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Title: A little Protestant in Rome
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Illustrator: Lancelot Speed
Release date: December 17, 2025 [eBook #77485]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1900
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE PROTESTANT IN ROME ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: HE DROPPED ON ONE KNEE BESIDE THE CHILD.]
A Little Protestant
in Rome
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
Author of "Worthy of His Name," "The Elder Brother,"
"Her Own Way"
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
NOT ASHAMED OF HIS FAITH
CHAPTER II
A REMARKABLE STRANGER
CHAPTER III
HIDE AND SEEK
CHAPTER IV
A BURDENED HEART
CHAPTER V
PAUL ADDS A NEW PETITION TO HIS PRAYERS
CHAPTER VI
PAUL SEES THE POPE
CHAPTER VII
A LETTER FROM THE HIGHLANDS
CHAPTER VIII
IN A GARDEN WITH GRAVES
CHAPTER IX
A MOONLIGHT EXPEDITION
CHAPTER X
WHAT BEPPO FOUND
CHAPTER XI
RECONCILED
CHAPTER XII
A SURRENDER
CHAPTER XIII
A FESTIVAL
A Little Protestant
in Rome
CHAPTER I.
Not Ashamed of his Faith.
"I LIKE that big wound wooin," said Paul Bernard, sprawling across his
mother's knees in his endeavour to gaze till the last moment in which
they could be seen at the mighty sunlit walls rising against the deep,
pure blue of the Roman sky.
"Sit up, Paul, directly. You are hurting me. What a rude, rough little
boy you are getting! And I wish you would not say wooin. You can sound
your r's if you take the trouble."
Paul fell back in his seat as the carriage turned a corner and the
famous ruin passed from his sight. He was in no way disturbed by his
mother's fretful reproof, for he was accustomed to being alternately
snubbed and idolised, and could deport himself with equanimity under
either experience. He had not yet seen his fifth summer; but he was
already somewhat of a philosopher, able to take things as they came,
and to possess his soul in patience when it was impossible to mould
circumstances to his will.
Mrs. Bernard sighed as she shook out the folds of her gown, which
Paul's impetuous action had disarranged. She was young and pretty and
elegantly attired, but her face wore a sad and listless expression. She
spoke with a slight drawl and an intonation which betrayed her American
birth.
"I suppose it is the correct thing to visit the Coliseum by moonlight,"
she observed; "at any rate, it is what all my compatriots appear to do."
"Yes, and it is really worth while, although everyone does it," replied
her companion, a lady a few years older, whose dress indicated that
she was a widow. "I advise you to choose a night when the moon is not
too brilliant. One gets finer effects of light and shade, and a deeper
sense of mystery pervades the vast arena, when the moon is contending
with clouds than when the sky is absolutely clear."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Bernard indifferently. "Then I must try to go on
some such night."
"May I go, mother?" asked Paul eagerly.
"You, my dear child!" said his mother's friend. "You will be snug in
bed and fast asleep, long before your mother sets out."
"No, I sha'n't. I don't go to bed so early as you think," he protested;
"and I am often awake when Janet comes to bed. I may go, mayn't I,
mother?"
"You go! Nonsense! You will be much better in bed," said his mother.
"Now, Paul, don't begin to worry me! I will not have it. I should like
you to accompany me, Mrs. Dunton, when I go."
"With pleasure," said that lady; "I love to visit the Coliseum. To me
it is one of the most sacred places on earth, and I greatly regret that
the spot where so many Christian martyrs suffered is no longer marked
by a cross. I should like to have known it when there were shrines
there at which one could offer prayers."
Paul's blue eyes grew big with wonder as he listened to her words.
"Why can't you pray there now?" he asked.
"Why? Because it is no longer possible," said the lady, a little
puzzled how to answer the child's abrupt question. "The Coliseum is no
longer a holy place, except for its memories."
"But I thought that God was everywhere," said Paul, looking puzzled in
his turn; "and that we could speak to Him in any place? I do, and He
hears me too."
"Now, Paul, be quiet," said his mother. "Little boys must not talk
about things they do not understand."
"But I do understand," said Paul; "nurse has told me."
"There! There! That will do," said his mother, holding her
neatly-gloved hand before his lips. "Not another word!"
Paul was silent for a few moments while he turned things over in his
mind.
Then suddenly, he addressed to Mrs. Dunton another question.
"Are you a Catholic?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, smiling. "Most certainly I belong to the Holy Catholic
Church."
