CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
AT LAST.
"Joy for the freed one! She might not stay When the crown had fallen from her life away: She might not linger, a weary thing, A dove with no home for its broken wing, Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land's melodies. From the long heart-withering early gone, She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done!"
_Felicia Hemans_.
"Now, Sir John de Averenches, what on earth dost _thou_ want?"
"Is there no room, Damsel?"
"Room! There is room enough for thee, I dare say," replied Eva, rathercontemptuously. She looked down on Sir John supremely for four reasons,which in her own eyes at least were excellent ones. First, he wasrather short; secondly, he was very silent; thirdly, he was notparticularly handsome; and lastly (and of most import), he had remainedproof against all Eva's attractions.
"I thank thee," was all he said now; and he walked into Margaret'sbower, where he took a seat on the extreme end of the settle, and neversaid a word to any body whilst he stayed.
"The absurd creature!" exclaimed Eva, when he was gone. "What anabsolute ass he is! He has not an idea in his head."
"Oh, I beg thy pardon, Eva," interposed Marie, rather warmly. "He'splenty of ideas. He'll talk if one talks to him. Thou never dost."
"He is clever enough to please thee, very likely!" was the rathersnappish answer.
From that evening, Sir John de Averenches took to frequenting the boweroccasionally, much to the annoyance of Eva, until the happy thoughtstruck her that she might have captivated him at last. Mentally bindinghim to her chariot wheels, she made no further objection, but on thecontrary, became so amiable that the shrewd little Marie noticed thealteration.
"Well, Eva is queer!" said that acute young lady. "She goes into thesulks if Sir William de Cantilupe so much as looks at any body; but shedoes not care how many people she looks at! I think she should bejealous on both sides!"
Eva's amenities, however, seemed to have no more effect on Sir John thanher displeasure. Night after night, there he sat, never speaking to anyone, and apparently not noticing one more than another.
"He's going out of his mind," suggested Marie.
"Not he!" said Eva. "He's none to go out of!"
The mystery was left unsolved, except by Bruno, who fancied that heguessed its meaning; but since the clue was one which he preferred notto pursue, he discreetly left matters to shape themselves, or rather, tobe shaped by Providence, when the time should come.
That was a dreary winter altogether. The King had openly insulted hissister and Montfort, when they made their appearance at the ceremony ofthe Queen's "up-rising;" [Churching] and they had left England,pocketing the affront, but as concerned Montfort, by no means forgettingit.
The Pope made further encroachments on the liberties of the Church ofEngland, by sending over a horde of Italians to fill vacant benefices.The nobles blazed out into open wrath "that the Pope, through avarice,should deprive them of their ancient right to the patronage of livings!"They were headed, as usual, by the King's brother, Richard Earl ofCornwall, who seems to have been not a true, living Christian (as thereis reason to believe his son was), but simply a political opponent ofthe aggressions of Rome. The citizens of London were about equallydisgusted with the King, who at this time received a visit from theQueen's uncle, Tomaso of Savoy, and in his delight, His Majestycommanded his loyal and grumbling subjects to remove all dirt from thestreets, and to meet the Count in gala clothing, and with horseshandsomely accoutred.
The hint thrown out by Levina had not been lost on the Countess. Shethought a complete change might do good to the fading flower which wasonly too patently withering on its stem: and at her instance the wholehousehold removed to Westminster at the beginning of this winter. Theyhad hardly settled down in their new abode when a fresh storm broke onthe now aged head of Earl Hubert.
Once more, all the old, worn-out charges were trumped up, including eventhat by which the Princess Margaret's name had been so cruelly aspersed.A flash of the early fire of the old man blazed forth when theaccusation was made.
"I was never a traitor to you, nor to your father!" said Hubert deBurgh, facing his ungrateful King and pupil of long ago: "If I had been,under God, you would never have been here!"
It was true, and Henry knew it, best of all men.
