*CHAPTER IX.*
_*ELAINE FINDS MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED*_*.*
"And when I know not what Thou dost, I'll wait the light above." --DODDRIDGE.
Both Guy and Lady Sybil are in a state of the highest ecstasy, and saythat they are abundantly recompensed for all their past disappointments.And this is because they are disappointed just like Amaury, but theybear it in as different a style as possible. I think, if I were they, Ishould consider I had more right to be troubled of the two, for littleHeloise is a strong child enough, and is growing almost pretty: whiledear Lady Sybil's baby girl is a little delicate thing, that the windmight blow away. Of course I shall love her far better, just becauseshe is Guy's and Sybil's; and she crept into the warmest corner of myheart when she showed me her eyes--not Lady Sybil's gentle grey, butthose lovely flashing dark eyes of Guy's; the most beautiful eyes, Ithink, that were ever seen.
"Marguerite, is not she charming?" I cried.
"Ah, the little children always are," said the old woman.
(I don't agree with her--little children can be great teases.) ButMarguerite had more to say.
"My Damoiselle sees they are yet innocent of actual sin; therefore theyare among the best things in God's world. I may be wrong, but I thinkthe good God must have been the loveliest babe ever seen. How I shouldhave liked to be there!--if the holy Mother would have allowed me tohold Him in my arms!"
"Ah, I suppose only the holiest saints would be allowed to touch Him,"said I.
"I am not so sure, if my Damoiselle will pardon me. She was no saint,surely, that crept into the Pharisee's house to break thecasting-bottle[#] on His feet; yet the hardest word she had from Him was'Go in peace.' Ah, I thank the good God that His bidding is not, 'Comeunto Me, all ye that are holy.' There are few of us would come, if itwere! But 'Come unto Me, all ye that are weary'--that takes us all in.For we are all weary some time. The lot of a woman is a weary lot, atthe best."
[#] Used to sprinkle perfumes.
"Well, it may be, among the villeins," said I.
"My Damoiselle, I never saw more bitter tears than those of the old Ladyde Chatelherault--mother of the Lady de Lusignan--when her fair-hairedboy was brought in to her in the bower, with the green weeds in his longbright hair, and the gold broidery of his velvet tunic tarnished by thethick stagnant water. Early that morning he had been dancing by her,with the love-light in his beautiful blue eyes; and now, when the duskfell, they laid him down at her feet, drowned and dead, with the lightgone out of the blue eyes for ever. Ah, I have seen no little sorrowamongst men and women in my seventy years!--but I never saw a womanlook, more than she did, as if she had lost the light of life. Thevilleins have a hard lot, as the good God knows; but all the sorrow oflife is not for the villeins--no, no!"
How oddly she puts things! I should never have thought of supposingthat the villeins had any sorrow. A certain dull kind of coarse grief,or tired feeling, perhaps, they may have at times, like animals: butsorrow surely is a higher and finer thing, and is reserved for thenobles. As to old Marguerite herself, I never do quite think of her asa villein. She has dwelt with nobles all her life, so to speak, and isnot of exactly the same common sort of stuff that they are.
Yesterday afternoon Lady Sybil and I were alone in the bower, and shehad the baby in her arms. The little creature is to be made a Christianon Sunday. I asked her what name it was to have. I expected her to sayeither Marie, which is the Lady Queen's name, or Eustacie, the name ofGuy's mother. But she said neither. She answered, "Agnes." And shespoke in that hushed, reverent voice, in which one instinctively uttersthe names of the beloved dead. I could not think whose it could be.The name has never been in our House, to my knowledge; and I was notaware of it in Lady Sybil's line.
"Dost thou not know whose name it is, Helena?" asked Lady Sybil. Ifancy she answered my look.
"No," said I.
"My dear lord has been very good to me," she said. "He made not theleast objection. It was my mother's name, Helena."
"Oh!" said I, enlightened. "Lady Sybil, do tell me, can you rememberthe Lady Queen your mother? How old were you when she died?"
She did not answer me for an instant. When I looked up, I saw tearsdropping slowly on the infant's robes.
"When she--died!" There was a moment's pause. "Ay, there are moregraves than men dig in the churchyard! When she--_died_,--Helena, I wassix years old."
"Then you can remember her?" I said eagerly. "Oh, I wish I couldremember mine."
