Earl Hubert's Daughter

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER SIX.

  THE NEW CONFESSOR.

  "Had the knight looked up to the page's face, No smile the word had won; Had the knight looked up to the page's face, I ween he had never gone: Had the knight looked back to the page's geste, I ween he had turned anon,-- For dread was the woe in the face so young, And wild was the silent geste that flung Casque, sword, to earth as the boy down-sprung, And stood--alone, alone!"

  _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.

  Nobody enjoyed the spring of the year 1236. Rain poured down, day afterday, as if it were the prelude to a second Deluge. The Thamesoverflowed its banks to such an extent that the lawyers had to returnhome in boats, floated by the tide into Westminster Hall. There was noprogress, except by boat or horse, through the streets of the royalborough.

  Perhaps the physical atmosphere slightly affected the moral andpolitical, for men's minds were much unsettled, and their tempers verycaptious. The King, with his usual fickleness and love of novelty, hadthrown himself completely into the arms of the horde of poor relationswhom the new Queen brought over with her, particularly of her uncle,Guglielmo of Savoy, the Bishop of Valentia, whom he constituted hisprime minister. By his advice new laws were promulgated which extremelyangered the English nobles, who complained that they were held of noaccount in the royal councils. The storms were especially violent inthe North, and there people took to seeing prophetic visions of dreadfulimport. Beside all this, France was in a very disturbed state, whichboded ill to the English provinces across the sea. The Counts ofChampagne, Bretagne, and La Marche, used strong language concerning thedisgraceful fact that "France, the kingdom of kingdoms, was governed bya woman," Queen Blanche of Castilla being Regent during the minority ofher son, Saint Louis. It is a singular fact that while the name ofBlanche has descended to posterity as that of a woman of remarkablewisdom, discretion, and propriety of life, the popular estimate of herduring her regency was almost exactly the reverse.

  Meanwhile, the royal marriage festivities went on uproariously atCanterbury. There was not a peacock-pie the less on account either ofthe black looks of the English nobles, or of the very shallow conditionof the royal treasury. To King Henry, who had no intention of payingany bills that he could help, what did it signify how much things cost,or whether the sum total were twenty pence or twenty thousand pounds?

  The feasts having at last come to an end, King Henry left Canterbury forMerton Abbey, and Earl Hubert accompanied him. What became of the Queenis not stated: nor are we told whether His Majesty thus went "intoretreat" to seek absolution for his past transgressions, or from thelamentable necessity of paying his debts.

  On the 20th of January, the royal penitent emerged from his retreat, tobe crowned with his bride at Westminster. Earl Hubert of course waspresent; and the Countess thought proper to feel well enough to join himfor the occasion. The ceremony was a most splendid one,--very differentfrom that first hurried coronation of the young Henry on his father'sdeath, when, all the regalia having been lost in fording the Wash, hewas crowned with a gold collar belonging to his mother. The Archbishopof Canterbury was the officiating priest. The citizens of London,hereditary Butlers of England, presented three hundred and sixty cups ofgold and silver, at which the eyes of the royal and acquisitive pairdoubtless glistened, and which, in all probability, were melted down ina month to pay for the coronation banquet. King Henry paid a bill justoften enough to prevent his credit from falling into a hopelesslydisreputable condition. The Earl of Chester--one of Earl Hubert's twogreat enemies--bore Curtana, "the sword of Saint Edward," says the monkof Saint Albans, "to show that he is Earl of the Palace, and has byright the power of restraining the King if he should commit an error."Either Earl Ranulph de Blundeville was very neglectful of his office, orelse he must have found it anything but a sinecure. The Constable ofChester attended the Earl; his office was to restrain not the King, butthe people, by keeping them off with his wand when they pressed tooclose. The Earl of Pembroke, husband of Princess Marjory of Scotland,carried a wand before the King, cleared the way, superintended thebanquet, and arranged the guests. The basin was presented by a handsomeyoung foreigner, Simon de Montfort, youngest son of the Count deMontfort, and cousin of the Earl of Chester, to whose good offices inthe first instance he probably owed his English preferment. He had notyet become the most powerful man in the kingdom, the darling of theEnglish people, the husband of the King's sister, the man whom, on hisown testimony,--much as he feared a thunderstorm,--Henry feared "morethan all the thunder and lightning in the world!" The Earl of Arundelshould have been the cup-bearer; but being too young to discharge theoffice, his kinsman the Earl of Surrey officiated for him. The citizensof Winchester were privileged to cook the banquet; and the Abbot ofWestminster kept every thing straight by sprinkling holy water.

