Earl Hubert's Daughter Part 40

I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was scarcely what he expected.

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

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

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

"I can put my heart into nothing."

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

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

"He knows--not I."

"But suppose I die first?"

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

"He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wants thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly?

Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside thee."

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

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

The momentary exhibition of feeling was past.

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

Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps no medieval preacher except Bruno de Malpas would even have thought of alluding to the literal and primary meaning of the words.

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

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

But here, Bruno's Jewish proclivities stood him in good stead. He delighted Beatrice by fully stating the original reference of the pa.s.sage. But then he went on to say that it was no longer applicable to the Babylonish captivity. Since that time, there had been another sorrow to which the sufferings of Israel were not to be compared--to which no affliction ever suffered by humanity could be comparable for a moment. He told them, in words that burned, of that three hours'

darkness that might be felt--of that "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani" into which was more than concentrated every cry of human anguish since the beginning of the world. And then he looked, as it were, straight into the heart's depths of every one of his hearers, and he said to each one of those hearts, "This was your doing!" He told them that for every sin of every one among them, that Sacrifice was a sufficient atonement: and that if for any one the atonement was not efficacious, that was not Christ's fault, but his own. There was room at the marriage-supper for every pauper straying on the high-way; and if one of them were not there, it would be because he had refused the invitation.

Then Bruno turned to the other half of his subject, and remarked that every man and woman was tempted to think that there was no sorrow like to his sorrow. Yet there was a balm for all sorrow: but it was only to be had at one place. The bridge which had been strong enough to bear the weight of Christ and His cross, carrying with Him all the sins and sorrows of all the world for ever, would be strong enough to bear any sorrow of theirs. But so long as man persisted in saying, "_My_ will be done," he must not imagine that G.o.d would waste mercy in helping him.

"Not my will, but Thine," must always precede the sending of the strengthening angel. And lastly, he reminded them that G.o.d sent grief to them for their own sakes. It was not for His sake. It gave Him no pleasure; nay, it grieved Him, when He had to afflict the children of men. It was the medicine without which they could not recover health: and He always gave the right remedy, in the right quant.i.ties, and at the right time.

"And now," said Bruno at last, "ye into whose hands the Great Physician hath put this wholesome yet bitter cup,--how are ye going to treat it?

Will ye dash it down, and say, 'I will have none of this remedy?' For the end of that is death, the death eternal. Will ye drink it, only because ye have no choice, with a wry face and a bitter tongue, blaspheming the hand that gives it? It will do you no good then; it will work for evil. Or will ye take it meekly, with thanksgiving on your lips, though there be tears in your eyes, knowing that His will is better than yours, and that He who bore for you the pangs that no man can know, is not likely to give you any bitterness that He can spare you? Trust me, the thanksgivings that G.o.d loves best, are those sobbed from lips that cannot keep still for sorrow.

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

He ended thus, almost abruptly.

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

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

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

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