CHAPTER XI.
DISENCHANTMENT.
"MISSY, dear missy, she not listen to poor ole Phœbe any more?" said the faithful old nurse, sighing over a fair girl who was looking coaxingly into her face, and stroking the iron-grey hair neatly under her turban.
"Well, you foolish old woman, it is of no use to listen to you. You are to listen to me, and hear that mamma is willing to spare you to go with me, and you are to be willing to go. Now, Phœbe, you consent? You wouldn't send me away alone to strangers and strange servants in a strange land, you know."
"Missy got Massa Count, house and fine tings, 'ligion and all," said Phœbe sorrowfully.
"But, according to your view of the value of my new possessions, there is the stronger reason for putting yourself into the bargain," said the young lady playfully; "besides, Phœbe, you know you changed your religion."
"Hadn't got none, missy; Phœbe heathen and know noting. Good missionary tell about de Lord Jesus, and Phœbe come to b'lieve in Him. Den Phœbe got 'ligion, and nebber, nebber lose it again."
"Well of course the Count believes in Him, and so do I, and so it is no change after all."
"But what him b'lieve? Only dat de Lord a little chile, allays in moder's arms, doing what him telled. But de Bible Lord Jesus a man; He say, 'All power in hebben and earth given to me,' not my moder. Oh how she be grieved when she hear what de popes does with her. Dey forget she say to servants, 'What He saith unto you, do it,' and dey don't do it. Oh He no more her babe, but glorified Lord in hebben, Son of de Father, Saviour for you."
"Well, now, Phœbe, suppose I win the Count, after letting him win me?"
"Ah, missy, 'spects massa Count don't care noting 'bout it; me tink him not b'lieve too much."
"What do you mean, Phœbe?"
"Only massa, him got too much sense to worship Moder, and saints, and bread and such, but him not got 'nough yet to lub and worship true God, and see how Jesus poor sinner's Saviour. Massa, him very proud and grand, him 'spise lies, him not know truth. Missy know a little truth, and gib it up for lies. Oh very, very sad! Break her own heart some day."
"I'll have you to comfort me then, Phœbe," cried the happy bride-elect.
And she carried her point.
The old black nurse, who in her youth had entered the family of Mr. Geoffry Falconer with his bride, the young widow of an English officer, and her only child, had remained faithful to their service, tended them in sickness and health, and had the chief charge of the elder Mr. Falconer in his last illness. She was privileged to say many things which would not have been permitted from any other person in her position in life, and the only child of the house, the step-daughter of its master, was as dear to her heart as if she had been her own.
To see this admired and courted girl the affiancée of one who, gifted though he was in personal attractions, rank, wealth, and high intellectual powers, was nevertheless a stranger in country and religion, gave poor Phœbe the deepest sorrow she had known in her life of service. In vain, she had opposed it by every argument and entreaty in her power: Mr. and Mrs. Falconer had no scruples on the subject, the spoiled child herself willed it, and in due time, the young Count di V— carried off his Anglo-Indian bride to adorn his home in the proudest of Italian cities.
Standing high in the too fickle regard of his countrymen, expected to uphold the dignities of the class to which by birth he belonged, and the authority of the Pontifical government around which ominous clouds were gathering, the Count became an honoured public servant, and to his house flocked men of all countries, and on all errands, great or small; the visitor for pleasure, the philosopher for inquiry, the adventurer for patronage, the talented for sympathy, the poor for aid; and among them came nameless poets, struggling artists, and even ambitious politicians with many a daring scheme for the elevation of a priest-ridden weary people, beginning to feel that life was intended for something better than running after processions of sacerdotal state, and submitting with superstitious slavery to a usurped authority which ruled complacently over ignorance, beggary, and sloth. Amongst such, the hospitable presence of the Count and Countess radiated light, pleasure, and hope. But not without some danger.
Anything British, even though adopting, so far as external observance went, the Romanism of the only tolerated faith, was watched with jealous eyes, and the young Countess was made to feel the bondage of a tyrannical yoke, at which her husband laughed, and whispered cheerfully that it might make the most of opportunity, for events were pending, and its days were numbered.
For centuries, the wish of Caligula seemed granted, that the Roman people had but one neck; and it lay in the lowest dust, with the Papal foot upon it. The body would never rise from its stupor, so long as that foot was there. How to get rid of it was a problem not easily solved, and men often met in secret and at night, to consider it.
One day, the Count requested with some evident uneasiness that accommodation might be prepared for a guest who would remain the night.
"I cannot avoid this, Lena," he said; "but I wish he had sought other quarters. If you could invite some stranger to divide attention at dinner, it would be well, but no one of our visiting circle, on any account."
"I can arrange it easily," replied the Countess, "so be not troubled. I will ask the young English artist, to whom you know some civility is due, and you can promise him access to those works of art which he desires to study."
"Excellent, my little prime minister," said the Count. "Your artist will know nothing, and pictures and painting will supply a fund of conversation."
"Who are we going to entertain, signor?" asked his wife, indifferently.