"Ay, memory may be intense bliss," she answered; "or it may be terribletorture. I can remember a fair face bent down over mine, soft, broodingarms folded round me, loving kisses from gentle lips. And then----OHelena, did my lord tell thee she was dead? It was kind of him; for heknows."[#]
[#] I trust it will not be imagined from this that I think lightly of"white lies." Romanists, as a rule, are very lenient towards them.
Lady Sybil was sobbing.
"Then she is not dead?" I said, in a low voice.
"I do not know!" she replied. "No one knows. She is dead to us. Oh,why, why does holy Church permit such terrible things?--What am Isaying? May the good Lord pardon me if I speak against Him!--But Icannot understand why it must be. They had been wedded nearly ten years,Helena,--I mean my parents,--when it was discovered that they werewithin the prohibited degrees. Why cannot dispensations be given whensuch things occur? They knew nothing of it. Why must they be parted,and she be driven into loneliness and obscurity, and I---- Well, it wasdone. A decree of holy Church parted them, and she went back to herpeople. We have never heard another word about her. But those who sawher depart from Jerusalem said she seemed like one whose very heart wasbroken."
"And she never came back?" I said pityingly.
"Is it much wonder?" answered Lady Sybil, in a low voice, rocking thechild gently in her arms. "It would have been much, I think, for thecrowned and anointed Queen of Jerusalem to steal into her capital asDamoiselle de Courtenay. But it would have been far more for the wifeand mother to come suing to her supplanter for a sight of her ownchildren. No, I cannot wonder that she never, never came back."
I was silent for a little while, then I said--
"Was the Lord King as grieved as she? I cannot understand, if so, whythey should not have obtained a dispensation, and have been married overagain."
Lady Sybil shook her head, and I saw another tear drop on the baby'srobe.
"No, Helena," she said, hardly above a whisper: "I do not think he was.He had the opportunity of allying himself with the Caesars. And thereare men to whom a woman is a woman, and one woman is just as good asanother, or very nearly so. Do men selling a horse stop to considerwhether it will be as happy with the new master as the old? They do notcare. And, very often, they cannot understand."
Ay, Amaury is one of that sort.
"And you think--if she be alive--that she will never come?" I asked.
"I hope she might. But I think she will not. Ah, how I have hoped it!Helena, hast thou wondered how it is that nothing short of absoluteimpossibility will suffer me to depute to another the daily distributionof the dole at the postern gate to those poor women that come for alms?Canst thou not guess that amongst all the faces I look but for one--forthe one that might creep in there unrecognised to look on me, and thatmust never, never go away with a soreness at her heart, saying, 'She wasnot there!' Every loaf that I give to a stranger, I say, 'Pray for thesoul of Agnes of Anjou!' And then, if some day she should creep inamong the rest, and I should not know her--ah! but I think I should, ifit were only by the mother-hunger in the eyes--but if she should, andhear that, and yet not speak, she will say in her heart, 'Sybil loves meyet.' And if she could only creep one step further,--'_God_ loves meyet!' For He does, Helena. Maybe He has comforted her long ago: but ifshe should not have found it out, and be still stretching forth numbhands in the darkness--and if I could say it to her! Now thou knowes
twhy I call the babe by her name. I know not where she is, nor indeed ifshe is on earth. But He knows. And He may let her hear it. If shecome to know that I have called my child by her name, she may not feelquite so lost and lonely. I have no other way to say to her,--'I havenot forgotten thee; nor has God. I love thee; I would fain help thee.He loves thee and is ready to save thee.' Who can tell?--she _may_hear."
"Oh dear, this is a bad world!" said I. "Why are people so hard on eachother? We are all fellow-sinners, I suppose."
"Ah, Helena!" said Lady Sybil, with a sorrowful smile. "Hast thou notfound, dear, that the greater sinner a man is himself, very generally,the harder he will be on other sinners--especially when their sins areof a different type from his own. The holier a man is, the more hehates sin, and yet the more tenderly will he deal with the sinner. Foras sin means going away from God, so holiness must mean coming near God.And God is more merciful than men to all who come to Him for mercy."
Lady Judith came in while the last words were being spoken.
"I never can quite tell," said I, "what sin is. Why should some thingsbe sin, and other things not be sin?"
"Go on, Helena," said Lady Judith, turning round with a smile. "Whyshould so many things be wrong, which I like, and so many things beright, which I do not like?"
"Well, holy Mother, it is something like that," said I, laughing. "Willyou please to tell me why?"
"Because, my child, thou hast inherited a sinful nature."
"But I do not like sin--as sin," said I.
"Then temptation has no power over thee. Is it so? Art thou never'drawn away of thine own lust, and enticed'?"