  Once more, the banquet over, the King returned into retreat at Merton toget rid of his additional shortcomings. Never was man so pious as thisMonarch,--if piety consisted of tithing mint, anise, and cummin, and ofneglecting the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith.

  It was a sharp frosty morning in February. Margaret, Doucebelle, andBelasez were at work in the bower, while Father Nicholas was hearingMarie read Latin in the ante-chamber. The other chaplains were alsopresent,--Father Warner, who, with Nicholas, belonged to the Earl; andFather Bruno, the chaplain of the Countess. Also present was MasterAristoteles, the reverend physician of the household. Fortunately forherself, Marie was by no means shy, and she feared the face of no humancreature unless it were Father Warner, who, Margaret used to say, hadeyes in the back of his head, and could hear what the cows were thinkingabout in the meadow. He was an extremely strict disciplinarian when onduty, but he never interfered with the proceedings of a brother tutor.

  Father Bruno was a new inmate of the household. He had come fromLincoln, with a recommendation from the recently-appointed Bishop, buthad been there too short a time to show his character, since he was asilent man, who appeared to see everything and to say nothing.

  "Very well, my daughter. Thou hast been a good, attentive maiden thismorning," said Father Nicholas, when the reading was finished.

  "Then, Father, will you let me off my sums?" was Marie's quick response.

  Marie hated arithmetic, which was Doucebelle's favourite study.

  "Nay, my child," said Father Nicholas, in an amused tone; "that is notmy business. Thou must ask Father Warner."

  "Please, Father Warner, will you let me off my sums?" pleaded Marie, butin a more humble style.

  "Certainly not, daughter. Fetch them at once."

  Marie left the room with a grieved face.

  "No news abroad, I suppose, my brethren?" suggested Master Aristoteles,in his brisk, simple, innocent manner.

  "Nay, none but what we all knew before," said Father Nicholas.

  "Methinks the world wags but slowly," said Master Aristoteles.

  "Much too fast," was the oracular reply of Father Warner.

  "The pace of the world depends mainly on our own wishes, I take it,"said Father Nicholas. "He who would fain walk thinks the world is at agallop; while he who desires to gallop reckons the world but jogging ata market-trot."

  "There has been a great massacre of Jews in Spain," said Father Bruno,speaking for the first time.

  All the conversation was plainly audible to the girls in the next room.When Father Bruno spoke, Belasez's head went up suddenly, and her workstood still.

  "Amen and Alleluia!" said Father Warner, who probably little suspectedthat he was using Hebrew words to express his abhorrence of the Hebrews.

  "Nay, my brother!" answered Father Bruno, gravely. "Shall we thank Godfor the perdition of human souls?"

  "Of course not,--of course not!" interposed Father Nicholas, quickly."I am sure our Brother Warner thanked God for the vindication of theDivine honour."

  "And is not the Divine honour more fully vindicated by far," demandedFather Bruno, "when a soul is saved from
destruction, than when it isplunged therein?"

  "Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt!" eagerly assented Father Nicholas, whoseemed afraid of a _fracas_.

  "Curs!" said Father Warner, contemptuously. "They all belong to theirfather the Devil, and to him let them go. I would not give a farthingfor a Jew's soul in the market."

  Belasez's eyes were like stars.