"Only one General Carlotté, who has been absent for some years, and is passing through Rome. He wished to renew acquaintance with me, and however inconvenient, I cannot refuse hospitality."
"Surely not; we will not make him a trouble, so clear your brow, dear husband mine, and we will devote ourselves to the arts forthwith. Here is the address of my—what shall I call this young Englishman? Cousin, or what? Why no relation after all, I believe. But I suppose my step-father must have owned him, so we must do the same."
"And, Lena, nothing of the General to anyone. It is nobody's business but his own."
"And we will make it very pleasant business while it lasts," said Lena, playfully. "I am curious to see some of your old friends, and mean to make him compliment you on your choice of a new one."
"I don't need any opinions upon that point, my own sweet wife," said the Count, as he tenderly bade her farewell. But a sudden thought knitted his brow ere he reached the street, and rankled painfully at his heart. "Oh, to be free, free from this hated system! Why not give up all, and live where no such shadow darkens domestic life? Yet it may pass away. Patience and hope!"
At dinner, the young Englishman satisfactorily filled his place, for the General was silent and reserved, and seemed to baffle the efforts of the hostess to entertain him. Once only, on some allusion to a despotic act on the part of the Pontiff, his eyes flashed fire, and his breast heaved with pent-up feeling; but the Count was instructing the artist concerning the valuable studies to which he should have access, and trusted it was unnoticed.
At the moment of parting, however, won by the frank and easy bearing of his young English guest, the Count said kindly,—
"Are you Catholic or Protestant?"
"Protestant, decidedly."
"Remain so," said the Count, emphatically. Thenceforth he was a frequent and welcome visitor, enjoying advantages in the classic capital which only the Count's rank and influence could secure to a foreigner; warned however to be chary of expressing opinions that might excite jealousy where political intrigues were rousing suspicion on the part of the government.
One evening, the Countess returned early and discomposed from an entertainment where her husband had promised to meet her, and he had not appeared.
She tossed off her jewels and sat down by her baby's cradle, watching Phœbe's busy fingers engaged on some work.
"Phœbe," she said, "do you know I feel as if there is something wrong: he never disappointed me before; he always sends a note or message if he is detained. What can it be?"
"Dear missy, hab patience. P'raps him call away sudden. No time to send note."
"Phœbe, I have been so happy with him. Do you remember saying when I was going to change my religion for his sake, that it would break my heart some day?"
"Yes; bery well 'member dat. It was de 'ligion, not massa, me tink ob. Why, missy 'member now?"
"I don't know, excepting that your prophecy has not come to pass yet; but, Phœbe, I don't like the religion, and the more I see of it, the more stupid it seems. That ridiculous bambino, and the box of old bones, to be worshipped and bowed down to! Do they think we are idiots to be moved by such trumpery?"
Phœbe raised her eyes to her mistress's face in sheer astonishment.
"You may be surprised, Phœbe, and I don't know what possesses me to talk so, but I feel cross and disagreeable, and I have been thinking of these things, for how can I bring up my child to believe in such folly?"
"Ah," thought Phœbe to herself, "heart-break beginning now. Poor dear missy!"
"I wonder they don't invent something more sensible than these everlasting shows and processions," continued the Countess.
"Ah, they got de sensible ting behind de back ob dem. Don't missy see? Keep de eyes and ears amuse with shows, dat not feel de grip on dere souls and conscience. De priest know what deys about well 'nough. Got fast hold ob secret thoughts, got all, make go any ways dey choose."
"You don't suppose I am such a slave as that, Phœbe, and I'm sure the Count is not."
"Maybe chain not show yet, missy. Hope she cast it off fore it cut in poor weak flesh. Massa him allays not b'lieve too much in dis 'ligion."
"I suppose you mean that he is not a good Catholic, but I don't care whether he is or not, so long as he is good and kind to me. I expect we can both get to heaven without the help of the priests."
"Bless de Lord, hear missy say dat; but dat not 'nough. Must hab de Great High Priest de Lord Jesus Christ; Him make de way all alone. Him take poor sinner's hand and say 'I will nebber leave thee nor forsake thee.'"
"Phœbe," cried the Countess, after a long silence, "I can't bear this any longer. Oh! Where is my husband?"
Phœbe did her loving best to comfort her young mistress, while a servant was despatched to inquire at the offices where the Count attended for public business; but no information could be obtained. He had been there in the day, but had left as usual.
"There might be secret business," the man suggested.
This was a glimmer of hope, and the anxious wife yielded at last to Phœbe's entreaty that she would try to sleep; but servants sat up, and the lights burned all the night.
Morning came, and the Countess was up, restlessly pacing the rooms.
"Phœbe," she said, "I want you to go to the Piazzi di— and find the young English artist; he may know if the Count had any intention of absence."
"Missy tell him name. Plenty English artists maybe 'bout ole city."
"Mr. Falconer,—Guy Falconer, I mean. Didn't I tell you that a young man was introduced to the Count lately by letter from England, and that he is nephew (I think) to my step-father?"
"No, ole Phœbe nebber hear dis. What him be to de ole man dat die?"
