Chapter 53
After he had ceased, there was a deep silence for many minutes, then all the people as if moved by one impulse, rose from their knees, and standing, sang the following stanzas, which Aubrey had taught them when he first began to preach among them his ideals of love and labour.
If thou'rt a Christian in deed and thought, Loving thy neighbour as Jesus taught,-- Living all days in the sight of Heaven, And not ONE only out of seven,-- Sharing thy wealth with the suffering poor, Helping all sorrow that Hope can cure,-- Making religion a truth in the heart, And not a cloak to be worn in the mart, Or in high cathedrals and chapels and fanes, Where priests are traders and count the gains,-- All God's angels will say, "Well done!" Whenever thy mortal race is run. White and forgiven, Thou'lt enter heaven, And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate, Where welcoming spirits watch and wait To hail thy coming with sweet accord To the Holy City of God the Lord!
If Peace is thy prompter, and Love is thy guide, And white-robed Charity walks by thy side,-- If thou tellest the truth without oath to bind, Doing thy duty to all mankind,-- Raising the lowly, cheering the sad, Finding some goodness e'en in the bad, And owning with sadness if badness there be, There might have been badness in thine and in thee, If Conscience the warder that keeps thee whole Had uttered no voice to thy slumbering soul,-- All God's angels will say, "Well done!" Whenever thy mortal race is run. White and forgiven, Thou'lt enter heaven, And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate, Where welcoming spirits watch and wait To hail thy coming with sweet accord To the Holy City of God the Lord!
If thou art humble, and wilt not scorn. However wretched, a brother forlorn,-- If thy purse is open to misery's call, And the God thou lovest is God of all, Whatever their colour, clime or creed, Blood of thy blood, in their sorest need,-- If every cause that is good and true, And needs assistance to dare and do, Thou helpest on through good and ill, With trust in Heaven, and God's good will,-- All God's angels will say, "Well done!" Whenever thy mortal race is run. White and forgiven, Thou'lt enter heaven, And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate, Where welcoming spirits watch and wait To hail thy coming with sweet accord To the Holy City of God the Lord!
[Footnote: By the late Charles Mackay, LL.D., F.S.A.]
The effect of the last eight-line chorus sung by thousands of voices, was marvellous. Such a spirit of exaltation pervaded the music that the common wooden shed-like building in which these followers of one earnest man asserted their faith in God rather than in a Church, seemed to take upon itself all the architectural beauty of a temple costing millions of money. When the singing ceased, Aubrey raised his hand, and while his audience yet remained standing, pronounced the blessing.
"God be with you all, my friends!--in your hearts and lives and daily conduct! May none of you here present shadow His brightness by one dark deed or thought of evil! I will ask you to pray that God may be with me too, and with my beloved wife, the future partner of all my work, my joys and sorrows, that we may in our union make our lives useful to you and to all others who seek our help or care. God's blessing be upon us all in the name of Christ our Saviour!"
And with one accord the people answered "Amen!"
Then this brief service over, they began to disperse. Without any scramble or rush, but in perfect order and with quiet and reverent demeanour, they left their seats and began to make their way out. None of them were seen gossiping together, or smiling or nodding over each other's shoulders as is very often the case when a congregation disperses from a fashionable church. For these people in their worship of the Creator, found something reverent, something earnest, something true, valuable and necessary to daily living,--and though there were two peaceful-looking constables stationed at the door of egress, their services were not required to either keep order or compel any of those thousands of poor to "move on." They kept order for themselves, and were too busy with practical life and thought, to hang about or gossip on the way to their various homes. Several members of the congregation on hearing that their friend Leigh was going to take his marriage vows before them all, had provided themselves with flowers, and these managed to pass in front of the platform where, simply and without ostentation, they handed up their little bouquets and clusters of such blossoms as they had been able to obtain and afford in winter,--violets especially, and white chrysanthemums, and one or two rare roses. These floral offerings meant much sacrifice on the part of those who gave them,--and the tears filled Sylvie's eyes as she noted the eagerness with which poor women with worn sad faces, and hands wrinkled and brown with toil, handed up their little posies for her to take from them, or laid them with a touching humility at her feet. What a wonderful wedding hers was, she thought!--far removed from all the world of fashion, without any of the hypocritical congratulations of "society" friends,--without the sickening, foolish waste, expense and artificiality, which nowadays makes a marriage a mere millinery parade. She had spoken her vows before thousands whom her husband had helped and rescued from heathenism and misery, and all their good wishes and prayers for her happiness were wedding gifts such as no money could purchase. With a heart full of emotion and gratitude she watched the crowd break up and disappear, till when the last few were passing out of the building, she said to her husband--
"Let us leave the flowers they have given me here, Aubrey,--here, just at the foot of the Cross where you have so often spoken to them. I shall feel they will bring me a blessing!"