The King, in the fulness of his compassionate grace, was pleased to letthe Earl off very lightly. The sentence passed was, that he should onlyresign the four most valuable castles that he had. This, of course, wasnot because Hubert was guilty, but because His Majesty was covetous.Chateau Blanc, Grosmond, Skenefrith, and Hatfield, were given up to theCrown. Hubert bore it, we are told, very quietly and patiently. Hisown time could not be long now, for he was at least seventy; and theBenjamin of his love was dying of a broken heart.
King Henry himself was not without sorrow, for about All Saints' Day,Guglielmo of Savoy, the beloved uncle who had moulded him like wax, diedrather suddenly at Viterbo. So grieved was the King, that he tore hisroyal mantle from his shoulders, and flung it into the fire. With thatsudden and passionate reaction to the other side, often seen in weaknatures, he now threw himself into the arms of the Predicants andMinorites--until he set up a new favourite, who was not long inappearing.
Before the winter was over, a second sorrow fell upon Richard de Clare,in the death of his mother, Isabel, wife of the King's brother.Cornwall grieved bitterly both for the loss of his wife and for themiserable state into which England was sinking; and declaring that heloved his country so much, that he could not bear to stay and see it goto ruin, he prepared to head a fresh crusade. Perhaps it did not occurto him that love and patriotism would have been shown better by stayingat home and trying to keep his country from going to ruin. That wasreserved for another Richard--the young Earl of Gloucester.
Another comet, and a violent hurricane, in the spring, made the augursshake their heads and prophesy worse calamities than ever. There was afresh one on the way, in the shape of a Papal exaction of one-fifth ofthe property of foreign beneficed clerks in England, in order to supportthe war then waged by the Pope on the Emperor of Germany. The royalCouncil was stirred, and told its listless master that he "ought not tosuffer England to become a spoil and a desolation to immigrants, like avineyard without a wall, exposed to wild beasts." His Majesty, like atrue son of holy Church, replied that he "neither wished nor dared tooppose the Pope in any thing." As if to make confusion worseconfounded, the Archbishop of Canterbury (subsequently known as SaintEdmund of Pontigny) aspired to become a second Becket, and appealed tothe Pope to do away with state patronage, which he of course consideredought to be vested in the Primate. King Henry, supine as he was, wasroused at last, and sent a message to Rome to the effect that the appealof the Archbishop was contrary to his royal dignity. The Pope declinedto entertain the appeal: and the King, we are told (by a monk) "becamemore tyrannical than ever," and appointed Bonifacio of Savoy to the Seeof Winchester. The defeated Archbishop submitted to the Pope's demandof a fifth of his income: but when the Pope, emboldened by success,came, to an agreement with the Italian priests occupying Englishbenefices, that on condition of their helping him against the Emperor,all benefices in his gift should be bestowed upon Italians, theArchbishop could bear no longer, and he left England, never to return.He died at Pontigny, his birthplace, on the sixteenth of Novemberfollowing; and not long afterwards, King Henry reverently knelt toworship at the tomb of the saint [Note 1] who had been a thorn in hisside as long as he lived.
Then the English Abbots, cruelly mulcted by the Pope, appealed to theirnatural Sovereign, to be met by a scowl, and to hear the Legate toldthat he might choose the best of the royal castles wherein to imprisonthem. Twenty-four Roman priests came over to fill English benefices:and at last, when the Legate left England (for which "no one was sorrybut the King"), it was calculated that with the exception of churchplate, he carried out of England more
wealth than he left in it.
But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outsidecalamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towardssummer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the whitelily had faded at last, and the star was going out.
The trial of patience had been long for Margaret but it was over now.
Master Aristoteles could not understand it. The maiden had no diseasethat he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of SaintDominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable.
There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longerthought it strange that God should have made her young life short andbitter. The lesson was learned, at last.
So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just whenit came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to situp, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quietthat it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was.
Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bedwhen dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and inall the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine.
Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in thefestivities.
"Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?" she said, answeringDoucebelle's face. "Margaret will not be any better because I am here.And then, when I come in at night, I can tell her all about it. And itis no use talking, Doucebelle! I really cannot bear this sort of thing!I get so melancholy, you have no idea! I don't know what would becomeof me if I had not some diversion."