"Grandson, of course. He is poor, it seems, and wants to study painting. My husband likes him, and has shown him paintings that are seldom to be seen by strangers. Now, Phœbe, go and find him. I dare say he is up and at work, and certainly will help us if he can."
"Falconer,—Massa Guy," repeated the black nurse to herself. "Bery curous. Phœbe nebber hear dis afore, but bless de Lord she hear it now."
But it was not so very "curous," seeing that Phœbe's chief charge lay in the nursery, and that she never asked questions about visitors, nor interfered with the other servants.
Though she never entered any of the churches, and had as much respect for the Pope as for Juggernaut, she had much keen observation, and with her infant charge had traversed the city and found out many of its scenes of interest, so that without any great difficulty, she traced her way to the lodgings of the English artist.
The maître d'hôtel was surly and uncommunicative. Signor Anglais was gone, he could not tell where; it was hard to lose a lodger who paid punctually, and gave little trouble, but he knew nothing more.
Phœbe did not believe him; but, bowed out, and the door shut upon her, she could do no more in the way of cross-examination.
As she slowly retraced her steps along the silent street, a poor ragged looking boy followed her, and without looking into her face, said in low broken English as he passed,—
"You want kind Englis' gentleman? He teach Pierre, and let him clena palette."
"Whar he be, chile? What you know 'bout him?"
"He all safe, Madame Blackamoor. Pierre help him to escape, all safe," and he nodded with infinite self-complacency.
"Tell whar him be, you chile?" cried Phœbe, laying her firm hand on the boy's old coat-collar.
But he was too lithesome for her; quick as lightning, he twisted himself out of the coat, which was considerably too large, besides sundry dilapidation which helped the peeling process, and leaving it in her hand, ran off with a merry laugh.
Phœbe dropped the rag and began to run after him, but her dignity returned to her aid in time to prevent a ludicrous exhibition of her locomotive powers, and the certainty of ignominious defeat.
She shrewdly surmised that the coat, old as it was, and superfluous its dimensions, might nevertheless be valuable to its owner, and that the boy would presently be peeping round to recover it; so she stood by it for a few minutes, and was rewarded by the sight of him again.
Beckoning him forward, she showed a small coin, but he made no attempt to take it, and as he picked up his garment, said quietly,—
"Are you friend to Englishman?"
"Yes; I give you dis and more if you take me to him."
"I daren't now: come at dark, and bring him something to eat."
"Stop, chile. Be any oder one dere too?"
"No, nobody more," said the boy.
And Phœbe returned home in great disappointment.
But so impressed was the Countess with the conviction that the English artist would be able to give some information of her husband, that she insisted on accompanying Phœbe to the rendezvous.
So the two eager women, the black one and the white, were found by master Pierre in punctual attendance, and provided with some little delicacies for the appetite of the fugitive.
He led the way through several winding lanes and broken paths until they came to a sort of cavity among the ancient ruins, formed by fallen pillars and shattered arches, and peering in round the pedestal of a column, he suddenly whispered,—
"Ladies, Signor."
Guy Falconer started up amazed at such unexpected visitors, and the imploring voice of the Countess for news of her husband, increased his perplexity concerning his own personal affairs.
It appeared that, while absorbed in the study of some exquisite paintings in an apartment of the Vatican, to which the influence of the Count di V— had introduced him, a strange officer, lounging about, entered into conversation, described the meaning of certain symbolic devices, and added in a lower tone,—
"You know many a story is told in symbols, like language in flowers. A dagger sent to one would indicate danger and self-defence, a cord suggests penance, a feather advises flight. There are times when plainer language is inopportune, and when strangers in our city are not careful with whom they dine."
Guy looked up instantly, but the speaker was carelessly lounging away. He had scarcely reached his lodging, ere Pierre, his young temporary errand boy, and often guide to localities he wished to find, presented himself with a peacock's feather in his hand.
"Signor," said he, "a noble captain sends this specimen of the plumage he was describing to you!"
"Watched and warned!" thought his astonished master.
And he went on to say briefly how Pierre had led him to his present concealment, and had ascertained that his rooms and luggage had been searched, his portfolio and sketches scattered about, and his maître d'hôtel thrown into violent alarm at the idea of having entertained a suspicious character.
"There is evident connection," concluded Guy, "between the three circumstances: the presence of the General at your house that day, the disappearance of the Count, and the warning to myself. Let us hope that the Count also received a feather."
"Why suspect wrong from the visit of the General?" asked the Countess. "Who could give information concerning him? No one in the house, but the Count himself, had ever seen him before."
"I have never alluded in any way to the circumstance," said Guy; "but Pierre tells me that the Government has spies everywhere, and no one is free even in his own house, in Rome."
"Boy, are you free to do as you will?" asked the Countess quickly of Pierre, who stood near.
"I am poor and low, lady," said Pierre, "and can escape notice, but I will be wholly free some day. My father was English," he added proudly.
"Find out something of my husband, and I will reward you well. Will you try, and quickly?"
"I will, lady," said the boy. "Give me a note to him, and if he is in Rome, I will bring you his answer. Let your black woman seek me outside your palace with it before day-break!"
