"I do, Mother. And I mean to go with my father."

"Go, then—like to like!—and all the angels of Satan go with thee!"

And the broom came flying after Belasez.

"Nay, wife, give the child her raiment and jewels."

"I'll give her what belongs to her, and that's a hot iron, if she does not get out of that door this minute!"

"Wife!"

"I'll spoil her pretty face for her!" shrieked Licorice. "I never liked the vain chit overmuch, nor Anegay neither: but if she does not go, I'll give her something she won't forget in a hurry!"

"Come, my Beatrice,—quick!" said Bruno.

"Go, go, my Belasez, and God keep thee!" sobbed Abraham.

And so Belasez was driven away from her old home. She had hardly expected it. It had always been a trouble to her, and a cause of self-reproach, that she and Licorice did not love each other better: and she was not able to repress a sensation of satisfaction in making the discovery that Licorice was not her mother. Yet Belasez had not looked for this.

"What are we to do, Father?" she asked rather blankly.

"I must lodge thee with the Sisters of Saint Clare, my child; there is nothing else to be done. I will come and fetch thee away so soon as my arrangements can be made."

Beatrice,—as we must henceforth call her,—did not fancy this arrangement at all. Bruno detected as much in her face.

"Thou dost not like it, my dove?"

"I do not like being with strangers," she said frankly. "And I am afraid the nuns will think me a variety of heathen, for I cannot do all they will want me."

"They will not, if I tell the Abbess that thou art a new convert," said Bruno. "They may very likely attempt to instruct thee."

"Father, why should there be any nuns?"

Beatrice did not know how she astonished Bruno. But he only smiled.

"Thine eyes are unaccustomed to the light," was all he answered.

"But, Father, among our people of old,—I mean," said Beatrice hesitatingly, "my mother's people—"

"Go on, my Beatrice. Let it be 'our people.' Speak as it is nature to thee to do."

"Thank you, my father. Among our people, there were no nuns. So far from it, that for a woman to remain unwed was considered a reproach."

"Why?—dost thou know?"

"I think, because every woman longed for the glory of being the mother of the Messiah."

"True. Therefore, Christ being come, that reproach is done away. Let each woman choose for herself. 'If a virgin marry, she hath not sinned.' Nevertheless, 'she that is unmarried thinks of the things of the Lord, that she may be holy, body and soul.'"

"Father, do you wish me to be a nun?"

"Never!" hastily answered Bruno. "Nay, my Beatrice; I should not have said that. Be thou what the Lord thinks best to make thee. But I do not want to be left alone again."

Beatrice's heart was set at rest. She had terribly feared for a moment lest Bruno, being himself a monk, might think her absolutely bound to be a nun.

They soon reached the Franciscan Convent. The Abbess, a rather stiffly-mannered, grey-haired woman, received her young guest with sedate kindliness, and committed her to the special charge of Sister Eularia. This was a young woman of about twenty-five, in whose mind curiosity was strongly developed. She took Beatrice up to the dormitory, showed her where she was to sleep, and gave her a seat on the form beside her at supper, which was almost immediately served. Beatrice noticed that whenever Eularia helped herself to any thing edible, she made the sign of the cross over it.

"Why dost thou do that?" asked the young Jewess.

"It is according to our rule," replied the nun. "Surely thou knowest how to cross thyself?"

"Indeed I do not. And I do not see why I should."

"Poor thing!—how sadly thou lackest teaching! Dost thou not know that our Lord Christ suffered on the cross?"

"Oh yes! But why must I cross myself on that account?"

"In respect to Him!" exclaimed Eularia.

"Pardon me. If one whom I loved were slain by the sword, I should not courtesy to every sword I saw, because I loved him. I should hate the very sight of one."

Eularia was scarcely less puzzled than Beatrice.

"It is the symbol of our salvation," she said.

"I should look on it rather as the symbol of His suffering."

"True: but He suffered for us."

"For which reason I should still less admire that which made Him suffer."

Eularia shrugged her shoulders.

"Thou art very ignorant."

The discussion slumbered until they rose from supper; when Eularia seated Beatrice beside her on the settle, and offered to instruct her in the use of the rosary.

"What a pretty necklace! I thought nuns did not wear ornaments?"

"Ornaments! Of course not."

"Then what do you do with that?"

"We pray by it."

"Pray—by—it! I do not understand."

"We keep count of our prayers."

"Count!—why?"

"Why, how could we remember them else?"

"But why should you remember?"

"Poor ignorant child! When thou comest to make confession, thou wilt find that the priest will set thee for penance, so many Aves and so many Paternosters."

"What are those?"

"Dost thou never pray?" gasped Eularia.

"I never say so many of one thing, and so many of another," answered Beatrice, half laughing. "I never heard anything so absurd. The holy prophets did not pray in that way."

"Of course they did!" exclaimed Eularia. "How could they obtain help of our Lady, without repeating Ave and Salve?"

"How could they, indeed, before she was born?" was the retort.

"Oh dear, dear!" said Eularia. "Why, thou knowest nothing."

Beatrice privately thought that she would prefer not to know all that rubbish. Plenty of it was served up to her before she left the convent, by the holy Sisters of Saint Clare.

It was nearly three weeks before Bruno came for her, and very weary of her hosts she was. They were no less astonished and dismayed by her. The ignorant heathen would not worship the holy images, would not use holy water, would not kneel before the holy Sacrament, would not do this, that, and the other: and, not content with this series of negations, she actually presumed to reason about them!

"What dost thou believe?" despairingly demanded Sister Eularia at last.

"I believe in God," said Beatrice gravely. "And I believe that Jesus of Nazareth was the Sent of God."

"And in the Holy Ghost?" asked Eularia.

"If I understand you, certainly. Is it not written, 'The Spirit of God hath made me'?"

"And in holy Church?"

"I do not know. What is it?"

"How shocking! And in the forgiveness of sins?"

"Assuredly."

"And in the resurrection and eternal life?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And in the invocation of the holy saints?"

"I believe that there have been holy men and women."

"And dost thou invoke them?"

"Do you mean, pray to them?"

"Dost thou beg of them to intercede for thee?"

"No, indeed, not I!"

"Did I ever see such ignorance! And thou wilt not learn."

"I will learn of my father, and no one else. I am sure he does not believe half the rubbish you do."

"Sancta Hilaria, or a pro nobis!"

"What language is that?" innocently asked Beatrice.

"The holy tongue, of course."

