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 BishopGrosteste, whose large heart and clear brain were readily interested inhis wish to return from regular to secular orders. He smoothed the pathconsiderably, and promised him a benefice in his diocese if thedispensation could be obtained. But the last was a lengthy process, andsome months passed away before the answer could be received from Rome.
It greatly scandalised Hawise and Eva--for different reasons--to see howvery little progress was made by Beatrice in that which in their eyeswas the Christian religion. It was a comfort to them to reflect thatshe had been baptised as an infant, and therefore in the event of suddendeath had a chance of going to Heaven, instead of the dreadful certaintyof being shut up in Limbo,--a place of vague locality and vaguercharacter, being neither pleasant nor painful, but inhabited by all thehapless innocents whose heathen or careless Christian parents sufferedthem to die unregenerated. But both of them were sorely shocked todiscover, when she had been about two months at Bury, that poor Beatricewas still ignorant of the five commandments of the Church. Nor was thisall: she irreverently persisted in her old inquiry of "What is theChurch?" and sturdily demanded what right the Church had to givecommandments.
Hawise was quite distressed. It was not _proper_,--a phrase which, withher, was the strongest denunciation that could be uttered. Nobody hadever asked such questions before: _ergo_, they ought never to be asked.Every sane person knew perfectly well what the Church was (though, whengently urged by Beatrice, Hawise backed out of any definition), and nogood Catholic could possibly require telling. And as to so shocking asupposition 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. Shereally could not understand what Beatrice wanted. If the priest--or theChurch--they were very much the same thing--told her what to do, couldshe not rest and be thankful? It was a great deal less trouble thaneverlastingly 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 hadnot 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 theCountess; and Hawise, turning to her companions, remarked in a whisperthat it must be that dreadful Jewish blood on the mother's side whichhad given her such very improper notions. They were _so_ low! "For mypart," she added, "if it were proper to say so, I should remark that Icannot imagine why Father Bruno does not see that she understandssomething of Christianity--but of course one must not criticise apriest."
"Speak truth, my daughter," said a voice from the doorway which ratherdisconcerted Hawise. "Thou canst not understand my actions--in whatrespect?"
"I humbly crave your pardon, Father; but I am really distressed aboutBeatrice."
"Indeed!--how so?"
"She understands nothing about Christian duties."
"I hope that is a little more than truth. But if not,--let herunderstand Christ first, my child: Christian duties will come after."
"Forgive _me_, Father--without teaching?"
"Not without His teaching," said Bruno, gravely. "Without mine, it maybe."
"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 willnot keep thee less warm because thou hast never learned how to weavethem."
Hawise did not reply, but she looked unconvinced.
A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she hadbeen so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex offeminine ambition.
"I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe."
Margaret sighed.
"Dost thou like him?" asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, whichwas sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into askingdirect questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate toleave unasked.
Eva blushed and simpered.
"I'll tell thee, Beatrice," said little Marie, dancing up. "She's overhead and ears in love--so much over head,"--and Marie's hand went ashigh as it would go above her own: "but it's my belief she has tumbledin on the wrong side."
"`The wrong side'!" answered Beatrice, laughing. "The wrong side oflove? 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 Idon't believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares forbeing married. That's the grand thing with her, so far as I can makeout. 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 ofmyself over it as thou dost."
"Marie, Marie!"
"It's true, Margaret!--Now, Beatrice, dost thou not think so? She makesa regular misery of it. There is no living with her for a day or twobefore he comes to see her. She never gives him a minute's peace whenhe is here; and if he looks at somebody else, she goes as black as athunder-cloud. If he's half an hour late, she's quite sure he isvisiting 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 wereto 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 ina little.
"Of course," said Marie by way of postscript, "if Sir William had beenbadly hurt in a tournament, or anything of that sort, I could understandher worrying about it: or if he had told her that he did not love her, Icould understand that: but she worries for nothing at all! If he doesnot tell her that he loves her every time he comes, she fancies hedoesn'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 thydescription."
"Why, what notion of love hast thou?" said Eva scornfully. "I have notforgotten how thou wert wont to talk of thy betrothed."