  "Brother," said Father Bruno, so gravely that it was almost sadly, "ourMaster was not of your way of thinking. He bade His apostles to beginat Jerusalem when they preached the good tidings of His kingdom. Havewe done it?"

  Master Aristoteles' "Ah!" might mean anything, as the hearer chose totake it.

  "Of course they did so. The Church was first at Jerusalem, before SaintPeter transferred it to Rome," snapped Father Warner.

  "Pardon me, my brother. I did not ask, Did they do so? I said, Have wedone so?" explained Bruno.

  "How could we?" responded Father Nicholas in a perplexed tone. "I nevercame across any of the evil race--holy Mary be my guard!--and if I haddone, I should have crossed over the road, lest they should cast a spellon me."

  Belasez's smile was one of contemptuous amusement.

  "_Pure foy_! If I ever came across one, I should spit in his face!"cried Warner.

  "Two might play at that game," was the cool observation of Bruno.

  "I'd have him hung on the new machine if he did!" exclaimed Warner.

  The new machine was the gibbet, first set up in England in this year.

  "Brethren," said Bruno, "we are verily guilty, one and all. For weeksthis winter, and I hear also last summer, there has been in this house amaiden of the Hebrew race, who has never learned the faith of Christ theLord, has probably never heard His name except in blasphemy. Which ofus four of His servants shall answer to God for that child's soul?"

  Margaret expected Belasez's eyes to flash, and her lip to curl in scorn.To her great surprise, the girl caught up her work and went on with ithastily. Doucebelle, watching her with deep yet concealed interest,fancied she saw tears glistening on the samite.

  "Really, I never--you put it so seriously, Brother Bruno!--I neverlooked at the matter in that way. I did not think--" and FatherNicholas came to a full stop. "You see, I have been so very busyilluminating that missal for the Lady. I really never never consideredthe thing so seriously."

  "Brother Nicholas," answered Bruno, "the Devil was serious enough whenhe tempted our mother Eva. And Christ was serious when He bore awayyour sins and mine, and nailed them to His cross. And the angels of Godare serious, when they look down and see us fighting with sin in thedark and weary day. What! God is serious, and Satan is serious, andthe holy angels are serious,--and can we not be serious? Will the greatJudge take that answer, think you? `Lord, I was so busy illuminatingand writing, that I let the maiden slip into perdition, and Thou wiltfind her there.'"

  Belasez's head was bowed lower than before.

  "Brother Bruno! You are unreasonable," interposed Warner. "We all haveour duties to our Lord and Lady. And as to that contemptible insect inthe Lady's chamber,--well, I do not know what you think, but I would notscorch my fingers pulling her out of Erebus."

  The dark brows of the young Jewess were drawn close together.

  "Ah, Brother Warner!" said Bruno. "Christ my Master scorched Hisfingers so much with me, that I cannot hesitate to burn mine in Hisservice."

  Marie and her arithmetic seemed forgotten by all parties.

  "I am afraid, Brother Bruno," faltered Father Nicholas, "really afraid,I may have been too remiss. The poor girl!--of course, though she is aJew--and they are very bad people, very--yet she has a soul to be saved;yes, undoubtedly. I will see what I can do. There are only about adozen leaves of the missal,--and then that treatise on grace ofcongruity that I promised the Abbot of Ham--and,--let me see! I believeI engaged to write something for the Prior of Saint Albans. What wasit, now? Where are my tables? Oh, here!--yes,--ah! that would not takelong: a week might do it, I think. I will see,--I really will see,Brother Bruno,--when these little matters are disposed of,--what I cando for the girl."

  "Do! Give her ratsbane!" sneered Warner laconically.

  Bruno's reply was a quotation.

  "`While thy servant was busy here and there, he was gone.'"

  Then he rose and left the room.