"It is not our holy tongue."

"Have Jews a holy tongue?" responded Eularia, in surprise.

"Yes, indeed,—Hebrew."

"I did not know they believed any thing to be holy. Have they any relics?"

"I do not know what those are."

Eularia led the way to the sacristy.

"Look here," she said, reverently opening a golden reliquary set with rubies. "Here is a small piece of the holy veil of our foundress, Saint Clare. This is the finger-bone of the blessed Evangelist Matthew. Here is a piece of the hoof of the holy ass on which our Lord rode. Now thou knowest what relics are."

"But what can make you keep such things as those?" asked Beatrice, opening wide her lustrous eyes.

"And this," enthusiastically added Eularia, opening another reliquary set with emeralds and pearls, "is our most precious relic,—one of the small feathers from the wing of the holy angel, Saint Gabriel."

To the intense horror of Eularia, a silver laugh of unmistakable amusement greeted this holy relic.

"Beatrice! hast thou no reverence?"

"Not for angels' feathers," answered Beatrice, still laughing. "Well, I did think you had more sense!"

"I can assure thee, thou wilt shock Father Bruno if thou allowest thyself to commit such improprieties."

"I shall shock him, then. How excessively absurd!"

Eularia took her unpromising pupil out of the sacristy more hastily than she had led her in. And perhaps it was as well for Beatrice that Father Bruno arrived the next day.

They reached Bury Castle in safety. The Countess had been very much interested in Father Bruno's story, and most readily acceded to his request to leave Beatrice as her visitor until he should have a home to which he could take her. And Beatrice de Malpas, the daughter of a baronial house in Cheshire, was a very different person in the estimation of a Christian noble from Belasez, daughter of the Jew pedlar.

Rather to her surprise, she found herself seated above the salt, that is, treated as a lady of rank: and the embargo being over which had confined her to Margaret's apartments, she took her place at the Earl's table in the banquet-hall. Earl Hubert's quick eyes soon found out the addition to his supper-party, and he condescended to remark that she was extremely pretty, and quite an ornament to the hall. Beatrice herself was much pleased to find her old friend Doucebelle seated next to her, and they soon began to converse on recent events.

It is a curious fact as concerns human nature, that however long friends may have been parted, their conversation nearly always turns on what has happened just before they met again. They do not speak of what delighted or agonised them ten years ago, though the effect may have extended to the whole of their subsequent lives. They talk of last week's journey, or of yesterday's snow-storm.

Beatrice fully expected Doucebelle's sympathy on the subject of relics, and she was disappointed to find it not forthcoming. Doucebelle was rather inclined to be shocked than amused. The angel's feather, in her eyes, was provocative of any thing rather than ridicule: and Beatrice, who had anticipated her taking the common-sense view of the matter, felt chilled by the result.

Life had fallen back into its old grooves at Bury Castle. Grief, with the Countess, was usually a passionate, but also a transitory feeling. Her extremely easy temper led her to get rid of a sorrow as soon as ever she could. Pain, whether mental or bodily, was in her eyes not a necessary discipline, but an unpleasant disturbance of the proper order of events. In fact, she was one of those persons who are always popular by reason of their gracious affability, but in whom, below the fair flow of sweet waters, there is a strong substratum of stony selfishness. She objected to people being in distress, not because it hurt them, but because it hurt her to see them. And the difference between the two, though it may scarcely show at times on the surface, lies in an entire and essential variety of the strata underneath.

It was only natural that, with this character, the Countess should expect others to be as little impressed by suffering as herself. She really had no conception of a disposition to which sorrow was not an easily-healed scratch, but a scar that would be carried to the grave. In her eyes, the calamity which had happened to her daughter was a disappointment, undoubtedly, but one which she would find no difficulty in surmounting at all. There were plenty of other men in the world, quite as handsome, as amiable, as rich, and as noble, as Richard de Clare. If such a grief had happened to herself, she would have wept incessantly for a week, been low-spirited for a month, and in a year would have been wreathed with smiles, and arranging her trousseau for a wedding with another bridegroom. The only thing which could really have distressed her long, would have been if the vacant place in her life had not been refilled.

But Margaret's character was of a deeper type. For her the world held no other man, and life's blossom once blighted, no second crop of happiness could grow, at least on the same tree. To such a character as this, the only possibility of throwing out fresh bloom is when the tree is grafted by the great Husbandman with amaranth from Heaven.

Yet it was not in Margaret's nature—it would have been in her mother's—to say much of what she felt. Outwardly, she showed no difference, except that her coeur leger was gone, never to return. She did not shut herself up and refuse to join in the employments or amusements of those around her. And the majority of those around never suspected that the work and the amusement alike had no interest for her, nor would ever have any: that she "could never think as she had thought, or be as she had been, again."

One person only perceived the truth, and that was because he was cast in a like mould. Bruno saw too plainly that the hope expressed by the Countess that "Magot was getting nicely over her disappointment" was not true,—never would be true. In his case the amaranth had been grafted in, and the plant was blossoming again. But there was no such hope for her, at least as yet.

Beatrice was unable to enter into Margaret's feelings, not so much through want of capacity as of experience. Eva was equally unable, being naturally at once of a more selfish and a less concentrated disposition: her mind would have been more easily drawn from her sorrow,—an important item of the healing process. Doucebelle came nearest; but as she was the most selfless of all, her grief in like case would have been rather for the sufferings of Richard than for her own.

Beatrice soon carried the relic question to her father for decision; though with some trepidation as to what he would say. If he should not agree with her, she would be sorely disappointed. Bruno's smile half reassured her.

"So thou canst not believe in the genuineness of these relics?" said he. "Well, my child, so that thou hast full faith in Christ and His salvation, I cannot think it much matters whether thou believest a certain piece of stuff to be the veil of Saint Clare or not. Neither Saint Clare nor her veil is concerned in thine eternal safety."

"But Doucebelle seems almost shocked. She does believe in them."

"Perhaps it will not harm her—with the like proviso."

"But, Father!—the honour in which they hold these rags and bones seems to me like idolatry!"

"Then be careful thou commit it not."

"But you do not worship such things?"

"Dear child, I find too much in Christ and in this perishing world, to have much time to think of them."

Beatrice was only half satisfied. She would have felt more contented had Bruno warmly disclaimed the charge. It was at the cost of some distress that she realised that what were serious essentials to her were comparatively trivial matters to him. The wafts of polluted air were only too patent to her, which were lost in the purer atmosphere, at the altitude where Bruno stood.