Beatrice and Doucebelle stayed with Margaret: Doucebelle from a sort ofinward sensation, she hardly knew what or why; Beatrice from a remarkmade by Bruno the night before.
"It will not be long, now, at least," he had said.
The day wore slowly on, but it seemed just like twenty days which hadpreceded it. Bruno paid his daily visit towards evening.
"Are the streets very full of holiday-makers?" asked Margaret.
"Very full, my daughter. There is a great crowd round the May-pole."
"I hope Eva will enjoy herself."
"I have no doubt she will."
"It seems so far off, now," said Margaret, dreamily. "As if I werewhere I could hardly see it--somewhere above this world, and all thethings that are in the world. Father, have you any idea what there willbe in Heaven?"
"There will be Christ," answered Bruno. "And what may be implied in`His glory, which God hath given Him,'--our finite minds are scarcelycapable of guessing. Only, His will is that His people shall behold itand share it. It must be something that He thinks worth seeing--He, whohas beheld the glory of God before the worlds were."
"Father," said Margaret, with deep feeling, "it seems too much that _we_should see it."
"True. But not too much that He should bestow it. He gives,--as Heforgives--like a king."
Like what king?--was the thought in Doucebelle's mind. Not like the oneof whom she knew any thing--who was responsible before God for thatdeath which was coming on so quietly, yet so surely.
Beatrice had left the room a few minutes before, and she was nowreturning to it through the ante-chamber. The dusk was rapidly falling,and, not knowing of any presence but her own, she was extremely startledto find herself grasped by the shoulder, by a firm hand which evidentlyhad no intention of standing any trifling. She looked up into the faceof a stranger, and yet a face which was not altogether strange. It wasthat of a tall, handsome man, with fair hair, and a stern, painedcompression of brow and lips.
"Is it true?" he said in a husky voice.
"Is what true?" Beatrice was too startled to think what he meant.
The grasp upon her shoulder tightened till a weaker woman would havescreamed.
"Belasez, do not trifle with me! Is she dying?"
And then, all at once, Beatrice knew who it was that asked her.
"It is too true, Sir Richard," she said sadly, pityingly, with almost areverential compassion for that faithful love which had brought himthere that night.
"I must see her, Belasez."
"Is it wise, Sir Richard?"
"Wise!"
"Pardon me--is it right?"
"Right!--what is the wrong? She is my wife, in God's sight--she andnone other. What do I care for Pope or King? Is not God above both?We plighted our vows to Him, and none but He could part us."
"Let me break it to her, then," said Beatrice, feeling scarcely so muchconvinced as overwhelmed. "It will startle her if she be not toldbeforehand."
Richard's only answer was to release Beatrice from his grasp. Shepassed into Margaret's bower, and, was surprised to see a strange gleamin the eyes of the dying girl.
"Beatrice, Richard is here. I know I heard his voice. Bring him tome."
"God has told her," said Bruno, in an undertone, as he left the room,with a sign to Beatrice and Doucebelle to follow.
They stood in the ante-chamber, minute after minute, but no sound camethrough the closed door. Half an hour passed in total silence. At lastBruno said--
"I think some one should go in."
But no one liked to do it, and the silence went on again.
Then Hawise same in, and wanted to know what they were all doing there.She was excessively shocked when Doucebelle told her. How extremelyimproper! She must go in and put a stop to it that minute.
Hawise tapped at the door, but no answer came. She opened it, andstood, silenced and frightened by what she saw. Richard de Clare bentover the bed, pouring passionate, unanswered kisses upon dead violeteyes, and tenderly smoothing the tresses of the cedar hair.
"The Lord has been here!" said Beatrice involuntarily.
"O Lord, be thanked that Thou hast given Thy child quiet rest at last!"was the response from Bruno.
Richard stood up and faced them.