Paul's brow cleared. He looked as if he had received enlightenment. He
regarded the lady with an air of great interest.
"Nurse says the Catholics would burn us all if they could," he remarked
cheerfully. "I'm a Protestant, you know," he added, by way of making
things clear.
"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dunton, and she turned towards his
mother with a look of amazement.
"Paul, I told you not to speak," said Mrs. Bernard hastily.
"You see what comes of having a Scotch nurse," she added, in an
undertone to her companion. "I do wish she would not put such ideas
into the child's head; but she is so faithful and good that I could not
bear to dismiss her. It is such a comfort to know that he is perfectly
safe when out of my sight."
"Yes; but still—" Mrs. Dunton began dubiously; then checked herself,
and ended in a lighter tone, as she patted the boy's cheek—"Paul will
know better when he is older."
Paul gave no heed to her words, for at that moment his attention was
diverted by the appearance of a little boy about his own age, clad in
wonderful green velvet knickers and a bright red coat, with a tiny
black "wide-awake" perched on the back of his head, who ran beside the
carriage and made signs to him, which Paul failed to understand. Mrs.
Dunton gave him a "soldo" to fling to the little vagrant; but, after
pocketing it, the boy continued to run along the road, apparently
finding pleasure in amusing the other boy with his antics.
Meanwhile, the ladies could talk in peace.
"Have you thought over the subject of our last conversation, dear Mrs.
Bernard, since we met?" asked Mrs. Dunton, with an air of intense
interest.
"Oh yes, I have thought of it," said her companion wearily; "I am
always thinking, thinking—if only one could stop thinking!"
"I know exactly how you feel," said Mrs. Dunton, her tones soft with
sympathy; "but your thoughts will never cease to trouble you till you
find rest, as I found it, in the bosom of our Holy Church."
"Ah! If I thought that!" exclaimed her friend. "If I could believe
what you tell me, I would become a Romanist to-morrow. But how is it
possible? Can anything undo the past? Many years ago I made a great
mistake—nay, it was a sin. Is there any power on earth that can blot
out that sin and make my life as if it had not been?"
"Of course the past cannot be undone; that is undeniable," said Mrs.
Dunton; "but our Holy Church can absolve from sin the penitent soul.
It is for that purpose we have the sacred office of the Confessional.
Ah! Dear Mrs. Bernard, if you knew the relief one experiences when one
unburdens one's heart in the ears of the priest, and the rest there is
in giving oneself up to be taught and guided."
"Oh! But I could not!" cried Mrs. Bernard. "I could not bear to speak
of my trouble to anyone!"
"Then it will continue to torment you," said Mrs. Dunton gravely. "Dear
Mrs. Bernard, promise me that you will go again to the convent of the
Sacré Cœur, and speak with Sister Célestine. You will find her full of
sympathy, and she is better able to help you than I am."
"I will go," said Mrs. Bernard, after a moment's pause, while the
placid, kindly face of the nun rose before her mental vision; "I like
to talk to Sister Célestine. It would be easier to tell 'her' than to
tell a priest."
"What is a pwiest, mother?" cried Paul, becoming conscious of his
mother's words, as the little "contadino" he had been watching suddenly
fell back breathless and was lost from view. "What is a pwiest?"
As often happened, his mother paid no attention to his query, and he
repeated it, and was still repeating it when the carriage drew up
before the hotel at which they were staying.
"What is a priest?" said a full sonorous voice in amused accent. "Look
at me, my boy, and you will see what a priest is."
At the same moment, a pair of strong arms lifted Paul from the carriage
and held him for a moment high above the ground. Paul looked down into
a merry face, with kindly grey eyes, laughing lips, flashing white
teeth, and a massive chin.
"Oh! Father O'Connell, is it you?" cried both the ladies in tones that
expressed pleasure.
And Paul was set down on the pavement, while the priest turned to greet
his mother.
Paul looked curiously at the tall figure in the long, glossy, black
robe and broad hat. Father O'Connell, turning, caught his intent gaze.
"So, my little friend, you see now what a priest is," he said, with a
humorous twinkle in his eyes; "tell me, do you like the look of me?"
"You don't look bad," remarked Paul gravely, "but nurse says she does
not believe in priests."
Father O'Connell burst into a ringing laugh.
The next moment a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in black, came to
the door of the hotel, and taking Paul's hand, led him quickly away.