"And money,—will you have money also?"
"Money does much: it opens doors and gives messages. Yes, lady, I know those who have some love for the sight of it, and will do good or bad for the sake of it."
"And what is your purpose for yourself, Guy Falconer?" asked the Countess. "It would not serve you to take shelter at any house of mine."
"I purpose keeping concealed for a while, and then renewing my studies, if safe; quitting the city, if not—but I must be guided by circumstances, and Pierre, whom I like and trust."
"And de good Lord who guide dem all," said Phœbe.
"True," said Guy; "I do not forget to ask Him."
"Bless de Lord, den you be all right, nebber fear."
Pierre guided the visitors into the best way home, and returned to his master to do what he could for his comfort, and wait until it should be time to meet Phœbe and the note.
"There was news to-day," he said, "of some scheme just found out, to set Rome free of so many cardinals and priests, but the Count is too great to be in it."
Guy thought of the General, and the tone of some remarks he had heard in conversation with the Count, and felt little doubt himself that suspicion had fallen upon him, and that he had been arrested secretly. For himself, he felt no particular uneasiness, though annoyed at the interruption of his work, and waste of precious time.
Wrapped in a warm cloak and travelling rug, secured by the forethought of Pierre, and with his head leaning against a marble pedestal that might once have borne a triumph of forgotten skill, Guy fell asleep, and dreamed of home.
His sweet mother with loving smile and gentle word; his sister, or rather sisters, Maude and Evelyn, with their bright companionship and never-failing sympathy; the fatherly interest of the generous Squire, and the watchful care of the grateful mistress of The Moat, all played conspicuous parts in the mental drama; and over the sleeper's fine young face wafted an occasional smile of apparent pleasure and content, which she who stood looking upon him in the grey light of early morning would not hasten to disturb.
But there must be a waking time, and breakfast time, before black Phœbe would begin to talk, and she had carefully provided supplies which she insisted on seeing enjoyed before even answering his inquiries of the state of the Countess.
"Bery sore heart, heavy and sad, and no dear Lord to lean it on," she said, pitifully. "Do Massa Falconer know 'bout de Son ob God?"
"Yes," said Guy. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and if it were not for the risk of attracting unwelcome notice, you and I would sing a morning hymn to His praise."
"Bery good; ole Phœbe glad. But now, why massa come to dis city whar nobody honour de Lord, all full ob silly tings and shows, and call it 'ligion?"
"Only because there are beautiful studies for those who want to paint well."
"Hum! What for massa want paint well?"
"I am poor, and have to earn my bread," said Guy, colouring.
"Nebber shame for dat. All right. But what make him so poor?" persisted Phœbe.
"You would not understand if I were to tell you," said Guy, slightly vexed.
"Do me deal ob good to know," said Phœbe, calmly. "Massa, please tell ole Phœbe."
"It was only that our family estate has passed into other hands, and an allowance out of it, which used to come to my mother, has ceased. It's right enough, I suppose. No one could prevent it, and no one has any right to complain."
"Don't know dat," said Phœbe, as if talking to herself. "Why dem stop dat 'lowance?"
"There was no provision for its continuance; it was only the arrangement of my grandfather, and ceased with his life."
"Hum! Please God keep ole Phœbe 'live, she make dem pay up."
"What are you talking about?" asked Guy, rather inclined to laugh at the black woman's lucubrations.
But to her, it was evidently no laughing matter.
"Will Massa Guy tell real why not go out ob dis city when him warned? What his people at home bid him do?"
"They would wish me to go, I daresay," said Guy; "but I cannot at present."
"Got empty purse, maybe?" said Phœbe, coolly.
"Suppose it is so, you strange old probe,—what is it to you?" exclaimed Guy, impatiently. "I choose to wait for my next remittance; I will not ask anyone for money."
"Nebber fear, Massa Guy. Trust ole Phœbe, and mind what she say. Me, dis bery ole black 'ooman, nurse ole Massa Falconer on him dying bed. He trust poor Phœbe more dan some, and make her read de Englis' writing. Den him gib her dis," and she drew from her bosom a little black silk bag, "and him say like dis: 'Phœbe, if ebber you hear ob a chile of Guy Falconer in trouble or want, you make him get dis, and it help him one little. You wait, and maybe some day you get to England, and you find if de widow ob my son Guy get her right share out of de 'state, or her chil'en. If so it be, den all right, you burn dis pocket-book. But if it be not so, you gib dis book to de widow or her chile, and dey see it help to prove dere right. Don't want do nobody no harm, but must do de right. Now, Phœbe, you be wise and patient, and see what to do.'"
"And if we were not in want, and had our rights, what then, Phœbe?" asked Guy, after listening attentively.
"Didn't he tell?—Den burn de book."
"Yes; but look here!" And opening the little pocket-book which he had drawn from its silken cover, several bank-notes appeared.
"Nebber mind; all right. Massa not poor now, but go away safe dis bery night."
"Tell me truly, Phœbe. If we had not needed it, what then was to be done with this money?"
