CHAPTER ELEVEN.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
"Content to fill Religion's vacant place With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace."
_Cowper_.
"Nay, my son, it is of no use. I shall never forsake the faith of myfathers. For this child, if she can believe it,--well: she is morethine than mine,--_ay Dios_! And perhaps there is this much change inme, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not beidolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? Weknow so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easilytransplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oakalone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son,--a maiden whomI should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew maybow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, butwhich seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave isbound by his master. I cannot take up with those."
"Nor I," said Belasez in a low voice.
"Then do not," was the quiet answer of Bruno. "I shall never ask it ofeither of you."
"But thou believest all these?" said Abraham.
"I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very littlematter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another manthink he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before God. ForMary, Mother and Maid, I honour her, as you maybe honour your mother._I_ do not worship her: about other men I say nothing. And as to theChurch,--why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, towhom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, thenthey have no right to be hers."
"Ah Bruno," said Abraham rather sadly, "thy religion is not that ofother Christians."
"It is better," said Belasez softly.
"Father, my Christianity is Christ. I concern not myself with othermen, except to save them, so far as it pleases God to work by me."
"Well, well! May Adonai forgive us all!--My son, what dost thou mean todo with the child? It is for thee to decide now."
"My father, I shall endeavour to obtain absolution from my vows, and tobecome once more a parish priest, so that my Beatrice may dwell with me.Until then, choose thou whether she shall remain with thee, or go backto Bury Castle. I am sure the Lady would gladly receive her."
"Nay, Bruno, do not ask me to choose! If the child be here whenLicorice returns, she will never dwell with thee. I believe she wouldwell-nigh stab us both to the heart sooner than permit it. And I fearshe may come any day."
"Then she had better come with me to Bury."
"`It is Adonai!' So be it."
"But I shall see thee, my father?" asked Belasez, addressing Abraham.
"Trust me for that, my Belasez! I can come to thee on my tradejourneys, so long as it pleases the Holy One that I have strength totake them. And after that--He will provide. My son, wilt thou come forthe child to-morrow? I will let thee out at the postern door; for thouhadst better not meet Delecresse."
And Abraham drew back the bolt, and opened the baize door.
"Father Jacob!" they heard him instantly ejaculate, in a very differenttone from that of his last words.
"What hast thou been about now?" demanded the shrill voice of Licoricein the passage outside. "When folks are frightened at the sight oftheir lawful wives, it is a sure sign they have been after somemischief. Is there any one in yon chamber except thyself?--Ah, Belasez,I am glad to see thee; 'tis more than I expected. But, child, thoushouldst have set the porridge on half an hour ago; go down and look toit.--Any body else? Come, I had best see for myself."
And Licorice pushed past her husband, and walked into the room whereBruno was standing. He came forward to meet her, with far more apparentcalmness than Abraham seemed to feel.
"Good even, my mother," he said courteously.
"If I were thy mother, I would hang myself from the first gable," hissedLicorice between her closed teeth. "I know thee, Bruno de Malpas, thouvile grandson of a locust! Nay, locust is too good for thee: they areclean beasts, and thou art an unclean. Thou hare, camel, coney,night-hawk, raven, lobster, earwig, hog! I spit on thee seven times,"--and she did it--"I deliver thee over to Satan thy master--"
"That thou canst not," quietly said Bruno.
"I sweep thee out of my house!" And suiting the action to the word,Licorice caught up a broom which stood in the corner, and proceeded toapply it with good will. Bruno retreated, as was but natural he should.
"Licorice, my dear wife!"
"I'll sweep _thee_ out next!" cried Licorice, brandishing her broom inthe very face of her lord and master. "I'll have no Christians, norChristian blood, nor Christian faith, in my house, as I am a livingdaughter of Abraham! Get you all out hence, ye loathsome creepingthings, which whosoever toucheth shall be unclean! Get ye out, I say!--Belasez, bring me soap and water. I'll not sleep till I've washed thefloor. I'd wash the air if I could."
"Your pardon, Mother, but if you will have no Christian blood in yourhouse, you must sweep me out," answered Belasez, with a mixture ofdignity and irrepressible amusement.
Licorice turned round to Abraham.