  "Dear, dear!" said Father Nicholas. "Our brother Bruno means well,--very well indeed, I am sure: but those enthusiastic people like him--don't you think they are very unsettling, Brother Warner? Really, hehas made me feel quite uncomfortable. Why, the world would have to beturned upside down! We could never write, nor paint, nor cultivateletters--we should have to be incessantly preaching and confessingpeople."

  "Stuff! The fellow's an ass!" was Father Warner's decision. "_Ha,chetife_!--what has become of that little monkey, Damsel Marie? I mustgo and see after her."

  And he followed his colleague. Father Nicholas gathered his paperstogether, and from the silence that ensued, the girls gathered that theante-chamber was deserted.

  "Belasez," said Doucebelle that night, as she was brushing her hair--thetwo slept in the wardrobe--"wert thou very angry with Father Bruno, thismorning?"

  Belasez looked up quickly.

  "With _him_? No! I thought--"

  But the thought progressed no further till Doucebelle said--"Well?"

  "I thought," said Belasez, combing out her own hair very energetically,"that I had at last found even a Christian priest who was worthy of himof whom the Bishop of Lincoln preached,--him whom you believe to beMessiah."

  "Then," said Doucebelle, greatly delighted, "thou wilt listen to FatherBruno, if he talks to thee?"

  "I would not if I could help it," was Belasez's equivocal answer.

  "Belasez, I cannot quite understand thee. Sometimes thou seemest sodifferent from what thou art at other times."

  "Because I am different. Understand me! Do I understand myself? TheHoly One--to whom be praise!--He understands us all."

  "But sometimes thou art willing to hear and talk, and at others thou artclose shut up like a coffer."

  "Because that is how I feel."

  "I wish thou wouldst tell thy feelings to Father Bruno."

  "I shall wait till he asks me, I think," said Belasez a little drily.

  "Well, I am sure he will."

  "I am not sure that he will--twice."

  "Why, what wouldst thou say to him?"

  "He will hear if he wants to know."

  And Belasez thereupon "shut up like a coffer," and seemed to have losther tongue for the remainder of the night.

  Doucebelle determined that, if she could possibly contrive it, withoutwounding the feelings of Father Nicholas, her next confession should bemade to Father Bruno. He seemed to her to be a man made of altogetherdifferent metal from his colleagues. Master Aristoteles kept himselfentirely to physical ailments, and never heard a confession, except fromthe sick in emergency. Father Nicholas was a very easy confessor, forhis thoughts were usually in his beloved study, and whatever theconfession might be, absolution seemed to follow as a matter of course.If his advice were asked on any point outside philology in all itsdivisions, he generally appeared to be rather taken by surprise, andalmost as much puzzled as his penitent. His strongest reproof was--

  "Ah, that was wrong, my child. Thou must not do that again."

  So that confession to Father Nicholas, while eminently comfortable to adead soul, was anything but satisfying to a living one.

  Father Warner was a terrible confessor. His minute questions penetratedinto every corner of soul and body. He took nothing for granted, goodnor bad. Absolution was hard to get from him, and not to be had on anyterms but those of severe penance. And yet it seemed to Doucebelle thatthere was an inner sanctuary of her heart from which he never even triedto lift the veil, a depth in her nature which he never approached. Wasit because there was no such depth in his, and therefore he necessarilyignored its existence in another?
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  In one way or another, they were all miserable comforters. She wishedto try Father Bruno.

  Most unwittingly, Father Nicholas helped her to gain her end byrequesting a holiday. He had heard a rumour that a Latin manuscript hadbeen discovered in the library of Saint Albans' Abbey, and FatherNicholas, in whose eyes the lost books of Livy were of more consequencethan any thing else in the world except the Order of Saint Benedict, wasunhappy till he had seen the manuscript.

  The Countess, in the Earl's absence, readily granted his request, andDoucebelle's fear of hurting the feelings of her kind-hearted thoughcareless old friend were no longer a bar in the way of consulting FatherBruno.

