Part 16 (1/2)
”Where is he to be found, _amico_?”
”At the convent of the Gesuiti close by.”
”So!--a Jesuit?”
”A Jesuit, Signore; so eloquent, so learned, so holy, and yet so young--so young! A holier man does not live. Though his body still walks upon earth, his soul already lives in heaven.”
”I should like to see him,” mused the Englishman. ”He might suggest something--these Jesuits are keen and far-sighted; at all events, it is worth the effort. I will go round to the Gesuiti, _amico_, to hear if your good padre can help us.”
”Our blessed Lady and all the saints reward you, dear Signore!”
exclaimed the poor father, humbly attempting to kiss the hand which Hugh Girdlestone extended to him at parting.
But the Englishman s.n.a.t.c.hed it hastily away.
”Nay, nay,” he said, roughly. ”I have my own motive--my own wrong. No thanks--no thanks!”
And with a quick gesture, half deprecation, half farewell, he was gone.
CHAPTER IV.
Vast, sombre, dimly lighted, splendid with precious marbles and rich in famous altar-pieces, the church of Il Gesu wore that day an aspect of even gloomier grandeur than usual. Before the chapel of Saint Ign.a.z.io, a considerable crowd was a.s.sembled. All were listening devoutly. The dropping of a pin might have been heard among them. There had been no service. There was no music. No perfume of incense lingered on the air.
It was simply a week-day discourse that was in process of delivery, and the preacher was Padre Lorenzo.
As Hugh Girdlestone went up the steps and lifted the heavy leathern portiere, he suddenly remembered how, on that other fatal morning of the thirteenth of February last, he had paused upon those very steps, listening to the chanting and half-disposed to enter. Why had he not followed that impulse? He could not tell. Why need the coincidence startle him now? He could not tell that, either. It was but a coincidence, commonplace and natural enough--and yet it troubled him.
He went in.
The chapel was small and held but few seats, and the crowd spread far out into the body of the church, so that the new comer had to take up his position on the outskirts of the congregation. From this place he could hear, but not see the preacher. Finding it impossible, however, to work his way nearer without disturbing others, he contented himself with listening.
The voice of the preacher was low and clear, and sounded like the voice of a young man; but it rose every now and then to a higher key, and that higher key jarred somewhat harshly upon the ear. The subject of his discourse was death. He held it up to his hearers from every point of view--as a terror; as a reward; as a punishment; as a hope beside which all other hopes were but as the shadows of shadows. He compared the last moments of the just man with those of the sinner. He showed under what circ.u.mstances death was robbed of its sting and the grave of its victory. To the soldier falling on the field, to the martyr consuming at the stake, death was glory; to the sick and the heartbroken it was peace; to the philosopher, infinite knowledge; to the poor, infinite wealth; to all faithful Christians, joy everlasting. Happy, he said, were those who died young, for they had not lived to acc.u.mulate the full burden of human sin; happier still those who died penitent, since for them was reserved the special mercy of Heaven.
”But what,” he said--and here his voice rose to a strange pitch of tremulous exaltation--”but what shall we say to this event which is to-day on every man's tongue? What shall we say to the death of this little child--this little child who but yesterday partook of his first communion in this very church, and whose fate is even now moving all hearts to indignation and pity? Was ever pity so mistaken? Was ever death so happily timed? In the first bloom of his innocence, in the very moment of his solemn reception into the bosom of our holy Church, sinless, consecrated, absolved, he pa.s.sed, pure as an angel, into the presence of his Maker. Had he lived but one day longer, he had been less pure. Had he lived to his full term of years, who shall say with what crimes his soul might not have been blackened? He might have lived to become a heretic, an atheist, a blasphemer. He might have died with all his sins upon his head, an outcast upon earth, and an outcast from heaven! Who then shall dare to pity him? Which among us shall not envy him? Has he not gone from earth to heaven, clothed in a wedding garment, like a guest to the banquet of the saints? Has he not gone with the chaplet on his brow, the ring upon his finger, the perfume of the incense yet clinging to his hair, the wine of Christ yet fresh upon his lips? Silence, then, Oh ye of little faith! Why grieve that another voice is given to the heavenly choir? Why lament that another martyr is added to the n.o.ble army of the Lord? Let us rejoice rather than weep.
Let our requiems be changed for songs of praise and thanksgiving. Shall we pity him that he is beyond the reach of sorrow? Shall we shudder at the fate that has given him to Paradise? Shall we even dare to curse the hand that sent him thither? May not that very hand have been consecrated to the task?--have been guided by the finger of G.o.d?--have been inspired by a strength ... a wisdom ... no murderer; but a priest ... a priest of the tabernacle ... it was the voice of G.o.d ... a voice from Heaven ... saying....” He faltered--became inarticulate--stopped.
A sudden confusion fell upon the congregation; a sudden murmur rose and filled the church. In an instant all were moving, speaking, gesticulating; in an instant Hugh Girdlestone was pus.h.i.+ng his way towards the chapel.
And the preacher? Tall, slender, wild-eyed, looking utterly helpless and bewildered, he stood before his hearers, unable, as it seemed, to speak or think. He looked quite young--about twenty-eight, or it might be thirty years, of age--but worn and haggard, as one that had prayed and fasted overmuch. Seeing Hugh Girdlestone push through the crowd and stand suddenly before him, he shrank back like a hunted creature, and began trembling violently.
”At last! at last!” gasped the Englishman. ”Confess it, murderer; confess it, before I strike you dead with my own hands!”
The priest put his hand to his head. His lips moved, but no utterance came.
”Do you know who I am?” continued Hugh, in a deep, hoa.r.s.e voice that trembled with hatred. ”Do you know who I am? I am the husband of Ethel Girdlestone--that Ethel Girdlestone who used to come to this very church to confess to you--to you, who slew her in her bed as you yesterday slew a little child that loved you. Devil! I remember you now. Why did I not suspect you sooner?”
”Hus.h.!.+” said a grave voice in his ear. ”Does the Signore forget in Whose house we are?”