"Thou hast told her?"
"It was better she should know, wife."
"I'll chop thy head off, if I hear thee say that again!--And dost thoumean to be a Christian, thou wicked girl?"
"I do, Mother. And I mean to go with my father."
"Go, then--like to like!--and all the angels of Satan go with thee!"
And the broom came flying after Belasez.
"Nay, wife, give the child her raiment and jewels."
"I'll give her what belongs to her, and that's a hot iron, if she doesnot get out of that door this minute!"
"Wife!"
"I'll spoil her pretty face for her!" shrieked Licorice. "I never likedthe vain chit overmuch, nor Anegay neither: but if she does not go, I'llgive 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 hardlyexpected it. It had always been a trouble to her, and a cause ofself-reproach, that she and Licorice did not love each other better: andshe was not able to repress a sensation of satisfaction in making thediscovery that Licorice was not her mother. Yet Belasez had not lookedfor this.
"What are we to do, Father?" she asked rather blankly.
"I must lodge thee with the Sisters of Saint Clare, my child; there isnothing else to be done. I will come and fetch thee away so soon as myarrangements can be made."
Beatrice,--as we must henceforth call her,--did not fancy thisarrangement 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 amafraid the nuns will think me a variety of heathen, for I cannot do allthey will want me."
"They will not, if I tell the Abbess that thou art a new convert," saidBruno. "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 Beatricehesitatingly, "my mother's people--"
"Go on, my Beatrice. Let it be `our people.' Speak as it is nature tothee to do."
"Thank you, my father. Among our people, there were no nuns. So farfrom 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 motherof the Messiah."
"True. Therefore, Christ being come, that reproach is done away. Leteach woman choose for herself. `If a virgin marry, she hath notsinned.' Nevertheless, `she that is unmarried thinks of the things ofthe 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 havesaid that. Be thou what the Lord thinks best to make thee. But I donot want to be left alone again."
Beatrice's heart was set at rest. She had terribly feared for a momentlest Bruno, being himself a monk, might think her absolutely bound to bea nun.
They soon reached the Franciscan Convent. The Abbess, a ratherstiffly-mannered, grey-haired woman, received her young guest withsedate kindliness, and committed her to the special charge of SisterEularia. This was a young woman of about twenty-five, in whose mindcuriosity was strongly developed. She took Beatrice up to thedormitory, showed her where she was to sleep, and gave her a seat on theform beside her at supper, which was almost immediately served.Beatrice noticed that whenever Eularia helped herself to any thingedible, 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 knowesthow 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 thatour 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 notcourtesy to every sword I saw, because I loved him. I should hate thevery 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 Himsuffer."
Eularia shrugged her shoulders.
"Thou art very ignorant."
The discussion slumbered until they rose from supper; when Eulariaseated Beatrice beside her on the settle, and offered to instruct her inthe 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 wiltfind that the priest will set thee for penance, so many Aves and so manyPaternosters."
"What are those?"
"Dost thou never pray?" gasped Eularia.
"I never say so many of one thing, and so many of another," answeredBeatrice, half laughing. "I never heard anything so absurd. The holyprophets did not pray in that way."
"Of course they did!" exclaimed Eularia. "How could they obtain help ofour 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 thatrubbish. 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 ofher hosts she was. They were no less astonished and dismayed by her.The ignorant heathen would not worship the holy images, would not useholy water, would not kneel before the holy Sacrament, would not dothis, that, and the other: and, not content with this series ofnegations, 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 ofNazareth was the Sent of God."
"And in the Holy Ghost?" asked Eularia.
"If I understand you, certainly. Is it not written, `The Spirit of Godhath 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 notbelieve 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 anyrelics?"
"I do not know what those are."
Eularia led the way to the sacristy.
"Look here," she said, reverently opening a golden reliquary set withrubies. "Here is a small piece of the holy veil of our foundress, SaintClare. This is the finger-bone of the blessed Evangelist Matthew. Hereis a piece of the hoof of the holy ass on which our Lord rode. Now thouknowest 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 reliquaryset with emeralds and pearls, "is our most precious relic,--one of thesmall feathers from the wing of the holy angel, Saint Gabriel."