"Is this God's doing, or is it man's?" he said, in a voice which soundedalmost like an execration of some one. "God gave me this white dove, tonestle in my bosom and to be the glory of my life. Who took her fromme? Does one of you dare to say it was God? It was man!--a man whoshall pay for it, if he coin his heart's blood to do so. And if thepayment cost my heart's blood, it will be little matter, seeing it hascost my heart already."
He drew his dagger, and bending down again, severed one of the long softtresses of the cedar hair.
"Farewell, my dove!" he murmured, in a tone so altered that it wasdifficult to recognise the same voice. "Thou at least shalt suffer nomore. Thy place is with the blessed saints and the holy angels, wherenothing may ever enter that shall grieve or defile. But surely as thouart safe housed in Heaven, and I am left desolate on earth, thy deathshall be avenged by fair means or by foul!"
"`Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,'" softly quoted Brunoas Richard passed him in the doorway.
"He will,--by my hands!"
And Richard de Clare was seen no more.
It was hard to tell the poor mother, who came into her Margaret's bowerwith a bright smile, guessing so little of the terrible news in store.Tenderly as they tried to break it, she fainted away, and had to benursed back to life and diligently cared for. But all was over for thenight, and Doucebelle and Beatrice were beginning to think of bed,before Eva made her appearance. Of course the news had to be toldagain.
"Oh dear, how shocking!" said Eva, putting down her bouquet. "How verydistressing! (I am afraid those flowers will never keep till morning.)Well, do you know, I am really thankful I was not here. What good couldit have done poor dear Margaret, you know?--and I am so easily upset,and so very sensitive! I never can _bear_ scenes of that sort. (Dear,I had no idea my shoes were so splashed!) As it is, I shall not sleep awink. I sha'n't get over it for a week,--if I do then! Oh, how veryshocking! Look, Doucebelle, aren't these cowslips sweet?"
"Eva, wilt thou let me have some of the white flowers--for Margaret?"said Douce
belle.
"For Margaret!--why, what dost thou mean? Oh! To put by her in hercoffin? Horrid! Really, Dulcie, I think that is great waste. And thebouquet is so nicely made up,--it would be such a pity to pull it topieces! I spent half an hour at least in putting it together, andBrimnatyn de Hertiland helped me. Of course thou canst have them ifthou must,--but--"
Doucebelle quietly declined the gift so doubtfully offered.
"I wish, Doucebelle, thou wouldst have more consideration for people'sfeelings!" said Eva in a querulous tone, smoothing the petals of herflowers. "I am sure, whenever I look at a bouquet for the nexttwelvemonth, I shall think of this. I cannot help it--things do takesuch hold of me! And just think, how easily all that might be avoided!"
"I beg thy pardon, Eva. I am sorry I asked thee," was the soft answer.
It was not far to Margaret's grave, for they laid her in the quietcloisters of Westminster Abbey, and the King who had been an accessoryto her end followed her bier. Hers was not the only life that his acthad shortened. Earl Hubert had virtually done with earth, when he sawlowered into the cold ground the coffin of his Benjamin. He survivedher just two years, and laid down his weary burden of life on the fourthof May, 1243.
When Margaret was gone, there was no further tie to Bury Castle forBruno and his daughter. Bishop Grosteste was again applied to, andresponded as kindly as before, though circumstances did not allow him todo it equally to his satisfaction. The rich living originally offeredto Bruno had of course been filled up, and there was nothing at thatmoment in the episcopal gift but some very small ones. The best ofthese he gave; and about two months after the death of Margaret, Brunoand Beatrice took leave of the Countess, and removed to their new home.It was a quiet little hamlet in the south of Lincolnshire, with apopulation of barely three hundred souls; and Beatrice's time was filledup by different duties from those which had occupied her at Bury Castle.The summer glided away in a peaceful round of most unexciting events.There had been so much excitement hitherto in their respective lives,that the priest and his daughter were only too thankful for a calmstretch of life, all to themselves.
One evening towards the close of summer, as Bruno came home to hislittle parsonage, where the dog-roses looked in at the windows, and thehoneysuckles climbed round the porch, a sight met him which assured himthat his period of peace and content was ended. On the stone bench inthe porch, alone, intently examining a honeysuckle, sat Sir John deAverenches.