"It shall be as you wish, sweetheart!" he answered tenderly,--"and I must thank you for having entered so readily into the spirit of this strange marriage before my poor friends, Sylvie,--for it must have seemed very strange to you!--and yet believe me,--no more binding one was ever consummated!" He took her hand and kissed it,--then turned to Cardinal Bonpre, who had risen and was gazing round the bare common building with dreamy eyes of wistful wonderment.
"I thank you too, my dear friend! You have learned something of my work since we came to London, and I think you understand thoroughly the true sanctity and force of my marriage?"
"I--do!--I do understand it!" said the Cardinal slowly. "And I wish with all my heart that all marriage vows could be so solemnly and truly taken! But my heart aches--my heart aches for the world! These thousands you have helped and taught are but a few,--and they were as you have told me, little better than heathen when you came amongst them to tell them the true meaning of Christ's message--what of the millions more waiting to know what the Church is failing to teach? What have the priests of the Lord been doing for nearly two thousand years, that there should still be doubters of God!"
Over his face swept a shadow of deep pain, and at that moment Manuel left the Cross where he had been leaning and came up and stood beside him. The Cardinal looked at his waif wistfully.
"What did you think of this service, my child?"
"I thought that the Master of all these His servants could not be very far away!" answered Manuel softly,--"And that if He came suddenly, He would find none sleeping!"
"May it prove so!" said Aubrey fervently. "But we own ourselves to be unprofitable servants at best,--we can only try to fulfil our Lord's commands as nearly to the letter as possible,--and we often fail;--but we do honestly make the effort. Shall we go now, my lord Cardinal? You look fatigued."
Bonpre sighed heavily. "My spirit is broken, my son!" he answered. "I dare not think of what will happen--what is beginning to happen for the Christian world! I shall not live to see it; but I have sinned, in passing my days in too much peace. Dwelling for many years away in my far-off diocese, I have forgotten the hurrying rush of life. I should have been more active long ago,--and I fear I shall have but a poor account to give of my stewardship when I am called to render it up. This is what troubles both my heart and my conscience!"
"Dear friend, you have no cause for trouble!" said Sylvie earnestly. "Among all the servants of our Master surely you are one of the most faithful!"
"One of the most faithful, and therefore considered one of the most faithless!" said Manuel. "Come, let us go now,--and leave these bridal flowers where the bride wishes them to be,--at the foot of the Cross, as a symbol of her husband's service! Let us go,--the Cardinal has need of rest."
They returned to their respective homes,--Aubrey and his wife to a little tenement house they had taken for a few weeks in the district in order that Sylvie might be able to see and to study for herself the sad and bitter lives of those who from birth to death are deprived of all the natural joys of happy and wholesome existence,--whose children are born and bred up in crime,--where girls are depraved and ruined before they are in their teens,--and where nothing of God is ever taught beyond that He is a Being who punishes the wicked and rewards the good,--and where in the general apathy of utter wretchedness, people decide that unless there is something given them in this world to be good for, they would rather be bad like the rest of the folks they see about them. The Cardinal and Manuel dwelt in rooms not very far away, and every day and every hour almost was occupied by them in going among these poor, helpless, hopeless ones of the world, bringing them comfort and aid and sympathy. Wherever Manuel went, there brightness followed; the sick were healed, the starving were fed, the lonely and desolate were strengthened and encouraged, and the people who knew no more of the Cardinal than that "he was a priest of some sort or other," began to watch eagerly for the appearance of the Cardinal's foundling, "the child that seemed to love them," as they described him,--and to long for even a passing glimpse of the fair face, the steadfast blue eyes, the tender smile, of one before whom all rough words were silenced--all weeping stilled.