"Well, I am not perfect," said I. "I suppose nobody expects to be."
"Yet without absolute perfection, Helena, thou canst never enterHeaven."
"O holy Mother!" cried I.
"Where art thou about to get it?" said she.
"I am sure I do not know!" I replied blankly.
"Thou shouldst know, my child," she responded gently. "Think about it."
I cannot guess what she means. I am sure I may think about that for ayear, and be no nearer when I have done.
I have had a great pleasure to-day, in the shape of a letter fromMonseigneur our father, addressed to Guy, but meant for us all three.He wrote about six months after we set out; and I should hope he hasbefore now received my letter, which I sent off on the first opportunityafter our arrival in the Holy City. Every body seems to be well, andAlix has a baby boy, whom she means to call after Monseigneur--Geoffrey.There is no other special news. Level, he says, misses us sorely, andlies at my door with his nose between his paws, as if he wereconsidering what it could all mean. I wonder whether he thinks he comesto any satisfactory solution.
The Lord King, I hear, has been more indisposed for some days past. TheLady Queen is very attentive to him. Lady Isabel and her lord have gonethrough another tremendous quarrel,--about what I do not know.
Early yesterday morning our sister Eschine's second baby was announced,and in the afternoon the holy Patriarch baptized it by Guy's name.Amaury was in ecstasies with his boy; but alas! in the evening the poorlittle thing fell into convulsions, and barely lived to see the dawn ofanother day. Amaury passed from the climax of triumph to the depths ofdespair. He growled and snarled at every body, and snapped at Eschinein particular, as though he thought she had let her child die on purposeto vex him. That she could be in as much distress as himself, did notseem to occur to him. If anything could have provoked me more thanAmaury's unreasonableness, it would have been the calm patience withwhich Eschine took it. There he stalked about, grumbling and growling.
"Why did you all let the child die?" he wanted to know--as if we couldhave helped it. "There is not one of you has any sense!"--as if he had!"Alix's boy manages to live. She knows how to treat him. Women are allidiots!" (Alix, apparently, not being a woman.)
Poor Eschine lay still, a few tears now and then making their way downher white cheeks, and meekly begging her lord and master's pardon forwhat she had not done. When he was gone, she said--I think toanticipate what she saw on the tip of my tongue--
"Thou knowest, Elaine dear, he is not angry with me. Men do set suchstore by a son. It is only natural he should be very much distressed."
She will persist in making excuses for him.
"Distressed?--well!" said I. "But he does not need to be so silly andangry. Natural!--well, yes,--I think it is natural to Amaury to be anidiot. I always did think so."
"O Lynette! don't, dear!" pleaded Eschine.
I am beginning to think I have been rather unjust to Eschine when I saidthere was nothing in her; but it has taken a long while to come out.And it seems to come rather in the form of doing and bearing, than ofthinking and saying.
But that Amaury is a most profound donkey no mortal man can doubt,--orat any rate, no mortal woman.
I was awfully startled this morning when Marguerite undrew my curtains,and told me that our Lord King Beaudouin had been commanded to God. Itseems now that for some time past he has been more ill than any oneknew, except the Lady Queen his stepmother. What that wicked Count ofTripoli may have known, of course, I cannot say. But I am sure he hashad a hand in the late King's will. The crown is left to the littleKing, Beaudouin V., and our sweet Sybil is disinherited. What thatreally means, I suppose, is that the Count is jealous of Guy's influenceover his Lady, and imagines that he can sway the child better than themother.
There are to be various changes in consequence of the Lord King's death.The Lady Queen returns to her own family at Byzantium. I do hope LadyJudith will not go with her; but I am very much afraid she may. Guytalks about retiring to his city of Ascalon, but though I am sure LadySybil will submit to his will, I can see she does not want to leave herboy, though I do not believe she distrusts that wicked Tripoli as I do.
I asked Marguerite if she did not feel very angry.
"No," she said quietly. "Is my Damoiselle very angry?"
"Indeed I am," said I.
"Does my Damoiselle know what are the good Lord's purposes forMonseigneur Count Guy? It is more than old Marguerite does."
"Of course not: but I see what has happened."
"And not what will happen? Ah, that is not seeing much."
"But what can happen, to put things right again, Margot?"