To the intense horror of Eularia, a silver laugh of unmistakableamusement greeted this holy relic.
"Beatrice! hast thou no reverence?"
"Not for angels' feathers," answered Beatrice, still laughing. "Well, Idid think you had more sense!"
"I can assure thee, thou wilt shock Father Bruno if thou allowestthyself to commit such improprieties."
"I shall shock him, then. How excessively absurd!"
Eularia took her unpromising pupil out of the sacristy more hastily thanshe had led her in. And perhaps it was as well for Beatrice that FatherBruno arrived the next day.
They reached Bury Castle in safety. The Countess had been very muchinterested in Father Bruno's story, and most readily acceded to hisrequest to leave Beatrice as her visitor until he should have a home towhich he could take her. And Beatrice de Malpas, the daughter of abaronial house in Cheshire, was a very different person in theestimation of a Christian noble from Belasez, daughter of the Jewpedlar.
Rather to her surprise, she found herself seated above the salt, thatis, treated as a lady of rank: and the embargo being over which hadconfined her to Margaret's apartments, she took her place at the Earl'stable in the banquet-hall. Earl Hubert's quick eyes soon found out theaddition to his supper-party, and he condescended to remark that she wasextremely pretty, and quite an ornament to the hall. Beatrice herselfwas 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 friendsmay have been parted, their conversation nearly always turns on what hashappened just before they met again. They do not speak of whatdelighted or agonised them ten years ago, though the effect may haveextended to the whole of their subsequent lives. They talk of lastweek'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 wasrather inclined to be shocked than amused. The angel's feather, in hereyes, was provocative of any thing rather than ridicule: and Beatrice,who had anticipated her taking the common-sense view of the matter, feltch
illed by the result.
Life had fallen back into its old grooves at Bury Castle. Grief, withthe 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 evershe could. Pain, whether mental or bodily, was in her eyes not anecessary discipline, but an unpleasant disturbance of the proper orderof events. In fact, she was one of those persons who are always popularby reason of their gracious affability, but in whom, below the fair flowof sweet waters, there is a strong substratum of stony selfishness. Sheobjected to people being in distress, not because it hurt them, butbecause 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 entireand essential variety of the strata underneath.
It was only natural that, with this character, the Countess shouldexpect others to be as little impressed by suffering as herself. Shereally had no conception of a disposition to which sorrow was not aneasily-healed scratch, but a scar that would be carried to the grave.In her eyes, the calamity which had happened to her daughter was adisappointment, undoubtedly, but one which she would find no difficultyin surmounting at all. There were plenty of other men in the world,quite as handsome, as amiable, as rich, and as noble, as Richard deClare. If such a grief had happened to herself, she would have weptincessantly for a week, been low-spirited for a month, and in a yearwould have been wreathed with smiles, and arranging her trousseau for awedding with another bridegroom. The only thing which could really havedistressed 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 heldno other man, and life's blossom once blighted, no second crop ofhappiness could grow, at least on the same tree. To such a character asthis, the only possibility of throwing out fresh bloom is when the treeis grafted by the great Husbandman with amaranth from Heaven.
Yet it was not in Margaret's nature--it would have been in hermother's--to say much of what she felt. Outwardly, she showed nodifference, except that her _coeur leger_ was gone, never to return.She did not shut herself up and refuse to join in the employments oramusements of those around her. And the majority of those around neversuspected 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 ina like mould. Bruno saw too plainly that the hope expressed by theCountess that "Magot was getting nicely over her disappointment" was nottrue,--never would be true. In his case the amaranth had been graftedin, and the plant was blossoming again. But there was no such hope forher, at least as yet.
Beatrice was unable to enter into Margaret's feelings, not so muchthrough want of capacity as of experience. Eva was equally unable,being naturally at once of a more selfish and a less concentrateddisposition: her mind would have been more easily drawn from hersorrow,--an important item of the healing process. Doucebelle camenearest; but as she was the most selfless of all, her grief in like casewould 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 notagree with her, she would be sorely disappointed. Bruno's smile halfreassured 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 Hissalvation, I cannot think it much matters whether thou believest acertain piece of stuff to be the veil of Saint Clare or not. NeitherSaint 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 seemsto 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, tohave much time to think of them."