But on this night of all--the night of Sylvie's "religious" marriage, the Cardinal was stricken by a heavy blow. He had expected some misfortune, but had not realized that it would be quite so heavy as it proved. The sum and substance of his trouble was contained in a "confidential" letter from Monsignor Moretti, and was worded as follows--
"My Lord Cardinal,--It has come to the knowledge of the Holy Father that you have not only left Rome without signifying the intention of your departure to the Vatican as custom and courtesy should have compelled you to do, but that instead of returning to your rightful diocese, you have travelled to London, and are there engaged in working with the socialist and heretic Aubrey Leigh, who is spreading pernicious doctrine among the already distracted and discordant of the poorer classes. This fact has to be coupled with the grave offence committed against the Holy Father by the street-foundling to whom you accord your favour and protection, and whose origin you are unable to account for; and the two things taken together, constitute a serious breach of conduct on the part of so eminent a dignitary of the Church as yourself, and compel the Holy Father most unwillingly and sorrowfully to enquire whether he is justified in retaining among his servants of the Holy See one who so openly betrays its counsels and commands. It is also a matter of the deepest distress to the Holy Father, that a picture painted by your niece Donna Angela Sovrani and entitled 'The Coming of Christ,' in which the Church itself is depicted as under the displeasure of our Lord, should be permitted to contaminate the minds of the nations by public exhibition. Through the Vatican press, the supreme Pontiff has placed his ban against this most infamous picture, and all that the true servants of the Church can do to check its pernicious influence, will be done. But it cannot be forgotten that Your Eminence is closely connected with all these regrettable events, and as we have no actual proof of the authenticity of the miracle you are alleged to have performed at Rouen, the Holy Father is reluctantly compelled to leave that open to doubt. The Archbishop of Rouen very strenuously denies the honesty of the mother of the child supposed to be healed by you, and states that she has not attended Mass or availed herself of any of the Sacraments for many years. We are willing to admit that Your Eminence may personally have been unsuspectingly made party to a fraud,--but this does not free you from the other charges, (notably that of exonerating the late Abbe Vergniaud,) of which you stand arraigned. Remembering, however, the high repute enjoyed by Your Eminence throughout your career, and taking into kindly consideration your increasing age and failing health, the Holy Father commissions me to say that all these grievous backslidings on your part shall be freely pardoned if you will,--Firstly,--repudiate all connection with your niece, Angela Sovrani, and hold no further communication with her or her father Prince Sovrani,--Secondly,--that you will break off your acquaintance with the socialist Aubrey Leigh and his companion Sylvie Hermenstein, the renegade from the Church of her fathers,--and Thirdly,--that you will sever yourself at once and forever from the boy you have taken under your protection. This last clause is the most important in the opinion of His Holiness. These three things being done, you will be permitted to return to your diocese, and pursue the usual round of your duties there to the end. Failing to fulfil the Holy Father's commands, the alternative is that you be deprived of your Cardinal's hat and your diocese together.
"It is with considerable pain that I undertake the transcribing of the commands of the Holy Father, and I much desired Monsignor Gherardi to follow you to London and lay these matters before you privately, with all the personal kindness which his friendship for you makes possible, but I regret to say, and you will no doubt regret to learn, that he has been smitten with dangerous illness and fever, which for the time being prevents his attention to duty. Trusting to hear from you with all possible speed that Your Eminence is in readiness to obey the Holy Father's paternal wish and high command, I am,
"Your Eminence's obedient servant in Christ,
"Lorenzo Moretti."