The girls were gathered together one afternoon in the ante-chamber of Margaret's apartments, and Bruno, who had come up to speak to his daughter, was with them. Except in special cases, no chamber of any house was sacred from a priest. Eva was busy spinning, but it would be more accurate to say that Marie, who was supposed to be spinning also, was engaged in breaking threads. Margaret was employed on tapestry-work; Doucebelle in plain sewing; and Beatrice with her delicate embroidery.

"Father," said Beatrice, looking up suddenly, "I was taught that it was sin to make images of created things, on account of the words of the second commandment. What do you say?"

"'Non fades tibi sculptile, neque omnem similitudinem,'" murmured Bruno, reflectively. "I think, my child, that it depends very much on the meaning of 'tibi' Ah, I see in thy face thou hast learned no Latin. 'Thou shalt not make to thee any sculptured image.' Then a sculptured image may be made otherwise. The latter half of the commandment, I think, shows what is meant. 'Non adorabis ea, neque coles'—'thou shalt not worship them.' At the same time, Saint Paul saith, 'Omne autem, quod non est ex fide, peccatum est'—'all that is not of faith is sin;' and 'nisi ei qui existimat quid commune esse, illi commune est': namely, 'to him who esteemeth a thing unclean, to him it is unclean.' If thou really believest it sin, by no means allow thyself to do it."

"But, Father, suppose we cannot be sure?" said Doucebelle.

"Thou needst not fear that thou wilt ever walk too close to Christ, daughter," quietly answered Bruno.

"But, Father I are we bound to give up all that can possibly be sin, or even can become sin?" asked Eva, in a tone which decidedly indicated dissent.

"I should like to hear thy objection, daughter."

"Why, we should have to give up every thing nice!" said Eva, disconsolately. "There are all sorts of delightful things, which are not exactly sins, but—"

"Not quite virtues," interposed Beatrice, with an amused expression, as Eva paused.

"Well, no. Still they are not wrong—in themselves. But they make one waste one's time, or forget to say one's beads, or be cross to one's sister,—just because they are so delightful, and one does not want to give over. And being cross is sin, I suppose; and so it is when one forgets to say one's prayers: I don't know whether wasting time is exactly a sin."

"I see," said Bruno, in the same quiet tone. "Had our Lord sent thee to clear His Temple of the profane who desecrated it by traffic, thou wouldst have overthrown the tables of the money-changers, but not the seats of them that sold doves."

Beatrice and Doucebelle answered by a smile of intelligence; Eva looked rather dissatisfied.

"But it is not a sin to be happy, Father?" asked Margaret in a low voice.

"Not if God give thee the happiness."

"That is just it!" said Eva, discontentedly. "How is one to know?"

"My child," answered Bruno, ignoring the tone, "God never means His children to put any thing into the place of Himself. The moment thou dost that, that thing is sin to thee."

"But when do we do that, Father?" asked Doucebelle.

"When it makes thee forget to say thy prayers, I should think," drily observed Beatrice.

"When it comes in the way between Him and thee," said Bruno.

"And is it a sin to waste time, Father?" queried Eva.

"It is a sin to waste any thing," answered Bruno. "But if it be more a sin to waste one thing than another, surely it is to waste life itself."

He rose and went away. Eva shrugged her shoulders with a wry face.

"There never was any body so precise as Father Bruno! I would rather ask questions of Father Nicholas, ten times over."

"Well, I don't like asking questions of Father Nicholas," responded Doucebelle, "because he never answers them. He never goes down to the bottom of things."

"Ha, chetife!" cried Eva. "Dost thou want to get to the bottom of things? That is just why I like Father Nicholas, because he never bothers one with reasons and distinctions. It is only, 'Yes, thou mayest do so,' or 'No, do not do that,'—and then I am satisfied. Now, Father Bruno will persist in explaining why I am not to do it, and that sometimes makes me want to do it all the more. It seems to leave it in one's own hands."

Beatrice broke into a laugh. "Why, Eva, thou wouldst rather be a chair to be moved about, than a woman to be able to go at pleasure."

"I would rather have a distinct order," said Eva, a little scornfully. "'Do,' or 'Don't,' I can understand. But, 'Saint Paul says this,' or 'Saint John says that,' and to have to make up one's own mind,—I detest it."

"And I should detest the opposite."

"I am afraid, Beatrice, thou art greatly wanting in the virtue of holy obedience. But of course one can make allowances for thine unhappy education."

Eva had occasion to leave the room at the conclusion of this unflattering speech: and Beatrice indulged in a long laugh.

"Well, what I am afraid of," she said to Margaret and Doucebelle, "is that Eva is rather wanting in the virtue of common-sense. But whether I am to lay that on her education, I do not know."

There was no answer: but the thoughts of the hearers were almost opposites. Margaret considered Beatrice rash and self-satisfied. Doucebelle thought heartily with her, and only wished that she had as much courage to say so.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

WHAT IS LOVE?

"She only said, 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said: She said, 'I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!'"

Tennyson.

It was fortunate for Bruno de Malpas that he had a friend in Bishop Grosteste, whose large heart and clear brain were readily interested in his wish to return from regular to secular orders. He smoothed the path considerably, and promised him a benefice in his diocese if the dispensation could be obtained. But the last was a lengthy process, and some months passed away before the answer could be received from Rome.

It greatly scandalised Hawise and Eva—for different reasons—to see how very little progress was made by Beatrice in that which in their eyes was the Christian religion. It was a comfort to them to reflect that she had been baptised as an infant, and therefore in the event of sudden death had a chance of going to Heaven, instead of the dreadful certainty of being shut up in Limbo,—a place of vague locality and vaguer character, being neither pleasant nor painful, but inhabited by all the hapless innocents whose heathen or careless Christian parents suffered them to die unregenerated. But both of them were sorely shocked to discover, when she had been about two months at Bury, that poor Beatrice was still ignorant of the five commandments of the Church. Nor was this all: she irreverently persisted in her old inquiry of "What is the Church?" and sturdily demanded what right the Church had to give commandments.

Hawise was quite distressed. It was not proper,—a phrase which, with her, was the strongest denunciation that could be uttered. Nobody had ever asked such questions before: ergo, they ought never to be asked. Every sane person knew perfectly well what the Church was (though, when gently urged by Beatrice, Hawise backed out of any definition), and no good Catholic could possibly require telling. And as to so shocking a supposition as that the Church had no right to issue her own commands,— well, it was not proper!

