalt not wait. ‘This night, this night,’ He saith,‘I stand at the door and knock.’”Jean Ingelow.Earl Hubert went very pale when his wife told him of the conversation which she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of his old age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. But the blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in a figurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been, physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after that event.The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weigh quite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girl weighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, she tried to bolster up her own hopes by appeals to every other person.“Father Nicholas, do you think my daughter looks really ill?”Father Nicholas, lost at the moment in the Aegean Sea, came slowly back from “the many-twinkling smile of ocean” to the consideration of the question referred to him.“My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well,—looking ill? I cannot say, Lady, that I have studied the noble damsel’s looks. Perhaps—is she a little paler than she used to be? Ah, my Lady, a course of the grand old Greek dramatists,—that would be the thing to set her up. She could not fail to be interested and charmed.”The Countess next applied to Father Warner.“The damsel does look pale, Lady. What wonder, when she has not confessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will see she will be another maiden.”“She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well,” said Levina, who was the third authority. “It strikes me, under my Lady’s pleasure, that she would be the better for a change.”This meant, that Levina was tired of Bury Saint Edmund’s.“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with her!” said Eva, testily. “She never takes things to heart as I do. She’ll do well enough.”“Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret,” was Doucebelle’s contribution. “I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish I knew what to do for her.”Beatrice looked up with grave eyes. “Lady, I would so gladly say No! But I cannot do it.”The last person interrogated was Bruno; and by the time she came to him, the Countess was very low-spirited. His face went grave and sad.“Lady, it never does good to shut one’s eyes to the truth. It is worse pain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying.”“Dying!” shrieked the unhappy mother. “Dying, Father Bruno! You saiddying!”“Too true, my Lady.”“But what can I do? How am I to stop it?”“Ah!” said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. “There is a ‘Talitha Cumi’ from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He has called her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only too plain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility of disobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead to life.”“But how am I to help it?” repeated the poor Countess.“You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going.”“Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every penny and every jewel that I have!”“Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than you.”“Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!”“He has died for her,” answered Bruno, softly. “And He is the Amen, the Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head of every child of His.”“But where will she be?—what will she be?” moaned the poor mother.“If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him.”“But He does not need her, and I do!”“Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest. But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early. It is far better.”“For her,—well, perhaps—if she can be got past Purgatory. But for me!”“For each of you, what she needs, Lady.”“O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!”“Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for her salvation?”One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abraham of Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civil enough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on this occasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly not intended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it. Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination to quarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever. She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall.“My Belasez, light of mine eyes!” said the old man fervently, as he folded her in his arms and blessed her. “Ah, there is not much light for the old pedlar’s eyes now!”“Dost thou miss me, my father?”“Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gone down, and the heavens are covered with clouds.”“Was my mother very angry after I went away?”It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.“Don’t mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child.”The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.“Is she satisfied now?”“Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the sitten (Note 1) porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can’t eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can.”Beatrice could not help laughing.“My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the porridge for thee.”“Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now.—Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as well.”“I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little doubt she will buy.”“How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to abandon his vows?”“He hopes to receive it in a few days.”“Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from Satan.” (Note 2.)“Well, we all wash ourselves here,” said Beatrice, laughing, “unless it be Father Warner; I will not answer for him.”“This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!—”Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.“Is Cress come with thee, my father?”“No—nothere,” answered the old Jew, emphatically. “And he never can.”“Why?”“Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee.”“O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?”It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother.“Ay, child, wrong enough!” said Abraham sadly.“Is he so ill, my father?”“Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of the body. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child, hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of the damsel’s marriage—she that is the Lady’s daughter?”“Margaret? I never could tell how it was.”“It was Delecresse who told him.”“Delecresse!”“Ah, yes—may the God of Israel forgive him!”“But how did Delecresse know?”“I fancy he guessed it, partly—and perhaps subtly extracted some avowal from thee, in a way which thou didst not understand at the time.”“But, Father, I could not have told him, even unwittingly, for I did not know it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as we passed through the hall,—yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed him a grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached to Margaret.”“What didst thou say?”“That I thought it might be so; but I did not know.”“Well! I am thankful thou couldst tell him no more. I suppose he pieced things together, and very likely jumped the last yard. Howbeit, he did it. My son, my only one! If there were an altar yet left in Israel, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him.”“All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think all Gentiles fair prey.”“What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady had been kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head she loved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made our bond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I might free her without an instant’s suspense.”“Yes, my father,thouwouldst,” answered Beatrice, affectionately. “But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of our nation do.”“Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove’s heart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, more than thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hated what she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?”Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she looked up and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordial now. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits of Licorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression came into his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse.“Keep it quiet, my father,” he said. “The Lord will repay. May it be not in justice, but with His mercy!”Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchases made of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walked with him across the yard, and as they clasped hands in farewell, suddenly asked him what he thought of the damsel Margaret.“Can there be any question?” answered Abraham, pityingly. “Hath not Azrael (the Angel of Death) stamped her with his signet?”“I fear so. Wilt thou pray for her, my father?”Abraham looked up in amazement.“A Christian ask the prayers of a Jew!” exclaimed he.“Why not?” replied Bruno. “Were not Christ and all His apostles Jews? And thou art a good and true man, my father. The God of Israel heareth the prayers of the righteous.”“Canst thou account a Jew righteous?—one who believes not in thy Messiah?”“I am not so sure of that,” said Bruno, his eyes meeting those of Abraham in full. “I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, but thou art afraid to declare it.”Abraham’s colour rose a little.“May Adonai lead us both to His truth!” he replied.But Bruno noticed that he made no attempt to deny the charge.Bruno’s chief wish now was to get hold of Margaret, and find out the exact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him by asking him to hear her confession. Bruno rose at once.“Now?” said Margaret, with a little surprise.“There is no time but now,” was the reply.They went into the oratory, and closed the door on curious ears; and Margaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart.“I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you would understand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; I am not sure that they do: and Father Warner at least thinks it weakness, if not sin. And now tell me, have you any balm for such a sorrow as mine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I do not think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If I only knew where it is that I am going!”“Let the where alone,” answered Bruno. “Daughter, to whom art thou going? Is it to a Stranger, or to Him whom thy soul loveth?”Not unnaturally, she misunderstood the allusion.“No; he will not necessarily die, because I do.”She was only thinking of Richard.“My child!” said Bruno, gently, “thou art going to the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. Dost thou know any thing about Him?”“I know, of course, what the Church teaches.”“Well; but dost thou know what He teaches? Is He as dear to thee as thine earthly love?”“No.” The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was no hesitation about it.“Is He as dear to thee as the Earl thy father?”“No.”“Is He as dear to thee as any person in this house, whomsoever it be,—such as thou hast been acquainted with, and accustomed to, all thy life?”“Father,” said the low, sad voice, “I am afraid you are right. I do not know Him.”“Wilt thou not ask Him, then, to reveal Himself to thee?”“Will He do it, Father?”“‘Will He’! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wert brought to Him in baptism?”“But He can never fill up this void in my heart!”“He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world. I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold.”“Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, ifhewere not there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest and silence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have in Heaven,—Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I would rather stay on earth—where Richard is.”“Poor child!” said Bruno half involuntarily. “My daughter, it is very natural. It must be so. ‘Where is thy treasure, there is also thine heart.’”“And,” the low voice went on, “if I could know that he had given over loving me, I fancy it would be easier to go.”Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channel than to encourage them to flow in it.“My child, Christ has not given over loving thee.”“That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is not Richard!”“Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to suffer thine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying to thee in this very sorrow, ‘Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest’?”“It would be rest, if He would give me Richard,” she said. “There is but that one thing for me in all the world.”Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he had supposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it was rebellious. She was hardening herself against God.“No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peace between the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret de Burgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King’s mercy.”“Father!” said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise and alarm.“Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditional submission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst fain dictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into His terms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even for thee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thine heart. Listen to His voice,—‘It is hardfor theeto kick against the pricks.’ It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thine allegiance.”The answer was scarcely what he expected.“Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course; but it does me no good. My heart is numb.”“Thou art right,” gently replied Bruno. “The south wind must blow upon the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord—I will ask Him also—to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost.”“How many Paters?” said the girl in a weary tone. “One will do, my daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it.”“I can put my heart into nothing.”“Then say to Him this only—‘Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thou mayest give it life.’”She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating a lesson. “How long will it take?”“He knows—not I.”“But suppose I die first?”“The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish for salvation. He wants it more than thou.”“He wants it!” repeated Margaret wonderingly. “He wants it. He wants thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly? Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside thee.”“I did not think I was that to any one—except my parents and—and Richard.”“Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the Lord Jesus.”The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.“Well!” she said, with a dreary sigh. “It may be so. But I cannot care about it.”Bruno’s answer was not addressed to Margaret.“Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she may live! Save her in spite of herself!”There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution, and the confession was over.The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon after vespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached at all, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. Father Warner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both were concerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. Father Nicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues—dreary classical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a Good Friday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion.But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topic from any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a much more interesting sound than Father Nicholas’s drowsy monotone, or Father Warner’s dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; no one could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant had died away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had given due notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice in particular) was prepared to listen to him.The text itself—to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture—was rather a startling one.“‘O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow like unto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press, in the day of the wrath of His anger.’”Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of her own heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even have thought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words. From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome have been enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay, blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmly arrogated to herself—without even offering proof of it—that right to the promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs in a higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to the literal and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: for in her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies the lower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any national restoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be true or false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome.With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become so customary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its original application to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten.But here, Bruno’s Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. He delighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of the passage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable to the Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been another sorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared—to which no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for a moment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours’ darkness that might be felt—of that “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” into which was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since the beginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight into the heart’s depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each one of those hearts, “This was your doing!” He told them that for every sin of every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: and that if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was not Christ’s fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper for every pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were not there, it would be because he had refused the invitation.Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked that every man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow like to his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only to be had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bear the weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins and sorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear any sorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, “Mywill be done,” he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him. “Not my will, but Thine,” must always precede the sending of the strengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent grief to them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him no pleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children of men. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health: and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at the right time.“And now,” said Bruno at last, “ye into whose hands the Great Physician hath put this wholesome yet bitter cup,—how are ye going to treat it? Will ye dash it down, and say, ‘I will have none of this remedy?’ For the end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, only because ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue, blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; it will work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving on your lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will is better than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no man can know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spare you? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbed from lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.“And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. ‘Death there shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more.’ (Note 3.) We who are Christ’s shall be there before long.”He ended thus, almost abruptly.The chapel was empty, and the congregation were critical. Earl Hubert thought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preach an excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a different subject: it was so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man had been wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just what was proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva was astonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuff as that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; she had enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, and dreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons.There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too full for speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. On that lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, and had said, “Live!”Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew that His best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her away from the evil to come.Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish to taste twice.Note 2. “These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to a saint’s filthiness—Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience, that the devils... were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seduce the wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls are in the dirtiest bodies... Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectly pious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this species of mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose Brother Juniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were at the due point.”—Disraeli’sCuriosities of Literature, Volume One, page 92.Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course taken from the Vulgate, except those made by Jews.
“And speak’st thou thus,Despairing of the sun that sets to thee,And of the earthly love that wanes to thee,And of the Heaven that lieth far from thee?Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door,Whose footprints leave no print across the snow.Thy Sun has risen with comfort in His face,The smile of Heaven to warm thy frozen heart,And bless with saintly hand. What! is it longTo wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go.Behold, across the snow to thee He comes,Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait?Thou shalt not wait. ‘This night, this night,’ He saith,‘I stand at the door and knock.’”Jean Ingelow.
“And speak’st thou thus,Despairing of the sun that sets to thee,And of the earthly love that wanes to thee,And of the Heaven that lieth far from thee?Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door,Whose footprints leave no print across the snow.Thy Sun has risen with comfort in His face,The smile of Heaven to warm thy frozen heart,And bless with saintly hand. What! is it longTo wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go.Behold, across the snow to thee He comes,Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait?Thou shalt not wait. ‘This night, this night,’ He saith,‘I stand at the door and knock.’”Jean Ingelow.
Earl Hubert went very pale when his wife told him of the conversation which she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of his old age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. But the blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in a figurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been, physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after that event.
The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weigh quite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girl weighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, she tried to bolster up her own hopes by appeals to every other person.
“Father Nicholas, do you think my daughter looks really ill?”
Father Nicholas, lost at the moment in the Aegean Sea, came slowly back from “the many-twinkling smile of ocean” to the consideration of the question referred to him.
“My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well,—looking ill? I cannot say, Lady, that I have studied the noble damsel’s looks. Perhaps—is she a little paler than she used to be? Ah, my Lady, a course of the grand old Greek dramatists,—that would be the thing to set her up. She could not fail to be interested and charmed.”
The Countess next applied to Father Warner.
“The damsel does look pale, Lady. What wonder, when she has not confessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will see she will be another maiden.”
“She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well,” said Levina, who was the third authority. “It strikes me, under my Lady’s pleasure, that she would be the better for a change.”
This meant, that Levina was tired of Bury Saint Edmund’s.
“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with her!” said Eva, testily. “She never takes things to heart as I do. She’ll do well enough.”
“Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret,” was Doucebelle’s contribution. “I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish I knew what to do for her.”
Beatrice looked up with grave eyes. “Lady, I would so gladly say No! But I cannot do it.”
The last person interrogated was Bruno; and by the time she came to him, the Countess was very low-spirited. His face went grave and sad.
“Lady, it never does good to shut one’s eyes to the truth. It is worse pain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying.”
“Dying!” shrieked the unhappy mother. “Dying, Father Bruno! You saiddying!”
“Too true, my Lady.”
“But what can I do? How am I to stop it?”
“Ah!” said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. “There is a ‘Talitha Cumi’ from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He has called her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only too plain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility of disobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead to life.”
“But how am I to help it?” repeated the poor Countess.
“You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going.”
“Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every penny and every jewel that I have!”
“Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than you.”
“Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!”
“He has died for her,” answered Bruno, softly. “And He is the Amen, the Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head of every child of His.”
“But where will she be?—what will she be?” moaned the poor mother.
“If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him.”
“But He does not need her, and I do!”
“Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest. But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early. It is far better.”