The Cardinal read this letter through once--twice--then the paper dropped from his hands.
"My God, my God! why hast Thou forsaken me!" he murmured. "What have I done in these few months! What must I do!"
A light touch on his arm roused him. Manuel confronted him.
"Why are you sorrowful, dear friend? Have you sad news?"
"Yes, my child! Sad news indeed! I am commanded by the Pope to give up all I have in the world! If it were to give to my Master Christ I would give it gladly,--but to the Church--I cannot!"
"What does the Pope ask you to resign?" said Manuel.
"My niece Angela and all her love for me!--my friendship with this brave man Aubrey Leigh who works among the outcast and the poor,--but more than all this,--he asks me to give You up--you! My child, I cannot!"
He stretched his thin withered hands out to the slight boyish figure in front of him.
"I cannot! I am an old man, near--very near--to the grave--and I love you! I need you!--without you the world is dark! I found you all alone--I have cared for you and guarded you and served you--I cannot let you go!" The tears filled his. eyes and rolled down his worn cheeks. "I cannot lose my last comfort!" he repeated feebly. "I cannot let You go!"
Silently the boy gave his hands into the old man's fervent clasp, and as Bonpre bent his head upon them a sense of peace stole over him,--a great and solemn calm. Looking up he saw Manuel earnestly regarding him with eyes full of tenderness and light, and a smile upon his lips.
"Be of good courage, dear friend!" he said. "The time of trial is hard, but it will soon be over. You must needs part from Angela!--but remember she has great work still to do, and she is not left without love! You must also part from Aubrey and his wife--but they too are given high tasks to fulfil for God's glory--and,--they have each other! Yes!--you must part with all these things, dear friend--they are not yours to retain;--and if you would keep your place in this world you must part with Me!"
"Never!" cried Bonpre, moved to sudden passion. "I cannot! To me the world without you would be empty!"
As he spoke these words a sudden memory rang in his brain like a chime from some far-distant tower echoing over a width of barren land. "For me the world is empty!" had been the words spoken by Manuel when he had first found him leaning against the locked Cathedral door in Rouen. And with this memory came another, the vision he had seen of the end of the world, and the words he had heard spoken by some mysterious voice in his sleep,--"The light shineth in darkness and the darkness comprehendeth it not!" And still he looked pleadingly, earnestly, almost fearingly, into the face of his foundling.
"We must speak of this again," said Manuel then, gently. "But to-night, for at least some hours, you must rest! Have patience with your own thoughts, dear friend! To part with earthly loves is a sorrow that must always be;--Angela is young and you are old!--she has her task to do, and yours is nearly finished! You must part with Aubrey Leigh,--you cannot help him,--his work is planned,--his ways ordained. Thus, you have no one to command your life save the Church,--and it seems that you must choose between the Church and me! To keep Me, you must forego the Church. To keep the Church you must say farewell to Me! But think no more of it just now--sleep and rest--leave all to God!"
The Cardinal still looked at him earnestly.
"You will not leave me? You will not, for a thought of saving me from my difficulties, go from me? If I sleep I shall find you when I wake?"
"I will never leave you till you bid me go!" answered Manuel. "And if I am taken far from hence you shall go with me! Rest, dear friend--rest, true servant of God! Rest without thought--without care--till I call you!"
XXXIX.
The night darkened steadily down over London,--a chill dreary night of heavy fog, half-melting into rain. Cardinal Bonpre, though left to himself, did not rest at once as Manuel had so tenderly bidden him to do, but moved by an impulse stronger than any worldly discretion or consideration, sat down and wrote a letter to the Supreme Pontiff,--a letter every word of which came straight from his honest heart, and which he addressed to the Head of his Church directly and personally, without seeking the interposition of Lorenzo Moretti. And thus he wrote, in obedience to the dictate of his own soul--