Eva's objection was quite as strong, but of a different sort. She really could not understand what Beatrice wanted. If the priest—or the Church—they were very much the same thing—told her what to do, could she not rest and be thankful? It was a great deal less trouble than everlastingly thinking for one's self.

"No one of any note ever thinks for himself," chimed in Hawise.

"Then I am glad I am not of any note!" bluntly responded Beatrice.

"You a De Malpas! I am quite shocked!" said Hawise.

"God made me with a heart and a conscience," was the answer. "If He had not meant me to use them, He would not have given them to me."

At that point Beatrice left the room in answer to a call from the Countess; and Hawise, turning to her companions, remarked in a whisper that it must be that dreadful Jewish blood on the mother's side which had given her such very improper notions. They were so low! "For my part," she added, "if it were proper to say so, I should remark that I cannot imagine why Father Bruno does not see that she understands something of Christianity—but of course one must not criticise a priest."

"Speak truth, my daughter," said a voice from the doorway which rather disconcerted Hawise. "Thou canst not understand my actions—in what respect?"

"I humbly crave your pardon, Father; but I am really distressed about Beatrice."

"Indeed!—how so?"

"She understands nothing about Christian duties."

"I hope that is a little more than truth. But if not,—let her understand Christ first, my child: Christian duties will come after."

"Forgive me, Father—without teaching?"

"Not without His teaching," said Bruno, gravely. "Without mine, it may be."

"But, Father, she does not know the five commandments of holy Church. Nay, she asks what 'the Church' means."

"If she be in the Church, she can wait to know it. Thy garments will not keep thee less warm because thou hast never learned how to weave them."

Hawise did not reply, but she looked unconvinced.

A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she had been so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex of feminine ambition.

"I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe."

Margaret sighed.

"Dost thou like him?" asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, which was sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into asking direct questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate to leave unasked.

Eva blushed and simpered.

"I'll tell thee, Beatrice," said little Marie, dancing up. "She's over head and ears in love—so much over head,"—and Marie's hand went as high as it would go above her own: "but it's my belief she has tumbled in on the wrong side."

"'The wrong side'!" answered Beatrice, laughing. "The wrong side of love? or the wrong side of Eva?"

"The wrong side of Eva," responded Marie, with a positive little nod. "As to love, I'm not quite sure that she knows much about it: for I don't believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares for being married. That's the grand thing with her, so far as I can make out. And that's not my notion of love."

"Thou silly little child of twelve, what dost thou know about it?" contemptuously demanded Eva. "Thy time is not come."

"No, and I hope it won't," said Marie, "if I'm to make such a goose of myself over it as thou dost."

"Marie, Marie!"

"It's true, Margaret!—Now, Beatrice, dost thou not think so? She makes a regular misery of it. There is no living with her for a day or two before he comes to see her. She never gives him a minute's peace when he is here; and if he looks at somebody else, she goes as black as a thunder-cloud. If he's half an hour late, she's quite sure he is visiting some other gentlewoman, whom he loves better than he loves her. She's for ever making little bits of misery out of nothing. If he were to call her 'honey-sweet Eva' to-day, and only 'sweet Eva' to-morrow, she would be positive there was some shocking reason for it, instead of, like a sensible girl, never thinking about it in that way at all."

Beatrice and Doucebelle were both laughing, and even Margaret joined in a little.

"Of course," said Marie by way of postscript, "if Sir William had been badly hurt in a tournament, or anything of that sort, I could understand her worrying about it: or if he had told her that he did not love her, I could understand that: but she worries for nothing at all! If he does not tell her that he loves her every time he comes, she fancies he doesn't."

"Marie, don't be so silly!"

"Thanks, I'll try not," said Marie keenly. "And she calls that love! What dost thou think, Beatrice?"

"Why, I think it does not sound much like it, Marie—in thy description."

"Why, what notion of love hast thou?" said Eva scornfully. "I have not forgotten how thou wert wont to talk of thy betrothed."

"But I never professed to love Leo," said Beatrice, looking up. "How could I, when I had not seen him?"

"Dost thou want to see, in order to love?" sentimentally inquired Eva.

"No," answered Beatrice, thoughtfully. "But I want to know. I might easily love some one whom I had not seen with my eyes, if he were always sending me messages and doing kind actions for me: but I could not love somebody who was to me a mere name, and nothing more."

"It is plain thou hast no sensitiveness, Beatrice."

"I'd rather have sense,—wouldn't you?" said little Marie.

"As if one could not have both!" sneered Eva.

"Well, if one could, I should have thought thou wouldst," retorted Marie.

"Well! I don't understand you!" said Eva. "I cannot care to be loved with less than the whole heart. I should not thank you for just the love that you can spare from other people."

"But should not one have some to spare for other people?" suggested Marie.

"That sounds as if one's heart were a box," said Beatrice, "that would hold so much and no more. Is it not more like a fountain, that can give out perpetually and always have fresh supplies within?"

"Yes, for the beloved one," replied Eva, warmly.

"For all," answered Beatrice. "That is a narrow heart which will hold but one person."

"Well, I would rather be loved with the whole of a narrow heart than with a piece of a broad one."

"O Eva!"

"What dost thou mean, Doucebelle?" said Eva, sharply, turning on her new assailant. "Indeed I would! The man who loves me must love me supremely—must care for nothing but me: must find his sweetest reward for every thing in my smile, and his bitterest pain in my displeasure. That is what I call love."

"Well! I should call that something else—if Margaret wouldn't scold," murmured Marie in an undertone.

"What is that, Marie?" asked Margaret, with a smile.

"Self-conceit; and plenty of it," said the child.

"Ask Father Bruno what he thinks, Beatrice," suggested Margaret, after a gentle "Hush!" to the somewhat too plain-spoken Marie. "Thou canst do it, but it would not come so well from us."

"Dost thou mean to say I am conceited, little piece of impertinence?" inquired Eva, in no dulcet tones.

"Well, I thought thou saidst it thyself," was the response, for which Marie got chased round the room with the wooden side of an embroidery frame, and, being lithe as a monkey, escaped by flying to the Countess's rooms, which communicated with those of her daughter by a private staircase.

Father Bruno came up, as he often did, the same evening: but before Beatrice had time to consult him, the small Countess of Eu appeared from nowhere in particular, and put the crucial question in its crudest form.

"Please, Father Bruno, what is love?"