“For her,—well, perhaps—if she can be got past Purgatory. But for me!”
“For each of you, what she needs, Lady.”
“O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!”
“Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for her salvation?”
One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abraham of Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civil enough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on this occasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly not intended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it. Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination to quarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever. She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall.
“My Belasez, light of mine eyes!” said the old man fervently, as he folded her in his arms and blessed her. “Ah, there is not much light for the old pedlar’s eyes now!”
“Dost thou miss me, my father?”
“Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gone down, and the heavens are covered with clouds.”
“Was my mother very angry after I went away?”
It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.
“Don’t mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child.”
The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.
“Is she satisfied now?”
“Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the sitten (Note 1) porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can’t eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can.”
Beatrice could not help laughing.
“My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the porridge for thee.”
“Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now.—Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as well.”
“I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little doubt she will buy.”
“How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to abandon his vows?”
“He hopes to receive it in a few days.”
“Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from Satan.” (Note 2.)
“Well, we all wash ourselves here,” said Beatrice, laughing, “unless it be Father Warner; I will not answer for him.”
“This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!—”
Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.
“Is Cress come with thee, my father?”
“No—nothere,” answered the old Jew, emphatically. “And he never can.”
“Why?”
“Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee.”
“O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?”
It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother.
“Ay, child, wrong enough!” said Abraham sadly.
“Is he so ill, my father?”
“Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of the body. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child, hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of the damsel’s marriage—she that is the Lady’s daughter?”
“Margaret? I never could tell how it was.”
“It was Delecresse who told him.”
“Delecresse!”
“Ah, yes—may the God of Israel forgive him!”
“But how did Delecresse know?”
“I fancy he guessed it, partly—and perhaps subtly extracted some avowal from thee, in a way which thou didst not understand at the time.”
“But, Father, I could not have told him, even unwittingly, for I did not know it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as we passed through the hall,—yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed him a grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached to Margaret.”
“What didst thou say?”
“That I thought it might be so; but I did not know.”
“Well! I am thankful thou couldst tell him no more. I suppose he pieced things together, and very likely jumped the last yard. Howbeit, he did it. My son, my only one! If there were an altar yet left in Israel, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him.”
“All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think all Gentiles fair prey.”
“What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady had been kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head she loved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made our bond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I might free her without an instant’s suspense.”
“Yes, my father,thouwouldst,” answered Beatrice, affectionately. “But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of our nation do.”
“Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove’s heart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, more than thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hated what she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?”
Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she looked up and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordial now. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits of Licorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression came into his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse.
“Keep it quiet, my father,” he said. “The Lord will repay. May it be not in justice, but with His mercy!”
Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchases made of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walked with him across the yard, and as they clasped hands in farewell, suddenly asked him what he thought of the damsel Margaret.
“Can there be any question?” answered Abraham, pityingly. “Hath not Azrael (the Angel of Death) stamped her with his signet?”
“I fear so. Wilt thou pray for her, my father?”
Abraham looked up in amazement.
“A Christian ask the prayers of a Jew!” exclaimed he.
“Why not?” replied Bruno. “Were not Christ and all His apostles Jews? And thou art a good and true man, my father. The God of Israel heareth the prayers of the righteous.”
“Canst thou account a Jew righteous?—one who believes not in thy Messiah?”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Bruno, his eyes meeting those of Abraham in full. “I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, but thou art afraid to declare it.”
Abraham’s colour rose a little.
“May Adonai lead us both to His truth!” he replied.
But Bruno noticed that he made no attempt to deny the charge.
Bruno’s chief wish now was to get hold of Margaret, and find out the exact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him by asking him to hear her confession. Bruno rose at once.
“Now?” said Margaret, with a little surprise.
“There is no time but now,” was the reply.
They went into the oratory, and closed the door on curious ears; and Margaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart.
“I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you would understand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; I am not sure that they do: and Father Warner at least thinks it weakness, if not sin. And now tell me, have you any balm for such a sorrow as mine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I do not think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If I only knew where it is that I am going!”
“Let the where alone,” answered Bruno. “Daughter, to whom art thou going? Is it to a Stranger, or to Him whom thy soul loveth?”
Not unnaturally, she misunderstood the allusion.
“No; he will not necessarily die, because I do.”
She was only thinking of Richard.
“My child!” said Bruno, gently, “thou art going to the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. Dost thou know any thing about Him?”
“I know, of course, what the Church teaches.”
“Well; but dost thou know what He teaches? Is He as dear to thee as thine earthly love?”
“No.” The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was no hesitation about it.
“Is He as dear to thee as the Earl thy father?”
“No.”
“Is He as dear to thee as any person in this house, whomsoever it be,—such as thou hast been acquainted with, and accustomed to, all thy life?”
“Father,” said the low, sad voice, “I am afraid you are right. I do not know Him.”
“Wilt thou not ask Him, then, to reveal Himself to thee?”
“Will He do it, Father?”
“‘Will He’! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wert brought to Him in baptism?”
“But He can never fill up this void in my heart!”
“He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world. I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold.”
“Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, ifhewere not there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest and silence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have in Heaven,—Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I would rather stay on earth—where Richard is.”
“Poor child!” said Bruno half involuntarily. “My daughter, it is very natural. It must be so. ‘Where is thy treasure, there is also thine heart.’”
“And,” the low voice went on, “if I could know that he had given over loving me, I fancy it would be easier to go.”
Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channel than to encourage them to flow in it.
“My child, Christ has not given over loving thee.”
“That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is not Richard!”
“Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to suffer thine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying to thee in this very sorrow, ‘Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest’?”
“It would be rest, if He would give me Richard,” she said. “There is but that one thing for me in all the world.”
Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he had supposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it was rebellious. She was hardening herself against God.
“No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peace between the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret de Burgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King’s mercy.”
“Father!” said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise and alarm.
“Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditional submission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst fain dictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into His terms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even for thee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thine heart. Listen to His voice,—‘It is hardfor theeto kick against the pricks.’ It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thine allegiance.”
The answer was scarcely what he expected.
“Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course; but it does me no good. My heart is numb.”
“Thou art right,” gently replied Bruno. “The south wind must blow upon the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord—I will ask Him also—to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“How many Paters?” said the girl in a weary tone. “One will do, my daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it.”
“I can put my heart into nothing.”
“Then say to Him this only—‘Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thou mayest give it life.’”
She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating a lesson. “How long will it take?”
“He knows—not I.”
“But suppose I die first?”
“The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish for salvation. He wants it more than thou.”
“He wants it!” repeated Margaret wonderingly. “He wants it. He wants thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly? Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside thee.”
“I did not think I was that to any one—except my parents and—and Richard.”
“Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the Lord Jesus.”
The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.
“Well!” she said, with a dreary sigh. “It may be so. But I cannot care about it.”
Bruno’s answer was not addressed to Margaret.
“Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she may live! Save her in spite of herself!”
There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution, and the confession was over.
The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon after vespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached at all, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. Father Warner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both were concerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. Father Nicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues—dreary classical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a Good Friday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion.
But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topic from any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a much more interesting sound than Father Nicholas’s drowsy monotone, or Father Warner’s dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; no one could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant had died away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had given due notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice in particular) was prepared to listen to him.