"Poor ole massa, him let Phœbe do what she like; den she gib it to good missionary to tell 'bout de Lord Jesus. Now see why me come with poor missy to Rome. Find dear chile here just at right time. Bless de dear Lord, He do eberyting well!" And folding her hands, she rose from the block of stone, and stood for a few moments in silent reverence.
And if ever Guy felt thankful, it was then; for alone, suspected, and a fugitive in a strange city, and that city Rome, it was hard to be penniless also.
But he could not leave without some information of the Count, and also some help from trusty Pierre, and for this he must wait at least till night fall.
CHAPTER XII.
"SEMPER EADEM."
AMONG the items of intelligence floating about the city, and furnishing food for gossip, was a statement so carelessly and indifferently alluded to in the Government organs that it might have been a mere trifle, affecting no one's life or honour. It was to the effect that the Count di V— had recently been arrested for the embezzlement of certain public funds which passed through his hands, and that he would be tried for the offence in due time accordingly.
When the report was communicated to the Countess, she smiled scornfully.
"It is a falsehood!" she cried. "No one dares to accuse him openly; his character stands too high for trial on such a charge."
But there were other possibilities, and she trembled for the issue.
Two more days and another night passed in the bitterness of suspense, while from the public officials no information could gleaned, and no legal advice availed.
"Such things could not be in England," thought Guy. "And why?"
He thankfully answered himself: "Because England's people are, by the grace of God, freed from priestly despotism, and must be accused and judged in open day. Thanks be to God for the Reformation, which restored the true standard for righteous law!"
At last Pierre, at the appointed place of meeting, gave to the black nurse the answer he had promised. He had freely used the golden key with which he had been trusted, and had passed unscathed through many dangers in the accomplishment of his purpose. But as he shook himself in satisfaction that he was still sound in life and limb, he assured Phœbe that he dared not repeat the effort if the lady would give him the wealth of the whole city; that he must be asked no questions, and should quit Rome with the young Englishman.
The longed-for letter broke the heart of the poor young wife. It flashed a fearful light over the cause of the arrest, and the cruel means used to compel the victim to criminate himself. He had unwillingly sheltered for a night an enemy of the Government, and of Papal rule altogether; but as the manner in which the fact had been made known might not be told, the expedient of a false charge on pecuniary grounds was resorted to, as the visible shield of the invisible treachery practised upon the innocent and unsuspecting.
Phœbe watched the varying expression of her mistress's countenance as she read the brief note, until it dropped from her hands, and with a groan of agony and horror she exclaimed,—"I have murdered him!" And fell senseless into the motherly arms stretched out to receive her.
"Poor chile, poor dear chile!" murmured Phœbe. "De dear Lord gib peace. What any poor sorrowing heart do 'thout thee, Lord Jesus?"
It was long before the terrible seizure passed off, and Phœbe almost dreaded the return of complete consciousness, for in its transient intervals, the moan and look of anguish told eloquently of the crushing woe within.
At last a message delivered to Phœbe seemed to rouse her attention. It was to the effect that Father Pietro, the spiritual guide and confessor of the family, was in attendance, anxious to minister consolation to the dear daughter, of whose sorrow he had heard.
Instantly she rose, with form erect, and eyes flashing with rage and scorn:
"I will go to him; and, Phœbe, you remain at my side," she said.
But the tottering limbs refused their office, and the Countess was compelled to resume her couch, while the priest, calm and gentle, as if he brought good tidings from some angel's lips, came softly in with an invocation of peace and blessing.
"My daughter, I am grieved at your sorrow," he began; "but let us hope that all will yet be well. Doubtless the Count will easily explain away the imputation, and—"
"What imputation?" suddenly interrupted the Countess, with startling energy.
"Concerning the funds of the State. Is he not by some strange mistake suspected of—of misappropriating them?"
"Hypocrite! Traitor!" muttered his "daughter."
"Nay, my child, we must trust that he does not merit such terms as those," calmly replied the priest, looking away from the fiery eyes fixed upon him.
Suddenly her mood changed, and falling on her knees before him, she raised her clasped hands, and implored him to save her husband, to set him at liberty and suffer him to quit his country, to banish him for ever,—if so he willed.
"You can do this. You can save him, and you only," she cried, "and for this I can still crouch at your feet, and implore at your hands a mercy that the God of heaven would not deny."
"My daughter," urged the pitiless "father," "I am powerless in this matter. Offences against the simple laws of honest dealing must be tried at an earthly tribunal, and—"
"Shame, shame on you, traitor!" cried the Countess, rising passionately. "You dragged from me in your accursed confessional the knowledge that my husband gave unwilling shelter to a suspected patriot. You dared not be known to break the seal of confession, and you have got up the contemptible charge on which to secure his arrest, and bring him within your grasp."
"Poor troubled one, thy passion is mastering thy reason, and needs our prayers and pity. I will come in thy calmer future, and speak peace to thy wounded spirit. But beware, daughter, how thou bearest false accusation against the servants of the Church."
"I will," replied the Countess, proudly; "the truth only will I speak. Now hear, if it please you, my last confession."
"We are not alone, my daughter," said the priest, with a glance towards Phœbe, who stood scowling her darkest upon him.