CHAPTER II.
A Remarkable Stranger.
CLARICE BERNARD was by nature both artistic and luxurious, and an ample
income made it easy for her to indulge her tastes. The only child of
wealthy parents, she had been spoiled from her infancy, and, like most
spoiled children, she had suffered when the arms which had so softly
sheltered her were withdrawn, and she had to face alone the realities
of life. That her troubles were of her own making did not render them
more easy to bear. Living, to all appearance, a life of ease and
pleasure, she was in truth a most unhappy woman.
A fond mother in her way, she yet found little satisfaction in her love
for her child. He was a beautiful boy, with large, earnest blue eyes,
before whose direct, searching gaze she sometimes shrank, inwardly
feeling as if he could read the secrets of her heart.
She loved to buy Paul pretty clothes and costly toys, and to hear
people speak of his beauty and charm; yet there were times when she
wished that his eyes were not so deeply, purely blue, and that his
fleeting expressions and unconscious gestures did not so constantly
remind her of another.
"Paul is like you, and yet not like you," a lady said to her one day,
as they sat together in the drawing-room at the hotel. "I fancy the
difference will be more marked as he grows older. His eyes are not like
yours. I suppose his father had blue eyes?"
"Yes, yes, it was so," said Mrs. Bernard hurriedly, and she turned
to the piano and began to strike a few loud chords at random, as if
anxious to check further speech.
The lady reflected that Mrs. Bernard must have loved her husband very
much, since she could not bear even this slight reference to him.
Paul was so admired and petted at the hotel that he ran considerable
danger of being spoiled, and doubtless would have suffered, but for the
conscientious efforts of his Scotch nurse to counteract the mischief.
She never failed to remind him in moments of elation of his natural
depravity.
"Yes, the suit's all right," she would say; "it's bran' new velvet and
real lace; but I'm thinking the worst part's in the middle. God keep
us humble, for we've little cause to be proud, when we think what our
hearts are."
"Is my heart so very bad, do you think, nurse?" Paul would ask, with an
air of concern.
"It mayn't be the worst or the best," said his nurse; "but what of
that? The Bible tells us that the heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked."
"But you said that God would give me a new heart, if I asked Him,
and I have asked Him; I am always asking Him," said Paul, with some
impatience. "I should think He must have given it to me by now."
"The heart needs to be renewed every day," said his nurse gravely; "but
now keep still while I fasten your collar. It is impossible for me to
button it while you keep jerking your head about."
In spite of her Scotch birth, Janet found Paul difficult to deal with
when he waxed argumentative. She was often both astonished and rebuked
by his faith in prayer. When quite a wee boy, he had insisted on saying
the Lord's Prayer in a fashion of his own, with the petition, "Give us
this day our daily bread and honey and jam."
When Janet reproved him for making this addition, he replied, "But,
nurse, you say that we may ask God for whatever we want. Bread alone
will not do for me; I must have honey and jam."
And he continued to repeat the prayer in his own way.
Paul and his nurse occupied a large and airy room in the hotel,
with a balcony overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. The balcony was a
never-failing source of diversion to Paul. From it he could watch all
the life of the Piazza—the carriages rolling to and fro, the arrivals
at the hotel, the flower-sellers with the beautiful, many-hued flowers
massed together on their stalls, the pedlars with the mosaics and
tortoise-shells they so seldom seemed to sell, and the artists' models
in their picturesque costumes. Sometimes his nurse would bring her
needle-work, and sit just within the window, that she might be at hand
to answer as best she could Paul's innumerable questions.
One evening about sunset, as Paul, after returning from his walk, was
amusing himself in the balcony, a carriage drove up to the door of the
hotel bringing a young lady, who had evidently come from a journey,
since a quantity of luggage was piled up in the front of the conveyance.
She was quite young—too young, one might have thought, to be travelling
alone—and very smartly dressed. Masses of red-golden hair were visible
beneath her black velvet hat; her cheeks had a delicate bloom, and her
eyes were large and bright, with finely-pencilled brows.
Paul looked at her and admired her with a child's ready appreciation of
surface prettiness. Then his eyes were caught by the knowing-looking
pug which sat on the seat beside his mistress.
Paul watched as the lady rose, and, taking up her pug, alighted with
him in her arms. The wise eyes and little black nose peeped out from
beneath her arms as she stood giving directions respecting her luggage.