The text itself—to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture—was rather a startling one.
“‘O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow like unto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press, in the day of the wrath of His anger.’”
Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of her own heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.
Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even have thought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words. From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome have been enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay, blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmly arrogated to herself—without even offering proof of it—that right to the promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs in a higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to the literal and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: for in her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies the lower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any national restoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be true or false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome.
With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become so customary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its original application to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten.
But here, Bruno’s Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. He delighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of the passage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable to the Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been another sorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared—to which no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for a moment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours’ darkness that might be felt—of that “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” into which was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since the beginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight into the heart’s depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each one of those hearts, “This was your doing!” He told them that for every sin of every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: and that if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was not Christ’s fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper for every pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were not there, it would be because he had refused the invitation.
Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked that every man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow like to his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only to be had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bear the weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins and sorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear any sorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, “Mywill be done,” he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him. “Not my will, but Thine,” must always precede the sending of the strengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent grief to them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him no pleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children of men. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health: and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at the right time.
“And now,” said Bruno at last, “ye into whose hands the Great Physician hath put this wholesome yet bitter cup,—how are ye going to treat it? Will ye dash it down, and say, ‘I will have none of this remedy?’ For the end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, only because ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue, blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; it will work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving on your lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will is better than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no man can know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spare you? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbed from lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.
“And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. ‘Death there shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more.’ (Note 3.) We who are Christ’s shall be there before long.”
He ended thus, almost abruptly.
The chapel was empty, and the congregation were critical. Earl Hubert thought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preach an excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a different subject: it was so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man had been wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just what was proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva was astonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuff as that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; she had enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, and dreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons.
There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too full for speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. On that lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, and had said, “Live!”
Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew that His best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her away from the evil to come.
Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish to taste twice.
Note 2. “These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to a saint’s filthiness—Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience, that the devils... were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seduce the wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls are in the dirtiest bodies... Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectly pious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this species of mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose Brother Juniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were at the due point.”—Disraeli’sCuriosities of Literature, Volume One, page 92.
Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course taken from the Vulgate, except those made by Jews.
Chapter Fourteen.Evil Tidings.“Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and clingTo One that standeth by with outstretched hand;Too tired to hold Him, if He hold not me:Too tired to long but for one heavenly thing,—Rest for the weary, in the Promised Land.”Permission for Bruno to lay aside the habit of Saint Augustine reached Bury Castle very soon after his sermon. And with it came two other items of news,—the one, that Bishop Grosteste offered him a rich living in his diocese; the other, that the Bishop’s life had been attempted by poison. It was not to be wondered at in the least, since Grosteste had coolly declared the reigning Pope Innocent to be an exact counterpart of Anti-Christ (for which the head of the Church rewarded him by terming him a wicked old dotard), and his attachment to monachism in general was never allowed to stand in the way of the sternest rebuke to disorderly monks in particular. He also presumed to object to his clergy having constant recourse to Jewish money-lenders, and especially interfered with their favourite amusement of amateur theatricals, which he was so unreasonable as to think unbecoming the clerical office.Bruno hastened to the Countess with the news, accompanying it by warm thanks for the shelter afforded to himself and his daughter, and informing her that he would no longer burden her with either. But she looked very grave.“Father Bruno,” she said, “I have a boon to ask.”“Ask it freely, Lady. I am bound to you in all ways.”“Then I beg that you and Beatrice will continue here, so long—ha, chétife!—so long as my child lives.”Father Bruno gravely assented. He knew too well that would not be long. Yet it proved longer than either of them anticipated.Stormy times were at hand. The Papal Legate had effected between Earl Hubert and the Bishop of Winchester a reconciliation which resembled a quiescent volcano; but Hubert was put into a position of sore peril by his royal brother-in-law of Scotland, who coolly sent an embassy to King Henry, demanding as his right that the three northernmost counties of England should be peaceably resigned to him. After putting him off for a time by an evasive message, King Henry consented to meet Alexander at York, and discuss the questions on which they differed. His Britannic Majesty was still vexing his nobles by the favour he showed to foreigners. At this time he demanded a subsidy of one-thirtieth of all the property in the kingdom, which they were by no means inclined to give him. As a sop to Cerberus, the King promised thenceforth to abide by the advice of his native nobility, and the subsidy was voted. But his next step was to invite his father-in-law, the Count of Provence, and to shower upon him the gold so unwillingly granted. The nobles were more angry than ever, and the King’s own brother, Richard Earl of Cornwall, was the first to remonstrate. Then Archbishop Edmund of Canterbury took a journey to Rome, and declined to return, even when recalled by the Legate. But the grand event of that year was the final disruption of Christendom. The Greek Church had many a time quarrelled with the Latin, chiefly on two heads,—the worship of images and the assumption of universal primacy. On the first count they differed with very little distinction, since the Greek Church allowed the full worship of pictures, but anathematised every body who paid reverence to statues,—a rather odd state of things to Protestant eyes. Once already, the Eastern Church had seceded, but the quarrel was patched up again. But after the secession of 1237, there was never to be peace between East and West again.The new year came in with a royal marriage. There were curious circumstances attending it, for the parties married in spite of the King, who was obliged to give away the bride, his sister Alianora, “right sore against his will:” and though the bride had taken the vow of perpetual widowhood, (Note 1) they did not trouble themselves about a Papal dispensation till they had been married for some weeks. The bridegroom was the young Frenchman, Sir Simon de Montfort, whom the King at last came to fear more than thunder and lightning. The English nobility were extremely displeased, for they considered that the Princess had been married beneath her dignity; but since from first to last she had had her own wilful way, it was rather unreasonable in the nobles to vent their wrath upon the King. They rose against him furiously, headed by his own brother, and by the husband of the Princess Marjory of Scotland, till at last the royal standard was deserted by all but one man,—that true and loyal patriot, Hubert, Earl of Kent,—the man whom no oppression could alienate