Bruno de Malpas was much too shrewd to suppose that his society was themagnet which had attracted the silent youth some fifty miles across thecountry. He sighed, but resigning himself to the inevitable, lifted hisbiretta as he came up to the door. Sir John rose and greeted him withevident cordiality, but he did not appear to have any thing particularto say beyond two self-evident statements--that it was a fine evening,and the honeysuckles were pretty.
"Is Beatrice within?" said the priest, feeling pretty sure that he knew.
Sir John demurely thought not. It was another half-hour before Beatricemade her appearance; and Bruno noticed that the unexpected presence of athird person evoked no expression of surprise on her part. Thepreparations for supper were made by Beatrice and her attendanthandmaiden Sabina; and after the meal was over, Bruno discreetly wentoff, with the interesting observation that he was about to visit a sickperson at the furthest part of the parish. Sir John had taken his seaton the extreme end of a form, and Beatrice came and sat with herembroidery at the other end. Ten minutes of profound silenceintervened.
"Beatrice!"
"Yes."
Another minute of silence.
"Beatrice!"
"Well?"
"Beatrice, what dost thou think of me?"
Beatrice coolly cut off an end of yellow silk, and threaded her needlewith blue.
"Ask my father."
"How does he know what thou thinkest?"
"Well, he always does," said Beatrice, calmly fastening the blue silk onthe wrong side of the material.
"Wilt thou not tell me thyself?"
"I should, if I wanted to be rid of thee."
The distance between the two occupants of the form was materiallylessened.
"Then thou dost not want to be rid of me?"
"I can work while I am talking," replied Beatrice, in her very coolestmanner.
"Why dost thou think I came, Beatrice?"
"Because it pleased thee, I should think."
The needle was drawn from the blue silk, and a needleful of scarlet wentin instead, while the end of the blue thread was carefully secured inBeatrice's left hand for future use.
"One, two, three, four,"--Beatrice was half audibly counting herstitches.
"It did please me, Beatrice."
"Five, six--all right, Sir John--seven, eight, nine--"
"Does it please thee?"
"Thirteen, fourteen--it is pleasant to have some one to talk to--fifteen, sixteen--when I am not counting--seventeen, eighteen,nineteen."
And in went the needle, and the scarlet silk began to flow in and outwith rapidity.
"Do I interrupt thee, Beatrice?"
"Thanks, I have done counting for the present."
"Would it interrupt thee very much to be married?"
"Well, I should think it would." Beatrice stopped the scarlet, andrethreaded the blue.
"More than thou wouldst like?"
"That would depend on circumstances."
"What circumstances?" inquired the bashful yet persistent suitor.
"Who was to marry me, principally."
"Suppose I was?"
"Thou canst not, till thou hast asked my father."
There was a gleam in the dark eyes veiled with their long lashes. Itmight be either resentment or fun.
"May I ask him, Beatrice?"
"Did I not tell thee so at first?"
This curious conversation had taken so long, and had been interrupted byso many pauses, that Bruno appeared before it had progressed further.He glanced at the pair with some amusement in his eyes, not unmixed withsadness, for he had a decided foreboding that he was about to lose hisBeatrice. But no more was said that night.
The next morning, Sir John de Averenches made the formal appeal whichBruno was fully expecting.
"I am not good at words, Father," he said, with honest manliness; "and Iknow the maiden is fair beyond many. You may easily look higher forher; but you will not easily find one that loves her better."
"Truly, my son, that is mine own belief," said Bruno. "But hast thoufully understood that she is of Jewish descent, which many Christianknights would count a blot on their escocheons?"
"Being a Christian, that makes _no_ difference to me."
"Well! She shall decide for herself; but I fancy I know what she willsay. It will be hard to part with her."
"Why should you, Father? Will she not still want a confessor?--andcould she have a better than you?"
"Thank you, Father!" said Beatrice demurely, when Bruno told her thathis consent was given, contingent upon hers. "Then I will begin mywedding-dress."