"Ha! Do I know, I? No better than Monseigneur Saint Jacob, when hisson, Monseigneur Saint Joseph, sent for his little brother, and refusedto send the meal until he came. That is so beautiful a history!--and somany times repeated in this world. The poor old father!--he thought allthese things were against him. He did not know what the good God wasmaking ready for him. He did not know! And the good God will never behurried. It is we that are in a hurry, poor children of time,--we wantevery thing to happen to-day. But He, who has eternity to work in, canafford to let things take their time. My Damoiselle does not know whatold Helweh said to me yesterday."
"No. Who is Helweh?" said I.
"She is an Arab woman who serves in the kitchen."
"A Paynim? O Marguerite! What can a Paynim say worth hearing? Or isshe a Christian?"
"If to be baptized is to be a Christian, as people always say, thenHelweh is a Christian. But if to be a Christian is really to know andfollow the Lord Christ--and it seems to me as if the Evangel alwaysmeant that--then I do not know. I am afraid Helweh does not understandmuch about that."
"Oh, if she has been christened, she must be a Christian," said I."Well, what did she say?"
"She said--'All things come to him who knows how to wait.' It is aSaracen proverb."
"Well, I do not believe it."
"Ah, let my Damoiselle pardon me, but it is true."
"Well!" said I, half laughing, "then I suppose I do not know how towait."
"I do not think my Damoiselle does," answered Marguerite quietly.
"Wilt thou teach me, Margot?"
"Ha! It takes the good God to teach that."
&n
bsp; "I should not think it wanted much teaching."
"Let my Damoiselle bear with her servant. The good God has beenteaching it to me for seventy years, and I dare not make so bold as tosay I have learned it yet."
"Why, Margot, thou art as quiet, and calm, and patient as a stone."
"Ah! not _here_," she said, laying her hand upon her bosom. "Perhapshere,--and here,"--touching her eyes and lips. "But down there,--no!"
"But for what, or for whom, art thou waiting, Margot?" I asked, ratheramused.
"Ha!--it ought to be only whom. But it is too often _what_. We arelike the little children, waiting for the father to come home, butthinking more of the toys and bonbons he may bring than of himself. Andthen there is another thing: before we can learn to wait, we must learnto trust."
"To trust what, Margot?"
"I believe we all trust in something, if my Damoiselle pleases. A greatmany trust in themselves; and a great many more trust incircumstances,--fate, or chance, or luck,--as they call it. Some fewtrust in other human creatures; and their waking is often the saddest ofall. But it seems as if the one thing we found it hardest to do was totrust the good God. He has to drive us away, often, from every othertrust, before we will learn to trust Him. Oh, how we must grieve Hisheart, when He has done so much for us, and yet we _will not_ trustHim!"
I wonder what she means. I feel as if I should like to know, and couldnot tell how to begin.
The Lady Queen is gone back to her people. And I am so glad--Lady Judithis not gone with her. I was sadly afraid she would do. But Melisendeis gone, and Messire Renaud de Montluc, for whom the Lady Queen truststo obtain some high position at the Court of the Byzantine Caesar.
I am not at all sorry that Messire Renaud is gone. He made me feeluncomfortable whenever I looked at him. I cannot well express myfeeling in words; but he gave me a sensation as if nothing stood on anything, and every thing was misty and uncertain. I fancy some people likethat sort of feeling. I detest it. I like figures (though Amaury saysit is a very unladylike taste) because they are so definite and certain.Two and two make four; and they will make four, do what you please withthem. No twisting and turning will persuade them to be either three orfive. Now I like that--far better than some arts, more interesting inthemselves, such as music, painting, or embroidery, of which people say,"Yes, it is very fair,--very good,--but of course it might be better."I like a thing that could not be better. Guy says that is veryshort-sighted, and argues a want of ambition in me. I do not quite seethat. If a thing be the best it can possibly be, why should I want itto be better?
"Oh, but one wants an aim," says Guy; "one must have a mark to shoot at.If I were besieging a castle, and knew beforehand that I could notpossibly take it, it would deprive me of all energy and object. Thereis nothing so devoid of interest as doing something which leads tonothing, and is worth nothing when done."
"Well," I say then, "I think if sieges and wars were done away with, itwould be no bad thing. Just think what misery they cause."
But such an outcry comes upon me then! Amaury informs me that he isincomparably astonished at me. Is not war the grandest of allemployments? What on earth could the nobles do, if there were no wars?Would I have them till the earth like peasants, or read and write likemonks, or sew and dress wounds like women?
And Guy says, good-naturedly,--"Oh, one of Elaine's curious notions.She never thinks like other people."
