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."

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