Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived--twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate.
All at once she heard a voice singing:
Love sets my heart on fire, Love of the Crucified: To Him my heart He drew, Whilst hanging on the tree, From whence He said to me, I am thy Shepherd true; I am thy Bridegroom new.
The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.
She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat.
"Sister," said the foremost one, "hast thou met Him of Nazareth?
for I know He has been seeking thee!"
What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the "brother" of whom Hubert had spoken.
"I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,"
she said sadly.
"Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?"
Quam bonus es petentibus Sed quid invenientibus {27}!
"How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!"
And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added:
"Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?"
"I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother Hubert?"
"Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer brought us," and she told him the story of Charybdis.
"Lady," he said, "I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving nature."
"What reason hast thou to give?"
"Only a conviction borne upon me."
"Wilt thou not return with me?"
"I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound."
"But thou wilt come soon?"
"On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle."
Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time.
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It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.
Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.
The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o"clock, the hour hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost.
The chaplain said ma.s.s. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after Trinity.
"Ah," he said, "this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.
"Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon G.o.d"s beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest, stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How lovely it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves and the cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide, where on the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk, the stoat, and all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims, and nature"s hand is like a claw, red with blood--and on the other, beneath the cottage roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning with painful disease, many children mourn their sires, many widows and orphans feel that the light is withdrawn from the world, so far as they are concerned.
"And yet is not G.o.d good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes; but sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.
"But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with an eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was made perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to tread the road He trod before them."
And so, with an eloquence unsurpa.s.sed in the experience of his hearers, he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled, died for them, and bade them see that Pa.s.sion pictured in the Holy Mysteries, which were about to be celebrated before them, and to give Him their hearts" oblation in union with the sacrifice.
After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be, in a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent of honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays of a full moon shone brightly through an open cas.e.m.e.nt. At first the conversation was confined to the topic of Martin"s discourse, which we here omit, but afterwards the dame said:
"My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy countenance?"
Martin was embarra.s.sed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the secret of his relationship.
"Tell me," said she, "doth thy mother yet live?"
"She doth."
"And proud must she be of her son."
He was still silent.
"Brother Martin," said she, "I had a sister once, a wilful capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister."
She continued after a long pause:
"I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of n.o.ble English blood, she had one child, a son."
Again a long pause:
"And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts.
Tell me, is it true?"
Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.
"It is true, aunt," he said.
She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of Walderne."