Paul happened to be eating a biscuit, and it occurred to him to try the
effect of dropping a piece down before the dog. The biscuit fell within
an inch of the dog's nose, and lay on the ground before him; but he
made no attempt to seize it.
The young lady looked up in surprise, but smiled as she saw the little
boy.
"How kind you are to my dog!" she said. "I thank you for him. Yes,
Fritz, you may take it."
She set down the pug as she spoke, and Paul had the satisfaction of
seeing him snap up the biscuit.
"There," she said, looking up at Paul with laughing eyes, "he would not
have touched it if I had not told him he might. He is a good dog, is
Fritz."
"Is his name Fritz, and does he always do what you tell him?" asked
Paul, delighted with this new acquaintance.
"Always," said the girl.
But at that moment Janet, astonished to hear her charge talking with
some one below, stepped on to the balcony. She looked down, and the
girl's face met her view in the full light of the clear sky. The girl
nodded to Paul and went into the hotel, followed by her dog; but Janet
had seen enough.
"A painted minx!" she said, with something like a snort. "She's no
good."
"What is a minx?" asked Paul. "And why is she painted, and who painted
her?"
"Never mind. It's no business of yours," replied nurse, aware that she
had been indiscreet in making such a remark in his hearing.
"What makes you think that she is not good?" persisted Paul.
"There! There! It does not matter to you. You are not to talk about
her," said his nurse.
"But the dog is good, is he not?" said Paul. "He does whatever he is
told, so he must be a very good dog."
"Then you may try to be like him," said nurse. "I know a little boy who
does not always do what he is told."
And Paul, aware that he had forgotten more than one injunction of his
nurse's that day, became silent.
That evening, at the "table d'hôte," the appearance of the
newly-arrived traveller created a sensation. She was richly dressed,
and diamonds flashed on her small, white hands. Her beauty was
most striking; but the ladies present eyed her with suspicion, and
whispered among themselves that her complexion was certainly artificial
and her hair too golden to be natural. She bore herself with great
self-possession, and looked about her with cool, supercilious eyes,
which seemed to defy criticism. Now and then her beautiful lips curled
with a somewhat contemptuous smile.
Presently she began to talk to the gentleman on her right, and the
people near her grew quiet, that they might hear what she was saying.
She talked gaily and brilliantly in good and fluent French; but she
had been heard to speak English with equal facility, and people began
wondering as to her nationality. Was she English or American, or
possibly Canadian? Was she as young as she looked, and what was the
meaning of her travelling alone?
But while people observed and conjectured, they held aloof from the
young stranger, and made no attempt to obtain information at first hand.
"An actress, I should say," whispered Mrs. Dunton to Mrs. Bernard, as
she watched the play of hands and voice and features with which the
young beauty talked.
"An adventuress of some kind, no doubt," was the other lady's reply.
So their eyes dwelt on the stranger with cold disapproval, while
reluctantly compelled to admire the style and fit of her silk gown.
Meanwhile, the new arrival was being discussed in other regions of
the hotel. A courier who chanced to be in the hall when the young
lady entered, recognised her as one whom he had seen at Naples, and
imparted certain facts concerning her to the porter, who in his turn
told them to one of the waiters, who confided them to his wife, who was
a chambermaid, and who, being able to speak English, could not resist
whispering them to Paul's nurse.
Janet was shocked at this confirmation of her suspicions, yet derived
some satisfaction from the thought that she had been right in her first
estimate of the young woman's character.
On the following morning, Paul, equipped for a walk on the Pincio, was
waiting till his nurse was ready to accompany him, when a sharp little
bark reached his ears, and running into the corridor, he saw the clever
pug standing at one of the doors, evidently asking that it might be
opened to him. Paul was stroking him when his mistress opened the door.
She smiled to see the child standing beside the dog. She was a radiant
vision in a pink morning gown, and Paul was fully conscious of her
charm as he looked up at her.
"Good morning, little man," she said brightly, "I am glad that you like
my dog. Now, Fritz, say 'good morning' properly. See, he knows how to
shake hands!"
"So he does!" exclaimed Paul, delighted with the dog's accomplishment
as he shook the proffered paw. "He is a good dog. Nurse says he is
better than I am, because I don't always do as I am told."
"You don't mean to say so!" said the young lady, looking amused. "And
you look such a good little boy too!"
"I'm not, though," said Paul seriously. "It's awfully hard to be good,
isn't it? Did you always do what you were told when you were a little
girl?"
