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 long To wait and far to go? Thou shalt not go. Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, Thy Heaven descends, and is it long to wait? Thou shalt not wait. `This night, this night,' He saith, `I stand at the door and knock.'"
_Jean Ingelow_.
Earl Hubert went very pale when his wife told him of the conversationwhich she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of hisold age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. Butthe blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in afigurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been,physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after thatevent.
The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weighquite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girlweighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, shetried 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 backfrom "the many-twinkling smile of ocean" to the consideration of thequestion referred to him.
"My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well,--lookingill? 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, acourse of the grand old Greek dramatists,--that would be the thing toset 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 notconfessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will seeshe will be another maiden."
"She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well," saidLevina, who was the third authority. "It strikes me, under my Lady'spleasure, 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. "Shenever takes things to heart as I do. She'll do well enough."
"Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret," was Doucebelle'scontribution. "I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish Iknew 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 worsepain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying."
"Dying!" shrieked the unhappy mother. "Dying, Father Bruno! You said_dying_!"
"Too true, my Lady."
"But what can I do? How am I to stop it?"
"Ah!" said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. "There is a `Talitha Cumi'from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He hascalled her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only tooplain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility ofdisobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead tolife."
"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 doour 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 ofPurgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give everypenny and every jewel that I have!"
"Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His handswithout whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better thanyou."
"Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!"
"He has died for her," answered Bruno, softly. "And He is the Amen, theLiving One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. Shecannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the headof 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 strongsheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, throughthe 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 forme!"
"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 hersalvation?"
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One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abrahamof Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civilenough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on thisoccasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly notintended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it.Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination toquarrel 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 hefolded her in his arms and blessed her. "Ah, there is not much lightfor the old pedlar's eyes now!"
"Dost thou miss me, my father?"
"Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gonedown, 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, untilDelecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, andcursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelvetribes 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 thesitten [Note 1] porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can'teat 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 theporridge for thee."
"Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldstscarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before,she hates them tenfold now.--Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Ladylacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blueCyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs aswell."
"I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have littledoubt she will buy."
"How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave toabandon his vows?"
"He hopes to receive it in a few days."
"Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows werealways terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if othermen were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washedourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the streetwhenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a sidelane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. Inever knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came fromSatan." [Note 2.]
"Well, we all wash ourselves here," said Beatrice, laughing, "unless itbe Fath
er Warner; I will not answer for him."
"This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes andcrookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!--"
Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.
"Is Cress come with thee, my father?"
"No--not _here_," answered the old Jew, emphatically. "And he nevercan."
"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 thebody. 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 thedamsel'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 avowalfrom 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 notknow it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as wepassed through the hall,--yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed hima grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached toMargaret."
"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 hepieced 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 inIsrael, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him."
"All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think allGentiles fair prey."
"What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady hadbeen kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head sheloved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made ourbond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I mightfree her without an instant's suspense."
"Yes, my father, _thou_ wouldst," answered Beatrice, affectionately."But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of ournation do."
"Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove'sheart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, morethan thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hatedwhat she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?"
Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she lookedup and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordialnow. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits ofLicorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression cameinto his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse.
"Keep it quiet, my father," he said. "The Lord will repay. May it benot in justice, but with His mercy!"
Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchasesmade of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walkedwith 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 notAzrael [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 heareththe prayers of the righteous."
"Canst thou account a Jew righteous?--one who believes not in thyMessiah?"
"I am not so sure of that," said Bruno, his eyes meeting those ofAbraham in full. "I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, butthou 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 theexact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him byasking 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; andMargaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart.
"I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you wouldunderstand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; Iam 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 asmine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I donot think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If Ionly knew where it is that I am going!"
"Let the where alone," answered Bruno. "Daughter, to whom art thougoing? 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 theLord 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 asthine earthly love?"
"No." The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was nohesitation 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 thylife?"
"Father," said the low, sad voice, "I am afraid you are right. I do notknow 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 wertbrought 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 theeearly into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold."
"Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, if _he_ werenot there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest andsilence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have inHeaven,--Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I wouldrather stay on earth--where Richard is."
"Poor child!" said Bruno half involuntarily. "My daughter, it is verynatural. It must be so. `Where is thy treasure, there is also thineheart.'"
"And," the low voice went on, "if I could know that he had given overloving me, I fancy it would be easier to go."
Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channelthan 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 notRichard!"
"Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to sufferthine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying tothee 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 isbut that one thing for me in all the world."
Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he hadsupposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it wasrebellious. She was hardening herself against God.
"No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peacebetween the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret deBurgh. 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 andalarm.
"Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditionalsubmission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst faindictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into Histerms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even forthee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thineheart. Listen to His voice,--`It is hard _for thee_ to kick against thepricks.' It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thineallegiance."
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 uponthe garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord--I will ask Himalso--to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost."
"How many Paters?" said the girl in a weary tone. "One will do, mydaughter, 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 Thoumayest give it life.'"
She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating alesson. "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 forsalvation. He wants it more than thou."
"He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wantsthee. 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 besidethee."
"I did not think I was that to any one--except my parents and--andRichard."
"Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the LordJesus."
The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.
"Well!" she said, with a dreary sigh. "It may be so. But I cannot careabout it."
Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret.
"Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she maylive! 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 aftervespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached atall, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. FatherWarner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both wereconcerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. FatherNicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues--drearyclassical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a GoodFriday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion.
But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topicfrom any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a muchmore interesting sound than Father Nicholas's drowsy monotone, or FatherWarner's dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; noone could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant haddied away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had givendue notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice inparticular) was prepared to listen to him.
The text itself--to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture--wasrather a startling one.
"`O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow likeunto 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 herown heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.
Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even havethought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words.From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome havebeen enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay,blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmlyarrogated to herself--without even offering proof of it--that right tothe promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs ina higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to theliteral and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: forin her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies thelower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any nationalrestoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be trueor false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome.
With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become socustomary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its originalapplication to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten.
But here, Bruno's Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. Hedelighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of thepassage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable tothe Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been anothersorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared--towhich no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for amoment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours'darkness that might be felt--of that "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani" intowhich was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since thebeginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight intothe heart's depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each oneof those hearts, "This was your doing!" He told them that for every sinof every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: andthat if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was notChrist's fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper forevery pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were notthere, it would be because he had refused the invitation.
Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked thatevery man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow liketo his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only tobe had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bearthe weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins andsorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear anysorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, "_My_ will bedone," he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him."Not my will, but Thine," must always precede the sending of thestrengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent griefto them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him nopleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children ofmen. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health:and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at theright time.
"And now," said Bruno at last, "ye into whose hands the Great Physicianhath 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?' Forthe end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, onlybecause 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; itwill work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving onyour lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will isbetter than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no mancan know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spareyou? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbedfrom lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.
"And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. `Death there shall be nomore, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more.' [Note3.] 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 Hubertthought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preachan excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a differentsubject: it w
as so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man hadbeen wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just whatwas proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva wasastonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuffas that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; shehad enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, anddreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons.
There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too fullfor speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. Onthat lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, andhad said, "Live!"
Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew thatHis best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her awayfrom the evil to come.
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Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish totaste twice.
Note 2. "These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to asaint's filthiness--Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience,that the devils... were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seducethe wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls arein the dirtiest bodies... Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectlypious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this speciesof mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose BrotherJuniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were atthe due point."--Disraeli's _Curiosities of Literature_, Volume One,page 92.
Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course takenfrom the Vulgate, except those made by Jews.