"But I never professed to love Leo," said Beatrice, looking up. "Howcould 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 mighteasily love some one whom I had not seen with my eyes, if he were alwayssending me messages and doing kind actions for me: but I could not lovesomebody 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," retortedMarie.
"Well! I don't understand you!" said Eva. "I cannot care to be lovedwith less than the whole heart. I should not thank you for just thelove that you can spare from other people."
"But should not one have some to spare for other people?" suggestedMarie.
"That sounds as if one's heart were a box," said Beatrice, "that wouldhold so much and no more. Is it not more like a fountain, that can giveout 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 holdbut one person."
"Well, I would rather be loved with the whole of a narrow heart thanwith a piece of a broad one."
"O Eva!"
"What dost thou mean, Doucebelle?" said Eva, sharply, turning on her newassailant. "Indeed I would! The man who loves me must love mesupremely--must care for nothing but me: must find his sweetest rewardfor 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 agentle "Hush!" to the somewhat too plain-spoken Marie. "Thou canst doit, 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 whichMarie got chased round the room with the wooden side of an embroideryframe, and, being lithe as a monkey, escaped by flying to the Countess'srooms, which communicated with those of her daughter by a privatestaircase.
Father Bruno came up, as he often did, the same evening: but beforeBeatrice had time to consult him, the small Countess of Eu appeared fromnowhere 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 ratherlike to hear the various opinions."
"Oh! Eva says--" began the child eagerly; but Bruno's hand, laid gentlyon 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 anythat did not hold me first and best. Nor do I."
"`Love seeketh not her own,'" said Bruno. "That which seeks its own isnot love."
"What is it, Father?" modestly asked Doucebelle.
"It is self-love, my daughter; the worst enemy that can be to the truelove 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 athing, my daughter."
"But there is a wicked sort of love."
"Certainly not. There are wicked passions. But love can never bewicked, 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 alwayswicked."
"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 wishingfor his company, and wanting him to love one."
"And I suppose that it is caring for him so much that thou wouldst countnothing too great a sacrifice, to attain his highest good. That is howGod 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 dootherwise would be loving Marie, not Margaret."
"But, Father!" exclaimed Eva. "Do you mean to say that if my betrothedprefers to go hawking rather than sit with me, if I love him I shallwish 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 notHimself,' and I think--God knoweth--often they are the happiest. Let usall ask God for grace to reach it. `This is My commandment, that yehave love one to another.'"
And, as was generally the case when he had said all he thought necessaryat the moment, Bruno rose, and with a benediction quitted the room.
"Call that loving!" said Eva, contemptuously, when he was gone. "Poortame 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 noheart to begin with."
Doucebelle silently doubted that statement.
"O Eva, for shame!" said Marie. "Doucebelle always does what every bodywants 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'twant, to please you," said Marie, sturdily.
"I don't believe one of you knows any thing about it," loftily returnedEva. "If I had been Margaret, now, I could not have sat quietly to thatbroidery. I could not have borne it!"
Margaret looked up quickly, changed colour, and with a slightcompression of her lower lip, went back to her work in silence.
"But what wouldst thou have done, Eva?" demanded the practical littleMarie. "Wouldst thou have stared out of the window all day long?"
"No!" returned Eva with fervent emphasis. "I should have wept my lifeaway. But Margaret is not like me. She can get interested in work andother things, and forget a hapless love, and outlive it. It would killme in a month."
Margaret rose very quietly, put her frame by in the corner, and left theroom. Beatrice, who had been silent for some time, looked up then withexpressive eyes.
"It is killing her, Eva. My father told me so a week since. He says heis quite sure that the Countess is mistaken in fancying that she isgetting over it."
"She! She is as strong as a horse. And I don't think she ever felt itmuch! Not as I should have done. I should have taken the veil thatvery 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 mighthave 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_ wouldever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should anyraiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blightedheart!"
"I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth," put inthe 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 haveborne any thing else."
"I don't believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever sucha fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck andrubbed 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, Icould not think of mere inconveniences."
"Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, Iwould 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-ninetimes, 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 therushes 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 putout because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie'samusement.
"It is of no use to tell thee, Eva," replied Beatrice; "thou wouldst notbe 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 ownface?"