In this extremely cool manner the fair maiden intimated her intention ofbecoming a matron. But Bruno, who knew every change of her features andcolour, was well aware that she felt a great deal more than she said.The mask was soon dropped.
The wedding-dress was a marvel of her own lovely embroidery. It wasworn about the beginning of winter, and once more Bruno resigned hisparish duties, and became, as his son-in-law had wisely suggested, afamily confessor.
They heard from Bury that the marriage of Eva de Braose took place aboutthe same time. And the general opinion in the Lincolnshire parsonagewas rather, as respected Sir William de Cantilupe, one of condolencethan of congratulation.
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Eighteen years after that summer, a solitary traveller was approachingthe city of Tewkesbury. He sat down on a low wall which skirted theroad, and wiped his heated brow. H
e was a tall, fine-looking man, witha dark olive complexion, and clustering masses of black hair. There wasno one in sight, and the traveller began to talk in an undertone tohimself, as solitary men are sometimes wont to do.
"A good two hours before sunset, I suppose," he said, looking towardsthe sun, which was blazing fiercely. "Pugh! where does that horridsmell come from? Ah, that is the vesper bell, as they call it--theunclean beasts that they are! Well, we at least are pure from everyshadow of idolatry.
"Yet are we pure from sin? I do think, now, it was a pity--a mistake--that visit of mine to Sir Piers de Rievaulx. I might have let that girllive--the girl that Belasez loved. Well! she is one of the creepingthings now. She--our Belasez! This is a cross-grained, crooked sort ofworld. Faugh! that smell again!
"I suppose this is the wall of Tewkesbury Castle. Is my Lord the Earlat home, I wonder? How I did hate that boy!
"What is coming yonder, with those jingling bells? A string of pilgrimsto some accursed shrine, most likely. May these heathen idolaters beall confounded, and the chosen people of Adonai be brought home inpeace! I could see, I dare say, if I stood on the wall. They may havesome vile idol with them, and if I do not get out of the way--"
He had sprung upon the parapet, and stood trying so to twist himself asto catch a glimpse of the religious procession which he supposed to beapproaching, when suddenly he slipped and fell backwards. A wild cryfor "Help!" rang through the startled air. Where was he going? Down,down, plunging overhead into some soft, evil-odoured, horrible mass,from which, by grasping an iron bar that projected above, he justmanaged so far to raise himself as to get his head free. And then thedreadful truth broke upon him, and his cries for help became piercing.
Delecresse had fallen into the open cess-pool of Tewkesbury Castle.
Suddenly he ceased to shriek, and all was still. Not that he neededhelp any the less, nor that he was less conscious of it, but because heremembered what at first he had forgotten in his terror and disgust,that until sunset it was the rest of the holy Sabbath unto the Lord.Perhaps, by clinging to the iron bar, he could live till the sun droppedbelow the horizon. At any rate, Delecresse, sternest of Pharisees tohis heart's core, would not profane the Sabbath, even for life.
But now there was a little stir outside, and a voice shouted--
"What ho!--who cried for help?"
"I."
"Who art thou, and where?"
"I have fallen into the cess-pool; I pray thee, friend, whoever thouart, to bring or send me something on which I can rest till sunset, andthen help me forth."
"The saints be blessed! a jolly place to fall into. But why, in thename of all the Calendar, dost thou want to wait till sunset?"
"Because I am a Jew, and until then is the holy Sabbath."
A peal of laughter answered the explanation.
"Hope thou mayest enjoy it! Well, if ever I heard such nonsense! Is itworth while pulling a Jew out?--what sayest thou, Anselm?"
"He is a man, poor soul!" returned a second voice. "Nay, let us notleave him to such a death as that."
"Look here, old Jew! I will go and fetch a ladder and rope. I shouldpull my dog out of that hole, and perhaps thou mayest be as good."
"I will not be taken out till sunset," returned Delecresse stubbornly.
"The fellow's a mule! Hie thee, Anselm, and ask counsel of our graciousLord what we shall do."
