CHAPTER LXXXVI
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH
The cool church chequered with sunbeams and crowned with heavenlypurple, soothed and charmed Father Clement, as it did Margaret; andmore, it carried his mind direct to the Creator of all good and puredelights. Then his eye fell on the great aisle crammed with his countryfolk; a thousand snowy caps, filigreed with gold. Many a hundred leagueshe had travelled; but seen nothing like them, except snow. In themorning he had thundered; but this sweet afternoon seemed out of tunewith threats. His bowels yearned over that multitude; and he must tellthem of God's love: poor souls, they heard almost as little of itfrom the pulpit then a days as the heathen used. He told them the gladtidings of salvation. The people hung upon his gentle, earnest tongue.
He was not one of those preachers who keep gyrating in the pulpit likethe weathercock on the steeple. He moved the hearts of others more thanhis own body. But on the other hand he did not entirely neglect thosewho were in bad places. And presently, warm with this theme, that noneof all that multitude might miss the joyful tidings of Christ's love, heturned him towards the south aisle.
And there, in a stream of sunshine from the window, was the radiant faceof Margaret Brandt. He gazed at it without emotion. It just benumbedhim, soul and body.
But soon the words died in his throat, and he trembled as he glared atit.
There, with her auburn hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like thegloriola of a saint, and her face glowing doubly, with its own beauty,and the sunshine it was set in-stood his dead love.
She was leaning very lightly against a white column. She was listeningwith tender, downcast lashes.
He had seen her listen so to him a hundred times.
There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left:only a shade riper and more lovely.
He started at her with monstrous eyes and bloodless cheeks.
The people died out of his sight. He heard, as in a dream, a rustlingand rising all over the church; but could not take his prodigy-strickeneyes off that face, all life, and bloom, and beauty, and that wondrousauburn hair glistening gloriously in the sun.
He gazed, thinking she must vanish.
She remained.
All in a moment she was looking at him, full.
Her own violet eyes!!
At this he was beside himself, and his lips parted to shriek out hername, when she turned her head swiftly, and soon after vanished, but notwithout one more glance, which, though rapid as lightning, encounteredhis, and left her couching and quivering with her mind in a whirl, andhim panting and gripping the pulpit convulsively. For this glance ofhers, though not recognition, was the startled inquiring, nameless,indescribable look that precedes recognition. He made a mighty effort,and muttered something nobody could understand: then feebly resumed hisdiscourse; and stammered and babbled on a while, till by degrees forcinghimself, now she was out of sight, to look on it as a vision from theother world, he rose into a state of unnatural excitement, and concludedin a style of eloquence that electrified the simple; for it bordered onrhapsody.
The sermon ended, he sat down on the pulpit stool, terribly shaken, Butpresently an idea very characteristic of the time took possession ofhim, He had sought her grave at Sevenbergen in vain. She had now beenpermitted to appear to him, and show him that she was buried here;probably hard by that very pillar, where her spirit had showed itself tohim.
This idea once adopted soon settled on his mind with all the Certaintyof a fact. And he felt he had only to speak to the sexton (whom to hisgreat disgust he had seen working during the sermon), to learn the spotwhere she was laid.
The church was now quite empty. He came down from the pulpit and steppedthrough an aperture in the south wall on to the grass, and went up tothe sexton. He knew him in a moment. But Jorian never suspected thepoor lad, whose life he had saved, in this holy friar. The loss of hisshapely beard had wonderfully altered the outline of his face. This hadchanged him even more than his tonsure, his short hair sprinkled withpremature grey, and his cheeks thinned and paled by fasts and vigils.
"My son," said Friar Clement softly, "if you keep any memory of thosewhom you lay in the earth, prithee tell me is any Christian buriedinside the church, near one of the pillars?"
"Nay, father," said Jorian, "here in the churchyard lie buried all thatburied be. Why?"
"No matter, Prithee tell me then where lieth Margaret Brandt."
"Margaret Brandt?" And Jorian stared stupidly at the speaker.
"She died about three years ago, and was buried here."
"Oh, that is another matter," said Jorian; "that was before my time; thevicar could tell you, likely; if so be she was a gentlewoman, or at theleast rich enough to pay him his fee."
"Alas, my son, she was poor (and paid a heavy penalty for it); but bornof decent folk. Her father, Peter, was a learned physician; she camehither from Sevenbergen--to die."
When Clement had uttered these words his head sunk upon his breast, andhe seemed to have no power nor wish to question Jorian more. I doubteven if he knew where he was. He was lost in the past.
Jorian put down his spade, and standing upright in the grave, set hisarms akimbo, and said sulkily, "Are you making a fool of me, holy sir,or has some wag been making a fool of you!" And having relieved his mindthus, he proceeded to dig again, with a certain vigour that showed hissomewhat irritable temper was ruffled.
Clement gazed at him with a puzzled but gently reproachful eye, forthe tone was rude, and the words unintelligible. Good-natured, thoughcrusty, Jorian had not thrown up three spadefuls ere he became ashamedof it himself. "Why, what a base churl am I to speak thus to thee, holyfather; and thou a standing there, looking at me like a lamb. Aha! Ihave it; 'tis Peter Brandt's grave you would fain see, not Margaret's.He does lie here; hard by the west door. There; I'll show you." And helaid down his spade, and put on his doublet and jerkin to go with thefriar.
He did not know there was anybody sitting on Peter's tomb. Still lessthat she was watching for this holy friar.
Pietro Vanucci and Andrea did not recognize him without his beard. Thefact is, that the beard which has never known a razor grows in a verypicturesque and characteristic form, and becomes a feature in the face;so that its removal may in some cases be an effectual disguise.