"But think," I say, "of the suffering which comes from war--the bereftwidows and fatherless children, and human pain and sorrow. Does a womanweeping over her husband's corpse think war grand, do you suppose?"
"Stuff!" says Amaury. "Can't she get another?"
(Would he say, if Eschine were to die,--"Never mind, I can get another"?Well, I should not much wonder if he would!)
Once, after a rather keen contest of this sort, I asked old Margueriteif she liked war. I saw her eyes kindle.
"Damoiselle," she said, "my husband followed his Seigneur to the war,and left me ill at home in my cot. He had no power to choose, as myDamoiselle must know. The night fell, and the Seigneur came home withbanners flying, and along the village street there were bonfires andrejoicings for a great victory. But my husband did not come. I rosefrom my sick-bed, and wrapped myself in a sheepskin, and went out to thefatal field. Like a candle in the sunlight, the pain of the heart putout the pain of the body. What I saw that night my Damoiselle will notask. It were not meet to rehearse in the ears of a young noble lady. Ido not know how I bore it, only that I did bear--going from one toanother in the moonlight, and turning my lantern on the dead stillfaces, ever looking for that face which I feared to find. And at last Ifound him, my Piers, the one love of my young life,--where the fight hadbeen the most terrible, and the dead lay thickest. I knew that he hadacquitted himself right well, for his face was to the foe, and thebroken shaft of his Seigneur's pennon was still grasped tightly in hishand. Damoiselle, there was no funeral pageant, no table tomb, noherald's cry for him. Strangers' hands buried him where he lay, as theymight have buried the Seigneur's horse, if need were. And there were nowhite weeds and seclusion for me, his young widow, who knelt by mybaby's cradle, too miserable for tears. But may be, in those hallswhere all souls are alike before the King of Kings, the Voice from theThrone said to him, 'Well done!' And the Voice did verily say to me,'Fear not! Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest.'--Ah, my Damoiselleknows now what her old nurse thinks of war."
Oh, why must there be such things?
"How else could a knight win his spurs?" indignantly demands Amaury.
But surely, the winning of Amaury's spurs is not the only thing of anyconsequence in the world. Does the good God Himself take no account ofwidows' tears and orphans' wails, if only the knights win their spurs?Could not some other way be contrived for the spurs, which would leavepeople alive when it was finished?
"Now, Elaine, don't be such a simpleton!" says Amaury.
So at last, as nobody else (except Marguerite, who is nobody) seems tounderstand me, I ask Lady Judith what she thinks.
"My child," she says, "'He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of theearth; He breaketh the bow, and snappeth the spear in sunder, andburneth the chariot in the fire.' 'The Father of the age to come, thePrince of Peace!' It is one of His fairest titles. But not till Hecomes, Helena. Till then, earth will be red with the blood of her sons,and moistened with the tears of her daughters. Let us pray for Hiscoming."
"But holy Mother, that is ages off!" said I.
"Is it?" she made answer. "Has the Lord told thee so much, Helena? Ah!it may be--I know not, but I see nothing else to keep Him--it may be,that if all the earth would come to Him to-day, He would come to usto-morrow."
"Holy Mother, I do not know what you mean by 'coming' to Him!"
"Dear Helena," she said gently, "thou wilt not know, till thou art readyto come."
"But I do not understand that," said I. "How am I to get ready?"
"'If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink.' 'If thou knewestthe gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He would have givento thee water of life.' Art thou not athirst? and dost thou not knowthe gift of God, dear maiden? Then ask Him to bestow on thee thethirst, and the knowledge."
I really do not know whether it was right or wrong, but that night,after I had finished my Credo, and Paters, and the holy AngelicalSalutation, I ventured to say, in my own words,--"Fair Father, JesuChrist, give me what Lady Judith and Marguerite talk about." I hope itwas not very wicked. I did so tremble! And I do not properly know whatthis thing is, only that it seems to make them happy; and why should Inot be happy too? I suppose the good God will know all about it. And asHe appears to be so condescending as to listen to Marguerite, who is buta villein, surely He will hear me, who am noble.
It is so odd that Amaury, who is such a simpleton himself, should beperpetually calling me a simpleton. I do think, the more foolish peopleare, the more fond they are of exhorting others not t
o be silly. It isvery funny. But this world is a queer place.
"It is, indeed, Lynette," says Guy, with mock gravity, when I make theremark to him. "The queerest place I have been in these thirty years."
As Guy is scarcely twenty-seven, it may be supposed I cannot helplaughing.