"Dost thou want telling?" inquired Bruno with evident amusement.

"Please, we all want telling, because we can't agree."

Bruno very rarely laughed, but he did now.

"Then, if you cannot agree, you certainly do need it. I should rather like to hear the various opinions."

"Oh! Eva says—" began the child eagerly; but Bruno's hand, laid gently on her head, stopped her.

"Wait, my child. Let each speak for herself."

There was silence for a moment, for no one liked to begin—except Marie, whom decorum alone kept silent.

"What didst thou say, Eva?"

"I believe I said, good Father, that I cared not for the love of any that did not hold me first and best. Nor do I."

"'Love seeketh not her own,'" said Bruno. "That which seeks its own is not love."

"What is it, Father?" modestly asked Doucebelle.

"It is self-love, my daughter; the worst enemy that can be to the true love of God and man. Real love is unselfish, unexacting, and immortal."

"But love can die, surely!"

"Saint Paul says the contrary, my daughter."

"It can kill, I suppose," said Margaret, in a low tone.

"Yes, the weak," replied Bruno.

"But, Father, was the holy Apostle not speaking of religious love?" suggested Eva, trying to find a loophole.

"What is the alternative,—irreligious love? I do not know of such a thing, my daughter."

"But there is a wicked sort of love."

"Certainly not. There are wicked passions. But love can never be wicked, because God is love."

"But people can love wickedly?" asked Eva, looking puzzled.

"I fail to see how any one can love wickedly. Self-love is always wicked."

"Then, Father, if it be wicked, you call it self-love?" said Eva, leaping (very cleverly, as she thought) to a conclusion.

"Scarcely," said Bruno, with a quiet smile. "Say rather, my daughter, that if it be self-love, I call it wicked."

The perplexed expression returned to Eva's face.

"My child, what is love?"

"Why, Father, that is just what we want to know," said Marie.

But Bruno waited for Eva's answer.

"I suppose," she said nervously, "it means liking a person, and wishing for his company, and wanting him to love one."

"And I suppose that it is caring for him so much that thou wouldst count nothing too great a sacrifice, to attain his highest good. That is how God loved us, my children."

Eva thought this extremely poor and tame, beside her own lovely ideal.

"Then," said Marie, "if I love Margaret, I shall want her to be happy. I shall not want her to make me happy, unless it would make her so."

"Right, my child," said Bruno, with a smile of approbation. "To do otherwise would be loving Marie, not Margaret."

"But, Father!" exclaimed Eva. "Do you mean to say that if my betrothed prefers to go hawking rather than sit with me, if I love him I shall wish him to leave me?"

"Whom wouldst thou be loving, if not?"

"I could not wish him to go and leave me!"

"My child, there is a divine self-abnegation to which very few attain. But those few come nearest to the imitation of Him who 'pleased not Himself,' and I think—God knoweth—often they are the happiest. Let us all ask God for grace to reach it. 'This is My commandment, that ye have love one to another.'"

And, as was generally the case when he had said all he thought necessary at the moment, Bruno rose, and with a benediction quitted the room.

"Call that loving!" said Eva, contemptuously, when he was gone. "Poor tame stuff! I should not thank you for it."

"Well, I should," said Doucebelle, quietly.

"Oh, thou!" was Eva's answer, in the same tone. "Why, thou hast no heart to begin with."

Doucebelle silently doubted that statement.

"O Eva, for shame!" said Marie. "Doucebelle always does what every body wants her, unless she thinks it is wrong."

"Thou dost not call that love, I hope?"

"I think it is quite as like it as wishing people to do what they don't want, to please you," said Marie, sturdily.

"I don't believe one of you knows any thing about it," loftily returned Eva. "If I had been Margaret, now, I could not have sat quietly to that broidery. I could not have borne it!"

Margaret looked up quickly, changed colour, and with a slight compression of her lower lip, went back to her work in silence.

"But what wouldst thou have done, Eva?" demanded the practical little Marie. "Wouldst thou have stared out of the window all day long?"

"No!" returned Eva with fervent emphasis. "I should have wept my life away. But Margaret is not like me. She can get interested in work and other things, and forget a hapless love, and outlive it. It would kill me in a month."

Margaret rose very quietly, put her frame by in the corner, and left the room. Beatrice, who had been silent for some time, looked up then with expressive eyes.

"It is killing her, Eva. My father told me so a week since. He says he is quite sure that the Countess is mistaken in fancying that she is getting over it."

"She! She is as strong as a horse. And I don't think she ever felt it much! Not as I should have done. I should have taken the veil that very day. Earth would have been a dreary waste to me from that instant. I could not have borne to see a man again. However many years I might have lived, no sound but the Miserere—"

"But, Eva! I thought thou wert going to die in a month."

"It is very rude to interrupt, Marie. No sound but the Miserere would ever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should any raiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blighted heart!"

"I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth," put in the irrepressible little Lady of Eu.

"But what good would all that do, Eva?"

"Good, Beatrice! What canst thou mean? I tell thee, I could not have borne any thing else."

"I don't believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever such a fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck and rubbed it, and Levina ran a ribbon down to keep it off thee."

"Don't be impertinent, Marie. Of course, in such a case as that, I could not think of mere inconveniences."

"Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, I would try to make less fuss over them when I was happy."

"I am not happy, foolish child."

"Why, what's the matter? Did Sir William look at thee only twenty-nine times, instead of thirty, when he was here?"

"Thou art the silliest maiden of whom any one ever heard!"

"No, Eva; her match might be found, I think," said Beatrice.

Marie went off into convulsions of laughter, and flung herself on the rushes to enjoy it with more freedom.

"I wonder which of you two is the funnier!" said she.

"What on earth is there comical about me?" exclaimed Eva, the more put out because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie's amusement.

"It is of no use to tell thee, Eva," replied Beatrice; "thou wouldst not be able to see it."

"Can't I see any thing you can?" demanded Eva, irritably.

"Why, no!" said Marie, with a fresh burst: "canst thou see thine own face?"

"What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!"

"No, Eva," said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased by Marie's witticism: "the child is any thing but silly."

"Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you any more," retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she was answered only by a third explosion from Marie.

Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startled to find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden in the coverlet, and her sunny cedar hair flowing over it in disorder.

"Why, what—Magot! my darling Magot! what aileth thee, my white dove?"

Margaret lifted her head when her mother spoke. She had not been shedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan and woeful if she had done so.

"Pardon me, Lady! I came here to be alone."