from the Throne, and whom no cruelty could silence when he thought England in danger. But now his prestige was on the wane. The nobles were not afraid of him, on account of his old age, his wisdom, and a vow which he had taken never to bear arms again. In vain King Henry appealed privately to every peer, asking if his fidelity might be relied on. From every side defiant messages came back. The citizens of London, as their wont was, were exceptionally disloyal. Then he sent the Legate to his brother, urging peace. Cornwall refused to listen. At last, driven into a corner, the King begged for time, and it was granted him, until the first Monday in Lent. When that day came, the nobles assembled in grand force at London, to come to a very lame and impotent conclusion. Earl Richard of Cornwall, the King’s brother, suddenly announced that he and his new brother-in-law, Montfort, had effected a complete reconciliation. The other nobles were very angry at the desertion of their leader, and accused him, perhaps not untruly, of having been bribed into this conduct: for Cornwall was quite as extravagant, and nearly as acquisitive, as his royal brother. Just at this time died Joan, Queen of Scotland, the eldest sister of King Henry, of rapid decline, while on her way home from England; and her death was quickly followed by that of Hubert’s great enemy, the Bishop of Winchester. The filling up of the vacant see caused one of the frequent struggles between England and Rome. The Chapter of Winchester wished to have the Bishop of Chichester: the King was determined to appoint the Queen’s uncle, Guglielmo of Savoy; and, as he often did to gain his ends, Henry sided with Rome against his own people.The disruption between the Greek and Latin Churches being now an accomplished fact, the Archbishop of Antioch went the length of excommunicating the Pope and the whole Roman Church, asserting that if there were to be a supreme Pontiff, he had the better claim to the title. This event caused a disruption on a small scale in Margaret’s bower, where Beatrice scandalised the fair community by wanting to know why the Pope should not be excommunicated if he deserved it.“Excommunicate the head of the Church!” said Hawise, in a horrified tone.“Well, but here are two Churches,” persisted Beatrice. “If the Pope can excommunicate the Archbishop, what is to prevent the Archbishop from excommunicating the Pope?”“Poor creature!” said Hawise pityingly.“The Eastern schism is no Church!” added Eva.“Oh, I do wish some of you would tell me what you mean by a Church!” exclaimed Beatrice, earnestly, laying down her work. “What makes one thing a Church, and another a schism?”But that was just what nobody could tell her. Hawise leaped the chasm deftly by declaring it an improper question. Eva said, “Si bête!” and declined to say more.“Well, I may be a fool,” said Beatrice bluntly: “but I do not think you are much better if you cannot tell me.”“Of course I could tell thee, if I chose!” answered Eva, with lofty scorn.“Then why dost thou not?” was the unanswerable reply.Eva did not deign to respond. But when Bruno next appeared, Beatrice put her question.“The Church is what Christ builds on Himself: a schism is bred in man’s brain, contrary to holy Scripture.”In saying which, Bruno only quoted Bishop Grosteste.“But, seeing men are fallible, how then can any human system claim to be at all times The Church?” asked Beatrice.“The true Church is not a human system at all,” said he.“Father, Beatrice actually fancies that the Archbishop of Antioch could excommunicate the holy Father!” observed Hawise in tones of horror.“I suppose any authority can excommunicate those below him, in the Church visible,” said Bruno, calmly: “in the invisible Jerusalem above, which is the mother of us all, none excommunicates but God. ‘Every branch in Me, not fruit-bearing, He taketh it away.’ My daughters, it would do us more good to bear that in mind, than to blame either the Pope or the Archbishop.”And he walked away, as was his wont when he had delivered his sentence.That afternoon, the Countess sent for Beatrice and Doucebelle to her own bower. They found her seated by the window, with unusually idle hands, and an expression of sore disturbance on her fair, serene face.“There is bad news come, my damsels,” she said, when the girls had made their courtesies. “And I do not know how to tell my Magot. Perhaps one of you might manage it better than I could. And she had better be told, for she is sure to hear it in some way, and I would fain spare the child all I can.”“About Sir Richard the Earl, Lady?” asked Beatrice.“Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice.”“To whom, Lady?” asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered an ejaculation under her breath.“To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is no fault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the King has made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln has given him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, and has remitted a debt of thirteen hundred more. A good thing for him!—and it may be quite as well for Richard. But my poor child! I cannot understand how it is that she does not rouse up and forget her disappointment. It is very strange.”It was very strange, to the mother who loved Margaret so dearly, and yet understood her so little. But Doucebelle silently thought that any thing else would have been yet stranger.“And you would have us tell her, Lady?”“It would be as well. Really, I cannot!”The substratum was showing itself for a moment in the character of the Countess.“Dulcie would do it better than I,” said Beatrice, “I am a bad hand at beating about the bush. I might do it too bluntly.”“Then, Dulcie, do tell her!” pleaded the Countess.“Very well, Lady.” But all Doucebelle’s unselfishness did not prevent her from feeling that she would almost rather have had any thing else to do.She went back slowly to Margaret’s bower, tenanted at that moment by no one but its owner. Margaret looked up as Doucebelle entered, and read her face as easily as possible.“Evil tidings!” she said, quietly enough. “For thee, or for me, Dulcie?”Doucebelle came and knelt beside her.“For me, then!” Margaret’s voice trembled a little. “Go on, Dulcie! Richard—”She could imagine no evil tidings except as associated with him.Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort.“Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The—”“Is he dead?” asked Margaret, hurriedly.“No.”“I thought, if it had been that,”—she hesitated.“Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?”“Something—what? I see!” and her tone changed. “It is marriage.”“Yes, Sir Richard is married to—”“No! Don’t tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I do not want to do that.”Doucebelle was silent.“Was it his doing,” asked Margaret in a low voice, “or did the Lord King order it?”“Oh, it was the Lord King’s doing, entirely, the Lady says.”“O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be more likelihood of his being happy: but I cannot—I cannot!”“My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!” answered Doucebelle tenderly.“Is it very wicked,” added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, “not to be able to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To be shut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else let in! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!”“My poor darling!” was all that Doucebelle could say.“Father Bruno said, that so long as we kept saying, ‘My will be done,’ we must not expect God to comfort us. Yet how are we to give over? O Dulcie, I thought I was beginning to submit, and this has stirred all up again. My heart cries out and says, ‘This shall not be! I will not have it so!’ And if God will have it so!—How am I to learn to bend my will to His?”Neither of the girls had heard any one enter, and they were a little startled when a third voice replied—“None but Himself can teach thee that, my daughter. If thou canst not yet give Him thy will, ask Him to take it in spite of thee.”“I have done that, already, Father Bruno.”“Then thou mayest rest assured that He will do all that is lacking.”That night, Bruno said to Beatrice,—“That poor, dear child! I am sure God is teaching her. But to-day’s news has driven another nail into her coffin.”Would it have been easier, or harder, if the veil could have been lifted which hid from Margaret the interior of Gloucester Castle? To the eyes of the world outside, the young Earl behaved like any other bridegroom. He brought the Lady Maud to his home, placed her in sumptuous apartments, surrounded her with obsequious attendants, provided her with all the comforts and luxuries of life: but there his attentions ended. For four years his step never crossed the threshold of the tower where she resided, and they met only on ceremonial occasions. Wife she never was to him, until for twelve months the cold stones of Westminster Abbey had lain over the fair head of his Margaret, the one love of his tried and faithful heart.Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majesty considerately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for the unusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of him to feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for the term of his natural life.Only!How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing us with every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do to pray for grace to enable them to forgive us!Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that he registered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fall into his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold.The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaret and her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections of whatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow. Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completely engrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endless search for the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, and other equally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun to engage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they were approaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed a blessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into the snare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient was wanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That one ingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenth century.Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers,—that except in the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Their search for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture of helpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to the idiotic conclusion that they were the descendants of a jelly-fish.Oh, this much-extolled, wise, learned, supercilious Nineteenth Century! Is it so very much the superior of all its predecessors, as it complacently assumes to be?King Alexander of Scotland married his second wife in the May of 1239, to the great satisfaction of his sisters. The Countess of Kent thought that such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and she was rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at the discovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increase her sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third of June, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news might reasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from her point of view) happened than the birth of a Prince—afterwards to be Edward the First, who has been termed “the greatest of all the Plantagenets.”The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as a delightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, by the King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of the Plantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious event to all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden were not of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace. “God gave us this child,” exclaimed a blunt Norman noble, “but the King sells him to us!”Four days after the Prince’s birth came another event, which to one at least in Bury Castle, was enough to account for any portentous eclipse. The Countess found Beatrice drowned in tears.“Beatrice!—my dear maiden, what aileth thee? I have scarcely ever seen thee shed tears before.”The girl answered by a passionate gesture.“‘Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!’”“Ha, chétife!—what is the matter?”“Lady, there has been an awful slaughter of my people.” And she stood up and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed to the Countess worthy of some classic prophetess. “‘Remember, O Adonai, what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!’ ‘O God, why hast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against the sheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more any prophet.’ ‘Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit all nations.’”The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She could not comprehend it.“My child, I do not understand,” she said, kindly enough. “Has some relative of thine been murdered? How shocking!”“Are not all my people kindred of mine?” exclaimed Beatrice, passionately.“Dost thou mean the massacre of the Jews in London?” said the Countess, as the truth suddenly flashed upon her. “Oh yes, I did hear of some such dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas. Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that low race. They are not thy people any longer.”Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feeling than sorrow had suddenly driven back the tears.“‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning!’ Lady, thou canst not fathom the heart of a Jew. No Christian can. We are brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, and low! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does upon his crown,—yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! ‘We are Thine; Thou never barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name.’ But you do not understand, Lady.”“No,—it is very strange,” replied the Countess, in a dubious tone. “Jews do not seem to understand their position. It is odd. But dry thine eyes, my dear child; thou wilt make thyself ill. And really—”The Countess was too kind to finish the sentence. But Beatrice could guess that she thought there was really nothing to weep over in the massacre of a few scores of Jews. She found little sympathy among the younger members of the family party. Margaret said she was sorry, but it was evidently for the fact that her friend was in trouble, not for the event over which she was sorrowing. Eva openly expressed profound scorn of both the Jews and the sorrow.Marie wanted to know if some friend of Beatrice were among the slain: because, if not, why should she care any thing about it? Doucebelle alone seemed capable of a little sympathy.But before the evening was over, Beatrice found there was one Christian who could enter into all her feelings. She was slowly crossing the ante-chamber in the twilight, when she found herself intercepted and drawn into Bruno’s arms.“My darling!” he said, tenderly. “I am sent to thee with heavy tidings.”Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father’s breast, with the feeling that she had one friend left in the world.“I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it with me.”“There are not many who will, I can guess,” answered Bruno. “But, my child, I am afraid thou dost not know all.”“Father!—what is it?” asked Beatrice, fearfully.“One has fallen in that massacre, very dear to thee and me, my daughter.”“Delecresse?” She thought him the most likely to be in London of any of the family.“No. Delecresse is safe, so far as I know.”“Is it Uncle Moss?—or Levi my cousin?”“Beatrice, it is Abraham the son of Ursel, the father of us all.”The low cry of utter desolation which broke from the girl’s lips was pitiful to hear.“‘My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!’”Bruno let her weep passionately, until the first burst of grief was over. Then he said, gently, “Be comforted, my Beatrice. I believe that he sleeps in Jesus, and that God shall bring him with Him.”“He was not baptised?” asked Beatrice, in some surprise that Bruno should think so.“He was ready for it. He had spoken to a friend of mine—one Friar Saher de Kilvingholme—on the subject. And the Lord would not refuse to receive him because his brow had not been touched by water, when He had baptised him with the Holy Ghost and with fire.”Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would have ventured so far as to say that.“Oh, this is a weary world!” sighed Beatrice, drearily.“It is not the only one,” replied her father.“It seems as if we were born only to die!”“Nay, my child. We were born to live for ever. Those have death who choose it.”“A great many seem to choose it.”“A great many,” said Bruno, sadly.“Father,” said Beatrice, after a short silence, “as a man grows older and wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better the reason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light upon them, which you did not of old?”“No, my child, I think not,” was Bruno’s answer. “If any thing, I should say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It is not less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of his father; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Father better; we learn to trust and wait. ‘What I do, thou knowest not now: but thou shalt know hereafter.’ And He has told us that in that land where we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied. Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, here and now.”“It is dark!” said Beatrice, with a sob.“‘The morning cometh,’” replied Bruno. “And ‘in the morning is gladness.’”Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob now and then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in a low, troubled voice, she said—“There is no one to call me Belasez now!”Bruno clasped her closer.“My darling!” he said, “so long as the Lord spares us to each other, thou wilt always bebelle assezfor me!”Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, the eldest brother of the husband of Marjory of Scotland.
“Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and clingTo One that standeth by with outstretched hand;Too tired to hold Him, if He hold not me:Too tired to long but for one heavenly thing,—Rest for the weary, in the Promised Land.”
“Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and clingTo One that standeth by with outstretched hand;Too tired to hold Him, if He hold not me:Too tired to long but for one heavenly thing,—Rest for the weary, in the Promised Land.”
Permission for Bruno to lay aside the habit of Saint Augustine reached Bury Castle very soon after his sermon. And with it came two other items of news,—the one, that Bishop Grosteste offered him a rich living in his diocese; the other, that the Bishop’s life had been attempted by poison. It was not to be wondered at in the least, since Grosteste had coolly declared the reigning Pope Innocent to be an exact counterpart of Anti-Christ (for which the head of the Church rewarded him by terming him a wicked old dotard), and his attachment to monachism in general was never allowed to stand in the way of the sternest rebuke to disorderly monks in particular. He also presumed to object to his clergy having constant recourse to Jewish money-lenders, and especially interfered with their favourite amusement of amateur theatricals, which he was so unreasonable as to think unbecoming the clerical office.
Bruno hastened to the Countess with the news, accompanying it by warm thanks for the shelter afforded to himself and his daughter, and informing her that he would no longer burden her with either. But she looked very grave.
“Father Bruno,” she said, “I have a boon to ask.”
“Ask it freely, Lady. I am bound to you in all ways.”
“Then I beg that you and Beatrice will continue here, so long—ha, chétife!—so long as my child lives.”
Father Bruno gravely assented. He knew too well that would not be long. Yet it proved longer than either of them anticipated.
Stormy times were at hand. The Papal Legate had effected between Earl Hubert and the Bishop of Winchester a reconciliation which resembled a quiescent volcano; but Hubert was put into a position of sore peril by his royal brother-in-law of Scotland, who coolly sent an embassy to King Henry, demanding as his right that the three northernmost counties of England should be peaceably resigned to him. After putting him off for a time by an evasive message, King Henry consented to meet Alexander at York, and discuss the questions on which they differed. His Britannic Majesty was still vexing his nobles by the favour he showed to foreigners. At this time he demanded a subsidy of one-thirtieth of all the property in the kingdom, which they were by no means inclined to give him. As a sop to Cerberus, the King promised thenceforth to abide by the advice of his native nobility, and the subsidy was voted. But his next step was to invite his father-in-law, the Count of Provence, and to shower upon him the gold so unwillingly granted. The nobles were more angry than ever, and the King’s own brother, Richard Earl of Cornwall, was the first to remonstrate. Then Archbishop Edmund of Canterbury took a journey to Rome, and declined to return, even when recalled by the Legate. But the grand event of that year was the final disruption of Christendom. The Greek Church had many a time quarrelled with the Latin, chiefly on two heads,—the worship of images and the assumption of universal primacy. On the first count they differed with very little distinction, since the Greek Church allowed the full worship of pictures, but anathematised every body who paid reverence to statues,—a rather odd state of things to Protestant eyes. Once already, the Eastern Church had seceded, but the quarrel was patched up again. But after the secession of 1237, there was never to be peace between East and West again.