"It matters not. I confess what all the world may hear: A deadly, soul-destroying crime,—a sin that has blasted my happiness, and will eat as a canker in my heart so long as I exist on earth. I have yet to learn whether it can be forgiven in heaven."
"Doubt it not, daughter. All power is committed to us, the ministers of pardon and condemnation, and when convinced of your penitence, it will be my pleasure and duty to absolve you from this sin, be it what it may."
"It is this," she replied, solemnly, her eyes gazing into vacancy, and her hands clasped convulsively: "I turned from a religion of purity and truth, and peace and freedom, to a system of lies and treachery, of slavish degradation and spiritual thraldom. I did it as if there were no difference; I did it for the love of a fellow sinner. I cared nothing for God and His word; and now I am reaping as I sowed. Nay, patience, sir, you must hear how penitent I am. From this hour I renounce the Church of Rome, and abhor and defy her as the foul enemy of God's truth, and the hinderer of human peace and salvation; and her ministers as the serpents who creep into their victims' confidence, under plea of divine authority, to sting and destroy. Oh, what penance is too heavy for the soul that has yielded to her blasphemy?"
"Silence, Madam!" exclaimed the astonished priest, for the moment off his guard. But quickly resuming his official bearing, he added calmly,—
"There are holy refuges within the Church for raving ones like thee, and there thou shalt learn submission and humility."
But the effort had been too great for the failing strength of his victim, and as he quitted the room with angry step, she lay again unconscious on her couch, tended by the faithful nurse, and ignorant of the threat his ominous words implied.
Certain decided proclamations and measures on the part of the Government at last satisfied Guy Falconer of the propriety of leaving Rome, and having, with Pierre's faithful help, made all the needful arrangements, he sought a farewell interview with the Countess.
"Poor missy, she fail bery fast," said Phœbe, sorrowfully, in answer to his inquiries. "She done eberyting, but all no use. Dey got fast hold, and dey keep it. De priest him come to see her, but she faint away dead, and know noting. Him try ole Phœbe, and she 'bliged hold her tongue, fear him drive her away. Him tink to convert heathen! Sooner Phœbe lay her ole bones under car ob Juggernaut dan take up with his 'refuge ob lies.'"
"Right, Phœbe," said Guy. "But you must carry that resolve out of hearing of Rome, it seems."
"Ah, massa, what me do? Dis priest, him say soon as dear missy be well again, she go to convent to be comforted, and take care ob little chile. Does massa tink him eber let her out ob dat?"
From the knowledge he had acquired of the Romish system, Guy could too easily guess the drift of the arrangement, and when admitted to her presence, earnestly entreated the Countess to accept such assistance as he could offer in leaving Italy at once.
"Not while my husband lives," she said mournfully. "I will at least be near the prison to which my apostasy has consigned him. Don't you know that Rome can forgive everything but thought, word, or deed that seems to favour the cause of liberty, national or individual? Revenge, not justice, is her main-spring in this matter."
"But can he not claim a trial for the real offence, and explain how he innocently yielded hospitality to an unexpected guest?"
"Read," said the Countess, placing her husband's note in his hand.
It was short, but tender and touching, and concluded with all injunction to train up their child as anything rather than a Catholic.
"My own words to you, my wife, were quoted to me concerning our
ill-starred guest, and then I knew what instrument of torture had wrung
the secret from you, and why a lying charge must be trumped up to
legalize my sudden arrest. Rome may claim omniscience and omnipotence
while her priests sit in the confessional, and men and women kneel
crushed slaves at their feet. I have groaned beneath this bondage, and
secretly resented it for you, but now I will be free, and the God of
the free and true shall alone hear my last confession."
"Countess," cried Guy with animation, "the Spirit of that God cannot be excluded by prison walls. If He teach at all, He teaches only truth, and 'if the truth make him free, he is free indeed.' Whatever is to occur on earth, you may by God's grace be one in Christ in heaven."
"I!" said the Countess. "I,—an apostate, a murderess! There is no hope for me in this world or the next. I turned from light to darkness: I deserve all I suffer and more, if more can be."
"Did you live in God's light of holiness and truth? Did you ever realize His love in Jesus Christ? Have you ever really felt the power and sweetness of forgiving grace?"
The Countess raised her eyes with interest to his face. He was in earnest, he knew of what he was speaking, and she meekly replied at once,—
"No, never."
"Then you could not turn from what you never knew, or saw, or felt. You are not an apostate, but a poor lost sinner, not more astray now than always, and needing pity and salvation. You disregarded God in prosperity and happiness, but He will not reject you in your need and sorrow. Try Him, dear Countess, and He will in no wise cast you out."
"Guy Falconer," said the unhappy mourner with awakening energy, "do you mean to say that the great good God can have anything to do with me excepting in terrible judgment?"
Guy's answer was from "the word of the Lord, which endureth for ever." Contemplations of pity, invitations of love, assurances of pardon, winding as it were a string of pearls around her; silencing objections, meeting doubts, soothing fears, and simply resolving all into the one intelligible proposition, "Will you take this salvation and have peace, or will you refuse it and remain miserable for ever?"