Beatrice was only half satisfied. She would have felt more contentedhad Bruno warmly disclaimed the charge. It was at the cost of somedistress that she realised that what were serious essentials to her werecomparatively trivial matters to him. The wafts of polluted air wereonly too patent to her, which were lost in the purer atmosphere, at thealtitude where Bruno stood.
The girls were gathered together one afternoon in the ante-chamber ofMargaret's apartments, and Bruno, who had come up to speak to hisdaughter, was with them. Except in special cases, no chamber of anyhouse was sacred from a priest. Eva was busy spinning, but it would bemore accurate to say that Marie, who was supposed to be spinning also,was engaged in breaking threads. Margaret was employed ontapestry-work; Doucebelle in plain sewing; and Beatrice with herdelicate embroidery.
"Father," said Beatrice, looking up suddenly, "I was taught that it wassin to make images of created things, on account of the words of thesecond commandment. What do you say?"
"`_Non fades tibi sculptile, neque omnem similitudinem_,'" murmuredBruno, reflectively. "I think, my child, that it depends very much onthe meaning of `_tibi_' Ah, I see in thy face thou hast learned noLatin. `Thou shalt not make _to thee_ any sculptured image.' Then asculptured image may be made otherwise. The latter half of thecommandment, I think, shows what is meant. `_Non adorabis ea, nequecoles_'--`thou shalt not worship them.' At the same time, Saint Paulsaith, `_Omne autem, quod non est ex fide, peccatum est_'--`all that isnot of faith is sin;' and `_nisi ei qui existimat quid commune esse,illi commune est_': namely, `to him who esteemeth a thing unclean, tohim it is unclean.' If thou really believest it sin, by no means allowthyself 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, oreven can become sin?" asked Eva, in a tone which decidedly indicateddissent.
"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 arenot exactly sins, but--"
"Not quite virtues," interposed Beatrice, with an amused expression, asEva paused.
"Well, no. Still they are not wrong--in themselves. But they make onewaste one's time, or forget to say one's beads, or be cross to one'ssister,--just because they are so delightful, and one does not want togive over. And being cross is sin, I suppose; and so it is when oneforgets to say one's prayers: I don't know whether wasting time isexactly a sin."
"I see," said Bruno, in the same quiet tone. "Had our Lord sent thee toclear His Temple of the profane who desecrated it by traffic, thouwouldst have overthrown the tables of the money-changers, but not theseats of them that sold doves."
Beatrice and Doucebelle answered by a smile of intelligence; Eva lookedrather dissatisfied.
"But it is not a sin to be happy, Father?" asked Margaret in a lowvoice.
"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 Hischildren to put any thing into the place of Himself. The moment thoudost 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," drilyobserved 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 asin to waste one thing than another, surely it is to waste life itself."
He rose and went away. Eva shrugged her sho
ulders with a wry face.
"There never was any body so precise as Father Bruno! I would ratherask questions of Father Nicholas, ten times over."
"Well, I don't like asking questions of Father Nicholas," respondedDoucebelle, "because he never answers them. He never goes down to thebottom of things."
"_Ha, chetife_!" cried Eva. "Dost thou want to get to the bottom ofthings? That is just why I like Father Nicholas, because he neverbothers one with reasons and distinctions. It is only, `Yes, thoumayest 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 thatsometimes makes me want to do it all the more. It seems to leave it inone's own hands."
Beatrice broke into a laugh. "Why, Eva, thou wouldst rather be a chairto 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 detestit."
"And I should detest the opposite."
"I am afraid, Beatrice, thou art greatly wanting in the virtue of holyobedience. But of course one can make allowances for thine unhappyeducation."
Eva had occasion to leave the room at the conclusion of thisunflattering speech: and Beatrice indulged in a long laugh.
"Well, what I am afraid of," she said to Margaret and Doucebelle, "isthat Eva is rather wanting in the virtue of common-sense. But whether Iam to lay that on her education, I do not know."
There was no answer: but the thoughts of the hearers were almostopposites. Margaret considered Beatrice rash and self-satisfied.Doucebelle thought heartily with her, and only wished that she had asmuch courage to say so.
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