The Countess sat down in the low curule chair beside her bed, and drew her daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on her mother's knee, and cowered down again at her feet.

"And what made thee wish to be alone, my rosebud?"

"Something that somebody said."

"Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?"

"No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of the sort. But—things sting—when people do not mean it."

The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood the explanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this she understood and felt full sympathy with—that her one cherished darling was in trouble.

"Who was it, Magot?"

"Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. And nobody intended to hurt me."

"What did she say?"

"She said,"—something like a sob came here—"that I was one who could settle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lost love. But, she said, it would kill her in a month."

"Well, darling? I began to hope that was true."

"No," came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial like that of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. "No. O Mother, no!"

"And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?"

"I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say—dying."

"Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!"

"It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do not think it will be over in a month."

The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking the soft hair.

"Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with."

"When what is done with?" asked the Countess, in a husky tone.

"Living," said the girl. "This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may lie down to sleep and not wake to-morrow,—I feel as if that were the only thing which would ever make me glad any more."

"My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?"

"I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But I cannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scent any more. It is not me,—me, your Margaret—that works, and talks, and does all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite so fast as my soul. My heart is dead already."

"My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I really hoped thou wert getting over it."

"It is of no use trying to keep me," she answered quietly. "You had better let me go—Mother."

The Countess's reply was to clap her hands—at that time the usual method of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, instead of bidding her enter, her mistress spoke through it.

"Tell Master Aristoteles that I would speak with him in this chamber."

The mother and daughter were both very still until the shuffling of the physician's slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countess roused herself and answered the appeal with "Come in."

"My Lady desired my attendance?"

"I did, Master. I would fain have you examine this child. She has a strange fancy, which I should like to have uprooted from her mind. She imagines that she is going to die."

"A strange fancy indeed, if it please my Lady. I see no sign of disease at all about the damsel. A little weakness, and low spirits,—no real complaint whatever. She might with some advantage wear the fleminum [Note 1],—the blood seems a little too much in the head: and warm fomentations would help to restore her strength. Almond blossoms, pounded with pearl, might also do something. But, if it please my Lady—let my Lady speak."

"I was only going to ask, Master, whether viper broth would be good for her?"

"A most excellent suggestion, my Lady. But, I was about to remark, the physician of Saint Albans hath given me a most precious thing, which would infallibly restore the damsel, even if she were at the gates of death. Three hairs of the beard of the blessed Dominic [Note 2], whom our holy Father hath but now canonised. If the damsel were to take one of these, fasting, in holy water, no influence of the Devil could have any longer power over her."

"Ha, jolife!" cried the Countess, clasping her hands. "Magot, my love, this is the very thing. Thou must take it."

"I will take what you command, Lady."

But there was no enthusiasm in Margaret's voice.

"Then to-morrow morning, Master, do, I beseech you, administer this precious cordial!"

"Lady, I will do so. But it would increase the efficacy, if the damsel would devoutly repeat this evening the Rosary of the holy Virgin, with twelve Glorias and one hundred Aves."

"Get thee to it, quickly, Magot, my darling, and I will say them with thee, which will surely be of still more benefit Master, I thank you inexpressibly!"

And hastily rising, the Countess repaired to her oratory, whither Margaret followed her. Father Warner was there already, and he joined in the prayers, which made them of infallible efficacy in the eyes of the Countess.

At five o'clock the next morning, in the oratory, the holy hair was duly administered to the patient. All the priests were present except Bruno. Master Aristoteles himself, after high mass, came forward with the blessed relic,—a long, thick, black hair, immersed in holy water, in a golden goblet set with pearls. This Margaret obediently swallowed (of course exclusive of the goblet); and it is not very surprising that a fit of coughing succeeded the process.

"Avaunt thee, Satanas!" said Father Warner, making the sign of the cross in the air above Margaret's head.

Father Nicholas kindly suggested that a little more of the holy water might be efficacious against the manifest enmity of the foul Fiend. Master Aristoteles readily assented; and the additional dose calmed the cough: but probably it did not occur to any one to think whether unholy water would not have done quite as well.

When they had come out into the bower, the Countess took her daughter in her arms, and kissed her brow.

"Now, my Magot," said she playfully—it was not much forced, for her faith was great in the blessed hair—"now, my Magot, thou wilt get well again. Thou must!"

Margaret looked up into the loving face above her, and a faint, sad smile flitted across her lips.

"Think so, dear Lady, if it comfort thee," she said. "It will not be for long!"

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Note 1. A garment which was supposed to draw the blood downwards from the brain.

Note 2. "Hairs of a saint's beard, dipped in holy water, and taken inwardly," are given by Fosbroke (Encyclopaedia of Antiquities, page 479) in his list of medieval remedies.



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 conversation which she had had with Margaret. She was his darling, the child of his old age, and he loved her more dearly than he was himself aware. But the blessed hair, and the holy water, were swallowed by him in a figurative sense, with far more implicit faith than they had been, physically, by Margaret. He was quite easy in his mind after that event.

The Countess was a little less so. The saintly relic did not weigh quite so much with her, and the white, still, unchanged face of the girl weighed more. With the restless anxiety of alarm only half awake, she tried to bolster up her own hopes by appeals to every other person.

"Father Nicholas, do you think my daughter looks really ill?"

Father Nicholas, lost at the moment in the Aegean Sea, came slowly back from "the many-twinkling smile of ocean" to the consideration of the question referred to him.

"My Lady? Ah, yes! The damsel Margaret. To be sure. Well,—looking ill? I cannot say, Lady, that I have studied the noble damsel's looks. Perhaps—is she a little paler than she used to be? Ah, my Lady, a course of the grand old Greek dramatists,—that would be the thing to set her up. She could not fail to be interested and charmed."

The Countess next applied to Father Warner.

"The damsel does look pale, Lady. What wonder, when she has not confessed for over a fortnight? Get her well shriven, and you will see she will be another maiden."

"She sighs, indeed, my Lady; and I do not think she sleeps well," said Levina, who was the third authority. "It strikes me, under my Lady's pleasure, that she would be the better for a change."

This meant, that Levina was tired of Bury Saint Edmund's.

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with her!" said Eva, testily. "She never takes things to heart as I do. She'll do well enough."

"Lady, I am very uneasy about dear Margaret," was Doucebelle's contribution. "I am sure she is ill, and unhappy too. I only wish I knew what to do for her."

Beatrice looked up with grave eyes. "Lady, I would so gladly say No! But I cannot do it."