"Oh, if I may, I will, for I am intensely wretched. I know now the meaning of despair."
Then a Psalm of David in his trouble spoke of anguish and of hope, and so sweetly fell the balm over the wounded spirit, so greedily opened the heart to the hitherto unheeded truths of Divine revelation, that a manifest change passed over the clouded brow and tear-worn face; and eagerly taking Guy's Bible from his hands,—
"You will leave me this?" she said. "Such a thing may not be procured in Rome, and you can soon obtain another."
"But may it not be seen and taken from you?" asked Guy, with some perception of the danger.
"Perhaps not, if I am careful, until I have done with it," she said. "And if I can, I will return it to you then, and you will like to have back the lamp which may yet light my dreary path to the heaven it tells of. And now, dear friend, one favour more. Pray for me—and my husband. Oh, that we had thought of God in our past happy days—so few, so wickedly ended! Oh, Guy, if ever you see a fellow creature in danger of being misled by affection or any other snare towards this religion of hollow shows and blighting treachery, use my sad experience to warn; and bring to the front at once that real chief object which Rome hides until the last, the secret of her power, the essence of her existence—the confessional. It is no means of Divine consolation; it is a human contrivance, by means of which a proud domineering priesthood may enslave and rule the world. I see it all now, but not until I have become its victim."
Kneeling fora few moments by her side, the young missionary artist, conquering natural feeling as in the presence of Him who has bidden His children "ask what they will," pleaded in the simplicity of faith for the suffering separated ones; and over the weary heart and fading form of the Countess left a sense of rest and peace which was not there when he came.
Phœbe placed her little charge in its mother's arms, and followed him out.
"Massa Guy," said she, bravely driving back her tears, "she not be here long. You make her see de dear Lord Jesus, den she ready to go; den she say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' Now you not be 'bove old Phœbe's blessing. Go away safe with de angels ob de Lord, and bine by, all work done, we hab massa and missy and all in hebben."
"Amen," said Guy, grasping the honest black hand; "and, Phœbe, we must hear of you again. You have done me faithful, loving service, and you do not know the value of that pocket-book to my dear mother: she will want to thank you herself."
"S'pose Phœbe come some day to ole Moat House, she be took in?" asked Phœbe, quaintly.
"Aye, gladly Phœbe; remember to try it."
"As de Lord please," said Phœbe. "Me tink de world better outside dis city, all stifle with dem priests; can't 'bide 'em. Satan lookin' out dere eyes all round."
Guy could not conceal his acquiescence in Phœbe's opinion, and did not fully realize his personal safety until far away from the city of priests, where the religion they teach is a travesty of truth, human hearts their playthings, the game ambition, and the prize dominion.
The health of the Countess visibly declined, and the unwelcome visits of the confessor produced alarming effects upon her system. Sometimes she fainted away; sometimes she raised her eyes to his cold hard face with a look of anguish and entreaty, softly murmuring, "My husband,—save my husband," and he would be fain to excuse her any further effort.
Then he would warn Phœbe of careful obedience to the physician's orders, that the Countess might be enabled to bear removal. And kind friends called to inquire, and wonder what the end of the sad story would be.
The old nurse knew that the death-blow had been struck, and that all hope and desire of life had departed from the mind of the sufferer. Guy's Bible was studied in secret, and justified its priceless value, affording comfort and satisfaction beyond language to express, when the Eternal Spirit fulfils His enlightening office, and takes "of the things of Jesus, and shows them" to the sinner's heart. They alone can fill the sore gap bleeding from the wrenching away of earthly happiness, and they alone abound in blessed hopes which cannot be disappointed; and they alone, of all the favours man has ever heard of, are limited by no conditions, bounded by no exhaustion: "Whosoever will, let him take."
As long as there is the cry "I need"—the answer from heaven is "I supply." And this between man and God, through the God-man only, independent of pope or priest, form or ceremony, mass or sacrament, Mary or Peter, confession to, or absolution from, any man on earth.
Pressed almost to despair at the condition of her mistress, Phœbe resolved to overcome her reluctance to any conversation with the confessor, and to try if he could be moved to pity.
"Please, sar," she began in her meekest tone and manner, "dear young missy be dying since heart-break. Might do her good to know when massa be tried, and when she see him again."
"I cannot tell her. I have no power in such matters," replied he, blandly.
"P'raps him be so good to find out? Dey do anyting the priest please to say."
"You mistake, daughter. The priest's power is altogether spiritual, and I am ready to exercise it on your behalf, for I find that you are a Christian, and yet have never sought me for confession."
Phœbe winced, and with difficulty repressed the words which rushed to her lips; but she wanted to serve her mistress, and persevered.
"Would de priest please see massa Count in him prison, and tell poor missy 'bout him? Dey let him confess, sure?"
"He refuses to confess, he is a heretic, and it would add the last drop to the sorrow of the Countess, as a daughter of the Church, to hear that he abjures the faith."
"Please what be heretic?" asked Phœbe, demurely, and looking down to conceal the flash of pleasure that danced in her eyes.