The new year came in with a royal marriage. There were curious circumstances attending it, for the parties married in spite of the King, who was obliged to give away the bride, his sister Alianora, “right sore against his will:” and though the bride had taken the vow of perpetual widowhood, (Note 1) they did not trouble themselves about a Papal dispensation till they had been married for some weeks. The bridegroom was the young Frenchman, Sir Simon de Montfort, whom the King at last came to fear more than thunder and lightning. The English nobility were extremely displeased, for they considered that the Princess had been married beneath her dignity; but since from first to last she had had her own wilful way, it was rather unreasonable in the nobles to vent their wrath upon the King. They rose against him furiously, headed by his own brother, and by the husband of the Princess Marjory of Scotland, till at last the royal standard was deserted by all but one man,—that true and loyal patriot, Hubert, Earl of Kent,—the man whom no oppression could alienate from the Throne, and whom no cruelty could silence when he thought England in danger. But now his prestige was on the wane. The nobles were not afraid of him, on account of his old age, his wisdom, and a vow which he had taken never to bear arms again. In vain King Henry appealed privately to every peer, asking if his fidelity might be relied on. From every side defiant messages came back. The citizens of London, as their wont was, were exceptionally disloyal. Then he sent the Legate to his brother, urging peace. Cornwall refused to listen. At last, driven into a corner, the King begged for time, and it was granted him, until the first Monday in Lent. When that day came, the nobles assembled in grand force at London, to come to a very lame and impotent conclusion. Earl Richard of Cornwall, the King’s brother, suddenly announced that he and his new brother-in-law, Montfort, had effected a complete reconciliation. The other nobles were very angry at the desertion of their leader, and accused him, perhaps not untruly, of having been bribed into this conduct: for Cornwall was quite as extravagant, and nearly as acquisitive, as his royal brother. Just at this time died Joan, Queen of Scotland, the eldest sister of King Henry, of rapid decline, while on her way home from England; and her death was quickly followed by that of Hubert’s great enemy, the Bishop of Winchester. The filling up of the vacant see caused one of the frequent struggles between England and Rome. The Chapter of Winchester wished to have the Bishop of Chichester: the King was determined to appoint the Queen’s uncle, Guglielmo of Savoy; and, as he often did to gain his ends, Henry sided with Rome against his own people.
The disruption between the Greek and Latin Churches being now an accomplished fact, the Archbishop of Antioch went the length of excommunicating the Pope and the whole Roman Church, asserting that if there were to be a supreme Pontiff, he had the better claim to the title. This event caused a disruption on a small scale in Margaret’s bower, where Beatrice scandalised the fair community by wanting to know why the Pope should not be excommunicated if he deserved it.
“Excommunicate the head of the Church!” said Hawise, in a horrified tone.
“Well, but here are two Churches,” persisted Beatrice. “If the Pope can excommunicate the Archbishop, what is to prevent the Archbishop from excommunicating the Pope?”
“Poor creature!” said Hawise pityingly.
“The Eastern schism is no Church!” added Eva.
“Oh, I do wish some of you would tell me what you mean by a Church!” exclaimed Beatrice, earnestly, laying down her work. “What makes one thing a Church, and another a schism?”
But that was just what nobody could tell her. Hawise leaped the chasm deftly by declaring it an improper question. Eva said, “Si bête!” and declined to say more.
“Well, I may be a fool,” said Beatrice bluntly: “but I do not think you are much better if you cannot tell me.”
“Of course I could tell thee, if I chose!” answered Eva, with lofty scorn.
“Then why dost thou not?” was the unanswerable reply.
Eva did not deign to respond. But when Bruno next appeared, Beatrice put her question.
“The Church is what Christ builds on Himself: a schism is bred in man’s brain, contrary to holy Scripture.”
In saying which, Bruno only quoted Bishop Grosteste.
“But, seeing men are fallible, how then can any human system claim to be at all times The Church?” asked Beatrice.
“The true Church is not a human system at all,” said he.
“Father, Beatrice actually fancies that the Archbishop of Antioch could excommunicate the holy Father!” observed Hawise in tones of horror.
“I suppose any authority can excommunicate those below him, in the Church visible,” said Bruno, calmly: “in the invisible Jerusalem above, which is the mother of us all, none excommunicates but God. ‘Every branch in Me, not fruit-bearing, He taketh it away.’ My daughters, it would do us more good to bear that in mind, than to blame either the Pope or the Archbishop.”
And he walked away, as was his wont when he had delivered his sentence.
That afternoon, the Countess sent for Beatrice and Doucebelle to her own bower. They found her seated by the window, with unusually idle hands, and an expression of sore disturbance on her fair, serene face.
“There is bad news come, my damsels,” she said, when the girls had made their courtesies. “And I do not know how to tell my Magot. Perhaps one of you might manage it better than I could. And she had better be told, for she is sure to hear it in some way, and I would fain spare the child all I can.”
“About Sir Richard the Earl, Lady?” asked Beatrice.
“Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice.”
“To whom, Lady?” asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered an ejaculation under her breath.
“To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is no fault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the King has made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln has given him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, and has remitted a debt of thirteen hundred more. A good thing for him!—and it may be quite as well for Richard. But my poor child! I cannot understand how it is that she does not rouse up and forget her disappointment. It is very strange.”
It was very strange, to the mother who loved Margaret so dearly, and yet understood her so little. But Doucebelle silently thought that any thing else would have been yet stranger.
“And you would have us tell her, Lady?”
“It would be as well. Really, I cannot!”
The substratum was showing itself for a moment in the character of the Countess.
“Dulcie would do it better than I,” said Beatrice, “I am a bad hand at beating about the bush. I might do it too bluntly.”
“Then, Dulcie, do tell her!” pleaded the Countess.
“Very well, Lady.” But all Doucebelle’s unselfishness did not prevent her from feeling that she would almost rather have had any thing else to do.
She went back slowly to Margaret’s bower, tenanted at that moment by no one but its owner. Margaret looked up as Doucebelle entered, and read her face as easily as possible.
“Evil tidings!” she said, quietly enough. “For thee, or for me, Dulcie?”
Doucebelle came and knelt beside her.
“For me, then!” Margaret’s voice trembled a little. “Go on, Dulcie! Richard—”
She could imagine no evil tidings except as associated with him.
Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort.
“Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The—”
“Is he dead?” asked Margaret, hurriedly.
“No.”
“I thought, if it had been that,”—she hesitated.
“Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?”
“Something—what? I see!” and her tone changed. “It is marriage.”
“Yes, Sir Richard is married to—”
“No! Don’t tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I do not want to do that.”
Doucebelle was silent.
“Was it his doing,” asked Margaret in a low voice, “or did the Lord King order it?”
“Oh, it was the Lord King’s doing, entirely, the Lady says.”
“O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be more likelihood of his being happy: but I cannot—I cannot!”