A strange feeling crept over Delecresse when he heard his fate, for lifeor death, thus placed in the hands of the man whose life he had wrecked.Anselm was heard to run off quickly, and in a few minutes he returned.
"Sir Richard the Earl laughed a jolly laugh when I told him," was hisreport. "He saith, Let the cur be, if he will not be plucked forthuntil Monday morning: for if Saturday be his Sabbath, Sunday is mine,and what will defile the one will defile the other." [This part of thestory is historical.]
"Monday morning! He will be a dead man, hours before that!"
"So he will. It cannot be helped, except--Jew, wilt thou be pulled outnow, or not? If not now, then not at all."
For one moment, the heart of Delecresse grew sick and faint within himas he contemplated the awful alternatives presented to his choice.Then, gathering all his strength, he shouted back his final decision.
"No! I will not break the Sabbath of my God."
The men outside laughed, uttered an expression of contemptuous pity, andhe heard their footsteps grow faint in the distance, and knew that hewas left to die as horrible a death as can befall humanity. Only oneother cry arose, and that was not for the ears of men. It was theprayer of one in utter error, yet in terrible extremity: and it washonestly sincere.
"Adonai! I have sinned and done evil, all my life long. Specially Ihave sinned against this man, who has left me to die here in thishorrible place. Now therefore, O my God, I beseech Thee, let thesufferings of Thy servant be accepted before Thee as an atonement forhis sin, and let this one good deed, that I have preferred death ratherthan break Thy law, rise before Thee as the incense with the eveningsacrifice!"
Yes, it was utter error. Yet the Christians of his day, one here andthere excepted, could have taught him no better. And what had theyoffered him instead? Idol-worship, woman-worship, offerings for thedead,--every thing which the law of God had forbidden. In the day whenthe blood of the martyrs is demanded at the hand of Babylon, will therebe no reckoning for the souls of those thousand sons of Israel, whom shehas persistently thrust away from Christ, by erecting a rood-screen ofidols between Him and them?
When day dawned on the Monday, they pulled out of the cess-pool the bodyof a dead man.
One month later, in the chapter-house at Canterbury, King Henry theThird stood, an humble and helpless suppliant, before his assembledBarons. There he was forced, utterly against his will and wish, to signan additional charter granting liberties to England, and binding his ownhands. It was Simon de Montfort who had brought matters to this pass.But Simon de Montfort was not the tall, fair, stately man who forced thepen into the unwilling fingers of the cowering King, and who held outthe Evangelisterium for the swearing of his hated oath. King Henrylooked up into the cold steel-like glitter of those stern blue eyes, andthe firm set expression of the compressed lips, and realised in aninstant that in this man he would find neither misgiving nor mercy. Itwas a great perplexity to him that the man on whom he had showered suchfavours should thus take part against him. He had forgotten all aboutthat April morning, twenty-three years before; and had no conceptionthat between himself and the eyes of Richard de Clare, floated
"A shadow like an angel's, with bright hair,"
nor that when that scene in the chapter-house was over, and Richardreturned his good Damascus blade to its scabbard, he murmured within hisheart to ears that heard not--
"I have avenged thee at last!"
But Richard never knew that his heaviest vengeance had been exacted onemonth sooner, when, with that bitter mirth which Anselm had misnamed, heleft an unknown Jew to perish in misery.
The sun was setting that evening over Lincoln. Just on the rise ofSteephill stood a handsome Norman house, with a garden stretchingbehind. In the garden, on a stone settle, sat an old priest and a veryhandsome middle-aged lady. Two young sisters were wandering about thegarden with their arms round each other's waists; a young man stood atthe ornamental fountain, talking playfully to the hawk upon his wrist;while on the grass at the lady's feet sat two pretty children, theirlaps full of flowers. A conversation which had been running wasevidently coming to a conclusion.
"Then you think, Father, that it is never lawful, under anycircumstances, to do evil that good may come?"
"God can bring good out of evil, my Beatrice. But it is one of Hisprerogatives."
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Note 1. _Rot. Exit., Past_., 41 Henry Third.
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