  Father Warner, who was confessing the other half of the household,growled his disapprobation when Doucebelle begged to be included in thepenitents of Father Bruno.

  "Something new always catches a silly girl's fancy!" said he.

  But Doucebelle had no scruple about hurting his feelings, since she didnot believe in their existence. So when her turn came, she knelt downin Bruno's confessional.

  At first she wondered if he were about to prove like Father Nicholas,for he did not ask her a single question till she stopped of herself.Then, instead of referring to any thing which she had said, he put oneof weighty import.

  "Daughter, what dost thou know of Jesus Christ?"

  "I know," said Doucebelle, "that He came to take away the sins of theworld, and I humbly trust that He will take away mine."

  "That He will?" repeated Bruno. "Is it not done already?"

  "I thought, Father, that it would be done when I die."

  "What has thy dying to do with that? If it be done at all, it was donewhen He died."

  "Then where are my sins, Father?" asked Doucebelle, feeling very muchastonished. This was a new doctrine to her. But Bruno was anAugustinian, and well read in the writings of the Founder of his Order.

  "They are where God cannot find them, my child. Therefore there islittle fear of thy finding them. Understand me,--if thou hast laid themupon Christ our Lord."

  "I know I have," said Doucebelle in a low voice.

  "Then on His own authority I assure thee that He has taken them."

  "Father I may I really believe that?"

  "May! Thou must, if thou wouldst not make God a liar."

  "But what, then, have I to do?"

  "What wouldst thou do for me, if I had rescued thee from a burninghouse, and lost my own life in the doing of it?"

  "I could do nothing," said Doucebelle, feeling rather puzzled.

  "Wouldst thou love or hate me?"

  "O Father! can there be any question?"

  "And supposing there were some thing left in the world for which thouknewest I had cared--a favourite dog or cat--wouldst thou leave it tostarve, or take some care of it?"

  "I think," was Doucebelle's earnest answer, "I should care for it asthough it were my own child."

  "Then, daughter, see thou dost that for Him who did lose His own life inrescuing thee. Love Him with every fibre of thine heart, and love whatHe has loved for His sake. He has left with thee those for whom onearth He cared most,--the poor, the sick, the unhappy. Be they untothee as thy dearest, and He the dearest of all."

  This was very unlike any counsel which Doucebelle had ever beforereceived from a confessor. There was something here of which she couldtake hold. Not that Father Bruno had suggested a new course of actionso much as that he had supplied a new motive power. To do good, to givealms, to be kind to poor and sick people, Doucebelle had been taughtalready: but the reason for it was either the abstract notion that itwas the right thing to do, or that it would help to increase her littleheap of human merit.

  To all minds, but in particular to an ignorant one, there is an enormousdifference between the personal and the impersonal. Tell a child thatsuch a thing must be done because it is right, and the motive power isfaint and vague, not unlikely to be overthrown by the first breath oftemptation. But let the child understand that to do this thing willplease or displease God, and you have supplied a far stronger energisingpower, in the intelligible reference to the will of a living Person.

  Doucebelle felt this--as, more or less, we all do.

  "Father," she said, after a momentary pause, "I want your advice."

  "State thy perplexity, my daughter."

  "I hope, Father, you will not be angry; but a few days ago, when you andthe other priests were talking in the ante-chamber about Belasez, thedoor was open, and we heard every word in the bower."

  "Did Belasez hear what was said?"

  "Yes."

  "Ha! What did she say?"

  "I asked her, at night, whether what you had said had wounded her. Andshe said, No: but she thought there was one Christian priest who waslike what the Scripture described Christ to be."

  "Did she say that?" There was a tone of tender regret in the priest'svoice.

  "She did. But, Father, I want to know how to deal with Belasez.Sometimes she will talk to me quite freely, and tell me all her thoughtsand feelings: at other times I cannot get a word out of her."

  "Let her alone at the other times. What is the state of her mind?"