The last person interrogated was Bruno; and by the time she came to him, the Countess was very low-spirited. His face went grave and sad.

"Lady, it never does good to shut one's eyes to the truth. It is worse pain in the end. Yes: the damsel Margaret is dying."

"Dying!" shrieked the unhappy mother. "Dying, Father Bruno! You said dying!"

"Too true, my Lady."

"But what can I do? How am I to stop it?"

"Ah!" said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. "There is a 'Talitha Cumi' from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He has called her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only too plain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility of disobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead to life."

"But how am I to help it?" repeated the poor Countess.

"You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going."

"Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every penny and every jewel that I have!"

"Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than you."

"Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!"

"He has died for her," answered Bruno, softly. "And He is the Amen, the Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head of every child of His."

"But where will she be?—what will she be?" moaned the poor mother.

"If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him."

"But He does not need her, and I do!"

"Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest. But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early. It is far better."

"For her,—well, perhaps—if she can be got past Purgatory. But for me!"

"For each of you, what she needs, Lady."

"O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!"

"Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for her salvation?"

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One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abraham of Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civil enough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on this occasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly not intended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it. Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination to quarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever. She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall.

"My Belasez, light of mine eyes!" said the old man fervently, as he folded her in his arms and blessed her. "Ah, there is not much light for the old pedlar's eyes now!"

"Dost thou miss me, my father?"

"Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gone down, and the heavens are covered with clouds."

"Was my mother very angry after I went away?"

It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.

"Don't mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child."

The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.

"Is she satisfied now?"

"Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the sitten [Note 1] porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can't eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can."

Beatrice could not help laughing.

"My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the porridge for thee."

"Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now.—Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as well."

"I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little doubt she will buy."

"How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to abandon his vows?"

"He hopes to receive it in a few days."

"Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from Satan." [Note 2.]

"Well, we all wash ourselves here," said Beatrice, laughing, "unless it be Father Warner; I will not answer for him."

"This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!—"

Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.

"Is Cress come with thee, my father?"

"No—not here," answered the old Jew, emphatically. "And he never can."

"Why?"

"Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee."

"O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?"

It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother.

"Ay, child, wrong enough!" said Abraham sadly.

"Is he so ill, my father?"

"Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of the body. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child, hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of the damsel's marriage—she that is the Lady's daughter?"

"Margaret? I never could tell how it was."

"It was Delecresse who told him."

"Delecresse!"

"Ah, yes—may the God of Israel forgive him!"

"But how did Delecresse know?"

"I fancy he guessed it, partly—and perhaps subtly extracted some avowal from thee, in a way which thou didst not understand at the time."

"But, Father, I could not have told him, even unwittingly, for I did not know it myself. I remember his asking me who Sir Richard was, as we passed through the hall,—yes, and he said to old Hamon that he owed him a grudge. He asked me, too, after that, if Sir Richard were attached to Margaret."

"What didst thou say?"

"That I thought it might be so; but I did not know."

"Well! I am thankful thou couldst tell him no more. I suppose he pieced things together, and very likely jumped the last yard. Howbeit, he did it. My son, my only one! If there were an altar yet left in Israel, it should smoke with a hecatomb of lambs for him."

"All Israelites would not think it wicked, my father. They think all Gentiles fair prey."

"What, after they have eaten of their salt? Child, when the Lady had been kind to thee, I could not have touched a hair of any head she loved. Had the Messiah come that day, and all Gentiles been made our bond-slaves, I would have besought for her to fall to me, that I might free her without an instant's suspense."

"Yes, my father, thou wouldst," answered Beatrice, affectionately. "But I do not think thou ever didst hate Christians as some of our nation do."

"Child, Belasez! how could I, when the best love of my white dove's heart had been given to a Christian and a Gentile? I loved her, more than thou canst imagine. But would my love have been true, had I hated what she loved best? Where is thy father, my darling?"

Beatrice was just about to say that she could not tell, when she looked up and saw him. The greeting between Abraham and Bruno was very cordial now. Bruno smiled gravely when he heard of the further exploits of Licorice with the broom; but a very sad, almost stern, expression came into his eyes, when he was told the discovery concerning Delecresse.

"Keep it quiet, my father," he said. "The Lord will repay. May it be not in justice, but with His mercy!"

Then Abraham and his pack were had up to the bower, and large purchases made of Damascene and Cyprus stuffs. When he went away, Bruno walked with him across the yard, and as they clasped hands in farewell, suddenly asked him what he thought of the damsel Margaret.

"Can there be any question?" answered Abraham, pityingly. "Hath not Azrael [the Angel of Death] stamped her with his signet?"

"I fear so. Wilt thou pray for her, my father?"

Abraham looked up in amazement.

"A Christian ask the prayers of a Jew!" exclaimed he.

"Why not?" replied Bruno. "Were not Christ and all His apostles Jews? And thou art a good and true man, my father. The God of Israel heareth the prayers of the righteous."

"Canst thou account a Jew righteous?—one who believes not in thy Messiah?"

"I am not so sure of that," said Bruno, his eyes meeting those of Abraham in full. "I think thy heart and conscience are convinced, but thou art afraid to declare it."

Abraham's colour rose a little.

"May Adonai lead us both to His truth!" he replied.

But Bruno noticed that he made no attempt to deny the charge.

Bruno's chief wish now was to get hold of Margaret, and find out the exact state of her mind. Without knowing his wish, she helped him by asking him to hear her confession. Bruno rose at once.

"Now?" said Margaret, with a little surprise.

"There is no time but now," was the reply.

They went into the oratory, and closed the door on curious ears; and Margaret poured out the secrets of her restless and weary heart.

"I longed to confess to you, Father, for I fancied that you would understand me better than the other priests. You know what love is; I am not sure that they do: and Father Warner at least thinks it weakness, if not sin. And now tell me, have you any balm for such a sorrow as mine? Of course it can never be undone; that I know too well. And I do not think that any thing could make me live; nor do I wish it. If I only knew where it is that I am going!"

"Let the where alone," answered Bruno. "Daughter, to whom art thou going? Is it to a Stranger, or to Him whom thy soul loveth?"

Not unnaturally, she misunderstood the allusion.

"No; he will not necessarily die, because I do."

She was only thinking of Richard.

"My child!" said Bruno, gently, "thou art going to the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. Dost thou know any thing about Him?"

"I know, of course, what the Church teaches."

"Well; but dost thou know what He teaches? Is He as dear to thee as thine earthly love?"