"Oh dear me, no; neither then nor since. I was always one to take my
own way," said the girl.
She spoke lightly, and ended with a laugh, yet a shadow fell on her
face as she spoke, and Paul was dimly aware that his words had somehow
hurt her.
Just then Fritz sprang forward, barking vigorously at the hotel porter,
who was coming down the corridor with his hands full of letters.
Instantly the lady's face changed. There was an eager, anxious look in
her eyes as she advanced to meet the man.
"You have a letter for me—Mademoiselle Grand?"
The man shook his head.
"But there must be!" she insisted.
And she made him turn over all the letters till she was satisfied that
not one bore her name. A look of pain and disappointment came to her
face. She stood motionless with clasped hands as the porter went on
down the corridor.
"Cruel, cruel!" she murmured to herself.
Paul was playing with the dog, and noted nothing.
"Does he know how to beg?" he asked, looking up at the lady.
"Yes, he has learned to beg," she said; "but we must give him something
to beg for."
She went into her room, and returned immediately with a pretty box of
chocolates, which she gave to Paul. He showed one to Fritz, and at once
the dog sat erect with his little paws drooping.
"What a dear dog he is!" said Paul. "How you must love him!"
"I do," said Mademoiselle Grand. "He is the most faithful friend I have
in the world."
"Is he? I'll be your friend too, if you like," said Paul.
"Will you? That is very kind," she said, with a smile; "you must tell
me your name, my little friend."
"It is Paul," he said.
"Paul!" she repeated. "And what is your father's name?"
"I haven't got a father—except of course the Heavenly Father," he said,
"'Our Father which art in heaven,' you know. Have you a father?"
"I?" she looked startled at the question, "I! Yes. No—I mean—I have no
father."
Paul looked at her with wondering eyes. It struck him as strange that
she should first say "Yes" and then "No."
"That's not quite true, you know," he said.
"Not true! What do you mean?" she asked.
"You have a father, because God is your Father," he replied.
At that moment Janet appeared at the end of the corridor, and called to
Paul in severe accents.
"There's your nurse," said the lady; "run away to her at once, like a
good, wee boy." And she went into her room.
"Good sakes! If she did not say those words just like a Scotswoman!"
murmured Janet. "God forbid that the poor lost soul should be from
Scotland!"
"Why couldn't you stay in the room when you were dressed?" she asked of
Paul. "Why need you go talking with one we have no concern with?"
"She is a very nice lady," said Paul. "See what she has given me!"
"What's that? Chocolates?" Janet regarded the dainty box with
displeasure in her eyes. "Give it to me."
Reluctantly Paul yielded it up. Taking the box, Paul's nurse went
swiftly down the corridor and tapped at the lady's door.
"You'll excuse me, miss," she said bluntly, as the girl opened the
door; "but I cannot allow my young gentleman to keep this. His mother
would not approve of his receiving such a gift from a stranger."
"Oh, very well," said Mademoiselle Grand carelessly; but she coloured,
and there was a bitter smile on her face as she closed the door. With a
passionate gesture she flung the rejected gift out of the open window.
A number of small urchins were scrambling for the chocolates when Paul
reached the Piazza. His temper was not improved by the sight.
"You are horridly cross," he said to his nurse. "Why couldn't I have
the chocolates? I am sure mother would have let me keep them."
"Not if she knew who gave them," said Janet. "Now, mind, you are not to
go near that lady again."
"Why not?" asked Paul. "I like her, and I am going to be her friend."
"She is a poor creature," said his nurse.
"I am sure she is not poor," said Paul. "She has such pretty frocks,
and you should see how her rings sparkle. And such a dear dog. She
'can't' be poor."
"That's all you know about it," said Janet; "I tell you she is a poor,
unhappy creature."
"If she is unhappy, I ought to try to make her happy," said Paul.
As usual, Janet found herself worsted in argument.
CHAPTER III.
Hide and Seek.
THE last ringing note had been sounded by the band on the Pincio, and
the men were gathering up their music and hurrying down from the stand;
but Janet still sat knitting rapidly, and talking with an air of the
deepest interest to the old Englishwoman. Marie, the little French girl
with whom Paul had been playing, had gone home with her nurse; every
one was going. How tiresome it was of Janet to sit there, so absorbed
in her talk as to pay no attention to his very plain hints that he
wanted to be moving! What stupid things grown-up people talked about!