"A thing to be abhorred of all Christians. A lost soul defying our holy mother. Beware, daughter, of all such."
"Poor massa!" returned Phœbe. "What him do? When Phœbe gib up idols, she get Jesus. What massa get?"
"There remains nothing for him but the Church's curse, and then—perdition," he solemnly replied.
"Him quite lost den? Do him know it?" asked Phœbe.
"It seems so, and in his apostasy, he is willing it should be so. Be assured, daughter, that nothing has been omitted in the Church's yearning love to bring him to repentance."
"Lost, lost," repeated Phœbe softly; "den de priest can tell ob Him who came to seek and to save the lost. P'raps when de Church put him down, de dear Lord take him up; who knows! De Lord didn't let no meddlin' come to thief on the cross—did it all Hisself."
"Woman! The Lord of the Church acts through His ministers. You talk ignorantly and need instruction, or you also will be a heretic. Beware how you make mistakes."
"Yes, sar, ole Phœbe be bery much 'ware. De debble, him go about here badly," she replied, with a quaint curtsey.
"It will be good that you are removed soon then," he added, perplexed, apparently, by her manner. "And it may be well to inform your mistress that the Count has been removed for change of air, and that his trial is deferred in consequence."
"Him bery ill?" asked Phœbe quickly.
"Not hopelessly. But the Church in mercy afflicts that she may heal. Be content to trust her wisdom."
Then turning back as he was leaving, he added peremptorily,—"We shall not trifle any longer. Prepare your mistress for travelling, and I shall provide for her reception in a safe and peaceful retreat, where she may recover health and obtain resignation."
Again Phœbe curtseyed, for she was too much choked with sorrow and anger to speak, and kneeling down she groaned within her soul:
"Oh, dear Lord, what me do? Oh save, save! Thou art mighty to save, do it, O Lord, and make ole Phœbe praise Thee!"
"It is all right, Phœbe," said the Countess, after hearing what had passed. "We will prepare: listen how ready I am for my journey."
And opening Guy's Bible, she read in musical tones of triumph:
"'The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth
my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's
sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they
comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'
"There, Phœbe, your beloved Lord Jesus has done all this for me. My Shepherd, seeking and saving His poor lost sheep, leading away from the strife of this life's turmoil, to nourishing pastures and refreshing waters. My staff and stay, my table of provision, my cup of blessing; and now I am going to the place He has prepared for me, in the house of the Lord for ever."
"Yes, dear missy, bery bad heretic; hope massa Count him ob de same sort—den meet in de glory, sing togeder Hallelujah; happier dan eber be down here. Ole Phœbe cry for joy, tink dem safe from prison and priest for evermore."
"Perhaps we are both on the journey, Phœbe,—both washed in the blood of the Lamb, and safe for the golden city. You will do all I have said for our babe, and train her in the faith of the Bible. Tell her my sad story, and tell her how all is forgiven in Christ Jesus. I am a warning to those who 'stand,' that they may shun my sin, and escape my sorrow; and I am an encouragement to those who have fallen into sin and sorrow, that they may look unto Him who only can save and comfort, and who says,—
"'Thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help found.'
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy
name.'
"Say the next, Phœbe, for I am very tired,—that is, my voice fails, but my soul is growing its wings."
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases,'" continued the faithful nurse, repeating the beautiful psalm throughout with tender emphasis, while holy calmness spread over the dying face, and those "ministers of his that do his pleasure" waited around until the time for their joyful mission came.
"Phœbe," said the Countess, "we shall be ready for our journey—you understand?"
"Yes dear missy, all ready. Phœbe do all, or she die in it."
"And what is left, dear Phœbe, when we are gone, they can take; it will not matter then."
"De good Lord gib dem a big disappointment," murmured Phœbe; "but me terribly 'fraid dey come too soon."
"No, it is all right. One comes before them at the 'appointed time,' to take me to the true 'sanctuary.'
"'I will extol thee, O Lord; for thou has lifted me up, and hast not
made my foes to rejoice over me.'
"'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"
The confessor permitted more time for preparation than Phœbe expected, and of which she made diligent use, receiving in silence all his commands, and satisfying all his inquiries concerning his "dear daughter's" health with the information that she "wander a little in her mind, tinking she see de Count in him prison, and dat he got de Lord Jesus to take care of his soul," then that "she want sleep very much," and then that "she sleep," but he did not hear her add "in Jesus."
When next the reverend "Father," visited the object of his paternal solicitude, the weeping attendants silently marshalled him to the room where she lay on her couch, robed in white, a lily on her breast, and perfect peace written on her fair young face. But that was all: the spirit he had tortured "for the Church's interest" was not there, the victim of the confessional had escaped; and the Ayah and infant had disappeared, none there knew when, nor whither.
The Roman relatives of the Count were in time informed that he had died in prison, his crimes multiplied in the hands of his enemies, until confiscation of his property was all too light a punishment, and as for his anathematised soul, if his scandalised Church could give no verdict but "heresy," there might be hope that "through much tribulation, he had entered the kingdom of heaven."