"What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!"
"No, Eva," said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased byMarie's witticism: "the child is any thing but silly."
"Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you anymore," retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she wasanswered only by a third explosion from Marie.
Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startledto find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden inthe 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 beenshedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan andwoeful 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 drewher daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on hermother'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 thesort. But--things sting--when people do not mean it."
The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood theexplanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this sheunderstood and felt full sympathy with--that her one cherished darlingwas in trouble.
"Who was it, Magot?"
"Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. Andnobody intended to hurt me."
"What did she say?"
"She said,"--something like a sob came here--"that I was one who couldsettle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lostlove. 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 likethat 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 notthink it will be over in a month."
The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking thesoft 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 liedown to sleep and not wake to-morrow,--I feel as if that were the onlything 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 Icannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scentany more. It is not me,--me, your Margaret--that works, and talks, anddoes all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite sofast as my soul. My heart is dead already."
"My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I reallyhoped thou wert getting over it."
"It is of no use trying to keep me," she answered quietly. "You hadbetter let me go--Mother."
The Countess's reply was to clap her hands--at that time the usualmethod of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, insteadof 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 thephysician's slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countessroused 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 astrange fancy, which I should like to have uprooted from her mind. Sheimagines that she is going to die."
"A strange fancy indeed, if it please my Lady. I see no sign of diseaseat all about the damsel. A little weakness, and low spirits,--no realcomplaint whatever. She might with some advantage wear the fleminum[Note 1],--the blood seems a little too much in the head: and warmfomentations would help to restore her strength. Almond blossoms,pounded with pearl, might also do something. But, if it please myLady--let my Lady speak."
"I was only going to ask, Master, whether viper broth would be good forher?"
"A most excellent suggestion, my Lady. But, I was about to remark, thephysician of Saint Albans hath given me a most precious thing, whichwould infallibly restore the damsel, even if she were at the gates ofdeath. Three hairs of the beard of the blessed Dominic [Note 2], whomour holy Father hath but now canonised. If the damsel were to take oneof these, fasting, in holy water, no influence of the Devil could haveany longer power over her."
"_Ha, jolife_!" cried the Countess, clasping her hands. "Magot, mylove, 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 thisprecious cordial!"
"Lady, I will do so. But it would increase the efficacy, if the damselwould devoutly repeat this evening the Rosary of the holy Virgin, withtwelve Glorias and one hundred Aves."
"Get thee to it, quickly, Magot, my darling, and I will say them withthee, which will surely be of still more benefit Master, I thank youinexpressibly!"
And hastily rising, the Countess repaired to her oratory, whitherMargaret followed her. Father Warner was there already, and he joinedin the prayers, which made them of infallible efficacy in the eyes ofthe Countess.
At five o'clock the next morning, in the oratory, the holy hair was dulyadministered to the patient. All the priests were present except Bruno.Master Aristoteles himself, after high mass, came forward with theblessed relic,--a long, thick, black hair, immersed in holy water, in agolden goblet set with pearls. This Margaret obediently swallowed (ofcourse exclusive of the goblet); and it is not very surprising that afit of coughing succeeded the process.
"Avaunt thee, Satanas!" said Father Warner, making the sign of the crossin the air above Margaret's head.
Father Nicholas kindly suggested that a little more of the holy watermight be efficacious against the manifest enmity of the foul Fiend.Master Aristoteles readily assented; and the additional dose calmed thecough: but probably it did not occur to any one to think whether unholywater would not have done quite as well.
When they had come out into the bower, the Countess took her daughter inher arms, and kissed her brow.
"Now, my Magot," said she playfully--it was not much forced, for herfaith was great in the blessed hair--"now, my Magot, thou wilt get wellagain.
Thou must!"
Margaret looked up into the loving face above her, and a faint, sadsmile flitted across her lips.
"Think so, dear Lady, if it comfort thee," she said. "It will not befor long!"
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Note 1. A garment which was supposed to draw the blood downwards fromthe brain.
Note 2. "Hairs of a saint's beard, dipped in holy water, and takeninwardly," are given by Fosbroke (Encyclopaedia of Antiquities, page479) in his list of medieval remedies.
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