But there is another queer thing. It does really seem as ifvilleins--at least some villeins--had genuine feelings, just like usnobles. I have always thought that it was because Marguerite hadassociated so much with nobles, that she seemed a little different--justas you might impart the rose-scent to a handkerchief, if you shut it ina drawer with rose-leaves. But I know she did not become my mother'snurse until after her husband was dead: so she must have had feelingsbefore that, while she was no better off than any other villein. It isvery incomprehensible. And I suppose, too, when one comes to thinkabout it, we are all children of Adam and Eva. How did the differencecome, to begin with?
It is very difficult to tell how things began. It is a great dealeasier to see how they end. Who would suppose, if men had never foundout, that the great river Danube, which rolls into the Black Sea, almostlike a sea itself in volume, came from the meltings of the ice and snowupon the hills of Switzerland?
"Ha!" says Marguerite, when I repeat my thoughts to her, "the great Godis so rich that He can bring the large things out of the small. Weothers, we can only bring the small out of the large."
"That sounds like spoiling things," said I.
"Men are very apt to spoil what they touch," she answered. "The goodLord never touches anything that He does not leave more beautiful. HasHe not blessed childhood and manhood, by becoming Child and Man? Is notthe earth fairer since He dwelt on it? and the little children dearer,since He took them in His arms and blessed them? Ah, He might havecared for me, and felt with me, just as much, if He had never been aMan: but it would not have been the same thing to me. And He knew it.When we love one very much, Damoiselle, we love what he has touched: andif he touch us, ourselves, it sends a delicious thrill through us. Thegood Lord knew that when He took on Him our nature, with all itssufferings and infirmities,--when He touched us every where--in sorrow,and weariness, and poverty, and hunger, and pain, and death. We cansuffer nothing which He has not suffered first,--on which He has notlaid His hand, and blessed it for His chosen. Thanks be to His Name! Itis like honey sweetening everything. And the things that are bitter andacid want the most sweetening. So the good Lord chose poverty and pain.Ease and riches are sweet of themselves. I have heard Father Eudes readof one or two feasts where He was: He blessed joy as well assorrow,--perhaps lest we should fancy that there was something holy inpain and poverty in themselves, and something wicked in beingcomfortable and happy. Some people do think so, after all. But I haveheard Father Eudes read a great deal more of funerals than feasts, wherethe blessed Lord was. He seemed to go where people wanted comforting,much oftener than where they were comfortable. He knew that many morewould sorrow than rejoice."
What strange eyes Marguerite has! She can look at nothing, but she seesthe good God. And the strangest thing is, that it seems to make herhappy. It always makes me miserable. To think of God, when I am brightand joyous, is like dropping a black curtain over the brightness. Whycannot I be like Marguerite? I ought to be a great deal happier thanshe. There is something wrong, somewhere.
Then of course there must be something holy in poverty--voluntarypoverty, that is--or why do monks and nuns take the vow of poverty? Isuppose there is nothing holy in simply being poor, like a villein. Andif our Lord really were poor, when He was on earth, that must have beenvoluntary poverty. I said as much to Margot.
"Damoiselle," said she, "every man who follows our Lord must carry hiscross. His own cross,--not somebody else's. And that means, I think,the cross which the good God lays on His shoulders. The blessed ChristHimself did not cut His own cross. But we others, we are very fond ofcutting our crosses for ourselves, instead of leaving the good God tolay them on us. And we always cut them of the wrong wood. We like themvery light and pretty, with plenty of carving and gilding. But when thegood Lord makes the crosses, He puts no carving on them; and He oftenhews out very rough and heavy ones. At least, He does so for thestrong. He makes them light, sometimes, for the weak; but there is nogilding--only the pure gold of His own smile, and that is not in thecross itself, but in the sunlight which He sends upon it. But myDamoiselle will find, when men sort out the crosses, the strong walkaway with the light ones, and the rough and heavy fall to the weak. Thegood Lord knows better than that."
"But we don't all carry crosses, Margot," said I; "only religiouspersons."
Marguerite shook her head decidedly.
"Damoiselle, all that learn of the good Lord must bear the cross. Hesaid so. 'If any man serve Me, let him follow Me'--and again, 'If anyman will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, andfollow Me.' Father Eudes read them both. My Damoiselle sees--'_any_man.' That must mean all men."
Well, I cannot understand it I only feel more puzzled than ever. I amsure it would not make me happier to carry a heavy cross. Yet LadyJudith and Marguerite are happy; I can see they are. Religion and goodpeople seem to be full of contradictions. How is one to understandthem?
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