“My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!” answered Doucebelle tenderly.
“Is it very wicked,” added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, “not to be able to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To be shut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else let in! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!”
“My poor darling!” was all that Doucebelle could say.
“Father Bruno said, that so long as we kept saying, ‘My will be done,’ we must not expect God to comfort us. Yet how are we to give over? O Dulcie, I thought I was beginning to submit, and this has stirred all up again. My heart cries out and says, ‘This shall not be! I will not have it so!’ And if God will have it so!—How am I to learn to bend my will to His?”
Neither of the girls had heard any one enter, and they were a little startled when a third voice replied—
“None but Himself can teach thee that, my daughter. If thou canst not yet give Him thy will, ask Him to take it in spite of thee.”
“I have done that, already, Father Bruno.”
“Then thou mayest rest assured that He will do all that is lacking.”
That night, Bruno said to Beatrice,—“That poor, dear child! I am sure God is teaching her. But to-day’s news has driven another nail into her coffin.”
Would it have been easier, or harder, if the veil could have been lifted which hid from Margaret the interior of Gloucester Castle? To the eyes of the world outside, the young Earl behaved like any other bridegroom. He brought the Lady Maud to his home, placed her in sumptuous apartments, surrounded her with obsequious attendants, provided her with all the comforts and luxuries of life: but there his attentions ended. For four years his step never crossed the threshold of the tower where she resided, and they met only on ceremonial occasions. Wife she never was to him, until for twelve months the cold stones of Westminster Abbey had lain over the fair head of his Margaret, the one love of his tried and faithful heart.
Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majesty considerately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for the unusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of him to feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for the term of his natural life.
Only!
How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing us with every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do to pray for grace to enable them to forgive us!
Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that he registered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fall into his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold.
The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaret and her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections of whatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow. Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completely engrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endless search for the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, and other equally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun to engage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they were approaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed a blessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into the snare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient was wanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That one ingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenth century.
Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers,—that except in the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Their search for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture of helpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to the idiotic conclusion that they were the descendants of a jelly-fish.
Oh, this much-extolled, wise, learned, supercilious Nineteenth Century! Is it so very much the superior of all its predecessors, as it complacently assumes to be?
King Alexander of Scotland married his second wife in the May of 1239, to the great satisfaction of his sisters. The Countess of Kent thought that such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and she was rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at the discovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increase her sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third of June, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news might reasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from her point of view) happened than the birth of a Prince—afterwards to be Edward the First, who has been termed “the greatest of all the Plantagenets.”
The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as a delightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, by the King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of the Plantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious event to all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden were not of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace. “God gave us this child,” exclaimed a blunt Norman noble, “but the King sells him to us!”
Four days after the Prince’s birth came another event, which to one at least in Bury Castle, was enough to account for any portentous eclipse. The Countess found Beatrice drowned in tears.
“Beatrice!—my dear maiden, what aileth thee? I have scarcely ever seen thee shed tears before.”
The girl answered by a passionate gesture.
“‘Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!’”
“Ha, chétife!—what is the matter?”
“Lady, there has been an awful slaughter of my people.” And she stood up and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed to the Countess worthy of some classic prophetess. “‘Remember, O Adonai, what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!’ ‘O God, why hast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against the sheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more any prophet.’ ‘Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit all nations.’”
The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She could not comprehend it.
“My child, I do not understand,” she said, kindly enough. “Has some relative of thine been murdered? How shocking!”
“Are not all my people kindred of mine?” exclaimed Beatrice, passionately.
“Dost thou mean the massacre of the Jews in London?” said the Countess, as the truth suddenly flashed upon her. “Oh yes, I did hear of some such dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas. Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that low race. They are not thy people any longer.”
Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feeling than sorrow had suddenly driven back the tears.
“‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning!’ Lady, thou canst not fathom the heart of a Jew. No Christian can. We are brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, and low! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does upon his crown,—yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! ‘We are Thine; Thou never barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name.’ But you do not understand, Lady.”
“No,—it is very strange,” replied the Countess, in a dubious tone. “Jews do not seem to understand their position. It is odd. But dry thine eyes, my dear child; thou wilt make thyself ill. And really—”
The Countess was too kind to finish the sentence. But Beatrice could guess that she thought there was really nothing to weep over in the massacre of a few scores of Jews. She found little sympathy among the younger members of the family party. Margaret said she was sorry, but it was evidently for the fact that her friend was in trouble, not for the event over which she was sorrowing. Eva openly expressed profound scorn of both the Jews and the sorrow.
Marie wanted to know if some friend of Beatrice were among the slain: because, if not, why should she care any thing about it? Doucebelle alone seemed capable of a little sympathy.
But before the evening was over, Beatrice found there was one Christian who could enter into all her feelings. She was slowly crossing the ante-chamber in the twilight, when she found herself intercepted and drawn into Bruno’s arms.
“My darling!” he said, tenderly. “I am sent to thee with heavy tidings.”
Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father’s breast, with the feeling that she had one friend left in the world.
“I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it with me.”
“There are not many who will, I can guess,” answered Bruno. “But, my child, I am afraid thou dost not know all.”
“Father!—what is it?” asked Beatrice, fearfully.
“One has fallen in that massacre, very dear to thee and me, my daughter.”
“Delecresse?” She thought him the most likely to be in London of any of the family.
“No. Delecresse is safe, so far as I know.”
“Is it Uncle Moss?—or Levi my cousin?”
“Beatrice, it is Abraham the son of Ursel, the father of us all.”
The low cry of utter desolation which broke from the girl’s lips was pitiful to hear.
“‘My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!’”
Bruno let her weep passionately, until the first burst of grief was over. Then he said, gently, “Be comforted, my Beatrice. I believe that he sleeps in Jesus, and that God shall bring him with Him.”
“He was not baptised?” asked Beatrice, in some surprise that Bruno should think so.
“He was ready for it. He had spoken to a friend of mine—one Friar Saher de Kilvingholme—on the subject. And the Lord would not refuse to receive him because his brow had not been touched by water, when He had baptised him with the Holy Ghost and with fire.”
Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would have ventured so far as to say that.
“Oh, this is a weary world!” sighed Beatrice, drearily.
“It is not the only one,” replied her father.
“It seems as if we were born only to die!”
“Nay, my child. We were born to live for ever. Those have death who choose it.”
“A great many seem to choose it.”
“A great many,” said Bruno, sadly.
“Father,” said Beatrice, after a short silence, “as a man grows older and wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better the reason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light upon them, which you did not of old?”
“No, my child, I think not,” was Bruno’s answer. “If any thing, I should say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It is not less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of his father; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Father better; we learn to trust and wait. ‘What I do, thou knowest not now: but thou shalt know hereafter.’ And He has told us that in that land where we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied. Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, here and now.”
“It is dark!” said Beatrice, with a sob.
“‘The morning cometh,’” replied Bruno. “And ‘in the morning is gladness.’”
Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob now and then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in a low, troubled voice, she said—
“There is no one to call me Belasez now!”
Bruno clasped her closer.
“My darling!” he said, “so long as the Lord spares us to each other, thou wilt always bebelle assezfor me!”
Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, the eldest brother of the husband of Marjory of Scotland.