  "She seems to have been very much struck, Father, with a sermon fromyour Bishop, wherein he proved out of her own Scriptures, she says, thatour Lord is the Messiah whom the Jews believe. But I do not know if shehas reached any point further than that. I think she hardly knows whatto believe."

  "Only those sermons do good which God preaches," said Bruno. Perhaps hespoke rather to himself than to Doucebelle. "Whenever the maiden willspeak to thee, do not repulse her. Lead her, to the best of thy power,to see that Christ is God's one cure for all evil. Yet He must teach itfirst to thyself."

  "I think He has done so--a little," answered Doucebelle. "But, Father,will you not speak to her?"

  "My child, we will both wait upon God, and speak the words He gives us,at the time He will. And remember,--whatever blunders men make,--Belasez is, after the flesh, nearer akin to Him than thou art. She isthe kinswoman of the Lord Jesus. Let that thought spur thee on, if thoufaint by the way."

  "Father! Our Lord was not a Jew?"

  "He was a Jew, my daughter."

  Hardly any news could more have amazed Doucebelle.

  "But why then do people use them so harshly?"

  "Thou hadst better ask the people," answered Bruno, drily.

  "Father, is it right to use Jews so?"

  "Thou hadst better ask the Lord."

  "What does He say, Father?"

  "He said, speaking to Abraham, the father of them all, `I will bless himthat blesseth thee, and curse him that curseth thee.'"

  "Oh, I am so glad!" cried Doucebelle. "If you please, Father, I couldnot help loving Belasez: but I tried hard not to do so, because Ithought it was wicked. It cannot be wrong to love a Jew, if ChristHimself were one."

  Bruno did not reply immediately. When he did, it was with a slightquiver in his voice which surprised Doucebelle.

  "It can never be wrong to love," he said. "But, daughter, let not thylove stop at liking the maid's company. Let it go on till thou cansttake it into Heaven."

  The strangest of all strange ideas was this to Doucebelle. She had beentaught that love was always a weakness, and only too frequently a sin.That so purely earthly a thing could be taken into Heaven astonished herbeyond measure.

  "Father!" she said, in a tone of mingled amazement and inquiry.

  "What now, my daughter?"

  "People always speak of love as weak, if not wicked."

  "People often talk of what they do not understand, my child. `God islove.' Think not, therefore, that God resembles a worldly fancy whichsprings to-day, and fades away to-morrow. His is the heavenly lovewhich can never die, which is ready to sacrifice all things, which solooks to the true welfare of the beloved that it will give thee anyearthly suffering rather than see thee sink into perdition by thy sins.This is real love, daughter: and thou canst not sin in g
iving it toBelasez or to any other."

  "Yet, Father," said Doucebelle in a puzzled tone, "the religious give uplove when they go into the cloister. I do not understand. A Sister ofSaint Ursula may not leave her convent, even if her own mother liesdying, and pleads hard to see her. And though some priests do wed,"--this had not yet, in England, ceased to be the case--"yet people alwaysseem to think the celibate priests more holy, as if that were more inaccordance with the will of God. Yet God tells us to love each other.I cannot quite understand."

  If Doucebelle could have seen, as well as spoken, through theconfessional grating, assuredly she would have stopped sooner. For theagony that was working in every line of Father Bruno's face would havebeen terrible to her to see. But she only thought that it was a longwhile before he answered her, and she wondered at the hard, constrainedtone in his voice.

  "Child!" he said, "does any one but God `quite understand'? Do weunderstand ourselves?--and how much less each other? It is only lovethat understands. He who most loves God will best understand men. Andfor the rest,--O Lord who hast loved us, pardon the blunders andmisunderstandings of Thy people, and save Thy servants that trust inThee!--Now go, my child,--unless thou hast more to say. _Absolvo te_."

  Doucebelle rose and retired. But she did not know that Father Brunoheard no more confessions. She only heard that he was not at home whendinner was served; and when he appeared at supper, he looked very wornand white, as if after a weary journey.