"No." The reply was in a rather shamefaced tone; but there was no hesitation about it.

"Is He as dear to thee as the Earl thy father?"

"No."

"Is He as dear to thee as any person in this house, whomsoever it be,— such as thou hast been acquainted with, and accustomed to, all thy life?"

"Father," said the low, sad voice, "I am afraid you are right. I do not know Him."

"Wilt thou not ask Him, then, to reveal Himself to thee?"

"Will He do it, Father?"

"'Will He'! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wert brought to Him in baptism?"

"But He can never fill up this void in my heart!"

"He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world. I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold."

"Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, if he were not there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest and silence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have in Heaven,—Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I would rather stay on earth—where Richard is."

"Poor child!" said Bruno half involuntarily. "My daughter, it is very natural. It must be so. 'Where is thy treasure, there is also thine heart.'"

"And," the low voice went on, "if I could know that he had given over loving me, I fancy it would be easier to go."

Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channel than to encourage them to flow in it.

"My child, Christ has not given over loving thee."

"That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is not Richard!"

"Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to suffer thine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying to thee in this very sorrow, 'Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest'?"

"It would be rest, if He would give me Richard," she said. "There is but that one thing for me in all the world."

Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he had supposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it was rebellious. She was hardening herself against God.

"No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peace between the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret de Burgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King's mercy."

"Father!" said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise and alarm.

"Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditional submission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst fain dictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into His terms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even for thee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thine heart. Listen to His voice,—'It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.' It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thine allegiance."

The answer was scarcely what he expected.

"Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course; but it does me no good. My heart is numb."

"Thou art right," gently replied Bruno. "The south wind must blow upon the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord—I will ask Him also—to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost."

"How many Paters?" said the girl in a weary tone. "One will do, my daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it."

"I can put my heart into nothing."

"Then say to Him this only—'Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thou mayest give it life.'"

She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating a lesson. "How long will it take?"

"He knows—not I."

"But suppose I die first?"

"The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish for salvation. He wants it more than thou."

"He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wants thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly? Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside thee."

"I did not think I was that to any one—except my parents and—and Richard."

"Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the Lord Jesus."

The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.

"Well!" she said, with a dreary sigh. "It may be so. But I cannot care about it."

Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret.

"Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she may live! Save her in spite of herself!"

There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution, and the confession was over.

The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon after vespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached at all, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. Father Warner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both were concerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. Father Nicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues—dreary classical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a Good Friday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion.

But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topic from any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a much more interesting sound than Father Nicholas's drowsy monotone, or Father Warner's dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; no one could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant had died away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had given due notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice in particular) was prepared to listen to him.

The text itself—to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture—was rather a startling one.

"'O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow like unto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press, in the day of the wrath of His anger.'"

Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of her own heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.

Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even have thought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words. From the first moment of their joint existence, Jerusalem and Rome have been enemies and rivals. Not content with, so far as in her lay, blotting out the very name of Israel from under heaven, Rome has calmly arrogated to herself—without even offering proof of it—that right to the promises made to the fathers, which, Saint Paul tells us, belongs in a higher and richer sense to the invisible Church of Christ than to the literal and visible Israel. But Rome goes further than the Apostle: for in her anxiety to claim the higher sense for herself, she denies the lower altogether. No Romanist will hear with patience of any national restoration of Israel. And whether the Anglo-Israelite theory be true or false, it is certainly, as a theory, exceedingly unpalatable to Rome.

With respect, moreover, to this particular passage, it had become so customary to refer it to the sufferings of Christ, that its original application to the destruction of Jerusalem had been almost forgotten.

But here, Bruno's Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. He delighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of the passage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable to the Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been another sorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared—to which no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for a moment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours' darkness that might be felt—of that "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani" into which was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since the beginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight into the heart's depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each one of those hearts, "This was your doing!" He told them that for every sin of every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: and that if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was not Christ's fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper for every pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were not there, it would be because he had refused the invitation.

Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked that every man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow like to his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only to be had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bear the weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins and sorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear any sorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, "My will be done," he must not imagine that God would waste mercy in helping him. "Not my will, but Thine," must always precede the sending of the strengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that God sent grief to them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him no pleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children of men. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health: and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quantities, and at the right time.

"And now," said Bruno at last, "ye into whose hands the Great Physician hath put this wholesome yet bitter cup,—how are ye going to treat it? Will ye dash it down, and say, 'I will have none of this remedy?' For the end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, only because ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue, blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; it will work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving on your lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will is better than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no man can know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spare you? Trust me, the thanksgivings that God loves best, are those sobbed from lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.

"And, brethren, there is no sorrow in Heaven. 'Death there shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor pain shall be any more.' [Note 3.] We who are Christ's shall be there before long."

He ended thus, almost abruptly.

The chapel was empty, and the congregation were critical. Earl Hubert thought that Father Bruno had a good flow of language, and could preach an excellent discourse. The Countess would have preferred a different subject: it was so melancholy! Sir John thought it a pity that man had been wasted on the Church. Hawise supposed that he had said just what was proper. Beatrice wished he would preach every day. Eva was astonished at her; did she really like to listen to such dolorous stuff as that? Doucebelle wondered that any one should think it dolorous; she had enjoyed it very much. Marie confessed to having dropped asleep, and dreamed that Father Bruno gave her a box of bonbons.

There was one of them who said nothing, because her heart was too full for speech. But the south wind had begun to blow upon the garden. On that lonely and weary heart God had looked in His mercy that day, and had said, "Live!"

Too late for earthly life. That was sapped at the root. God knew that His best kindness to Margaret de Burgh was that He should take her away from the evil to come.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Burnt to the pan: a variety of porridge which few would wish to taste twice.

Note 2. "These monks imagined that holiness was often proportioned to a saint's filthiness—Saint Francis discovered, by certain experience, that the devils... were animated by clean clothing to tempt and seduce the wearers; and one of their heroes declares that the purest souls are in the dirtiest bodies... Brother Juniper was a gentleman perfectly pious, on this principle; indeed, so great was his merit in this species of mortification, that a brother declared he could always nose Brother Juniper when within a mile of the monastery, provided the wind were at the due point."—Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature, Volume One, page 92.

Note 3. All quotations from Scripture in this story are of course taken from the Vulgate, except those made by Jews.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

EVIL TIDINGS.

"Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and cling To 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, chetife!—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 bete!" 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.