Who cared how many servants the Russian countess kept? Certainly Paul
did not. A naughty idea occurred to him, and proved too delightful to
be resisted. He would run away and hide. It would serve nurse right if
she thought that he was lost.
Slipping behind Janet, and running across to the Moses Fountain, Paul
was soon lost to sight amidst the shrubs. Looking about he found a snug
hiding-place—a little nook beneath a rockery, screened by a full leafy
bush. In the gathering gloom beneath the trees it was impossible that
anyone could spy the tiny form ensconced there. Not many minutes had
passed ere Paul heard his nurse's voice calling him. It was delightful
to think how well he was hidden. He would stay where he was till Janet
came quite close, and then catch hold of her gown as she passed.
"Paul! Paul! Come to me at once, Master Paul!" nurse called. "Oh yes, I
know you are hiding; but it is too late now for games; we must go home
at once."
Paul shook with laughing as he listened. It was such fun to think that
nurse could not find him. He stretched out his right hand, ready to
grab Janet's skirt as she passed, but she never came near enough for
him to do that; the shrubs, growing thickly about his hiding-place,
barred the way for a grown-up person. Her voice sounded further away;
presently the cry of "Paul! Paul!" seemed to come from a distance; then
he heard it no more.
Paul waited, feeling sure that Janet would presently return; but she
did not come, and the waiting grew tedious. It is dull work hiding, if
no one comes to find you. Besides, it seemed to be getting dark. Paul
did not like the idea of being alone on the Pincio in the dark.
He came out of his hiding-place, scrambled through the bushes, and
stood looking about him. It was not dark, but the light was failing,
and he saw the moon looking down at him from the clear sky. No one was
in sight. A feeling of loneliness and fear took possession of Paul's
mind.
He began to cry aloud—"Janet! Janet! I'm here. Come to me quick. Janet!
Janet!"
But it was now his turn to call in vain. He burst into tears, and ran
forward with outstretched hands. Suddenly a sharp little bark fell on
his ears, and Mademoiselle Grand's pug came bounding to meet him.
"Oh, Fritz, Fritz! I am glad to see you!" the child cried. "I'm here
alone, Fritz, all alone!" And his tears flowed afresh.
Fritz did his best to comfort him. He stood on his hind legs and laid
his front paws on the child's shoulders; he licked his cheeks and gave
short joyous barks, as if he would say, "Never mind, it's all right
now; I'm here, you know."
Then he gave a tug at the boy's tunic and bounded off, looking back, as
though to bid him follow. Paul followed willingly.
The dog bounded across the deserted road and made for the furthest
angle of the wall. This corner is separated from the path by wooden
palings, which guard the spot whence there juts forth a fragment of the
oldest Roman wall. At one point the fence had broken down. Fritz sprang
through the gap, and Paul followed him.
The next moment the boy uttered a cry of fear, for, standing on the
very verge of the wall, overlooking its sheer descent, and leaning
forward at an angle that even the child saw to be most perilous, was
Mademoiselle Grand. At the sound of the boy's cry, she started, and all
but lost her balance.
But Paul seized her hand, and with tremulous haste pulled her back.
"You must not stand so near the edge," he said; "it is very naughty.
You might fall, and then you would be bwoken to bits, like Marie's doll
when she dwopped it over the wall."
Mademoiselle Grand turned towards him a face from which every vestige
of colour had fled. She was trembling from head to foot, and when she
tried to laugh her voice broke, and she began to sob instead.
"Don't cwy," said Paul, forgetting his own distress in his desire to
comfort her; "I daresay you did not know how naughty it was."
"Oh yes; I knew very well," she sobbed. "I knew that I was going to do
a very wicked thing. Dear little Paul, I believe God must have sent you
to stop me. If you had not come, I should certainly have thrown myself
down."
[Illustration: STANDING ON THE VERGE OF THE WALL WAS MADEMOISELLE
GRAND.]
"Then you would have been bwoken," said Paul, in the most
matter-of-fact way, "your head and your neck, and I suppose your arms
and legs too."
The lady shuddered.
"It's horrible to think of," she said; "but, after all, it would not
have mattered about my body. No one would have cared."
"God would have cared," said Paul.
"God!" she repeated in a startled tone. "Does He care?"
"Of course," said Paul. "Janet says that it makes Him sad when we do
naughty things. Haven't you any father and mother to be sowwhy too?"
"My mother died when I was younger than you, Paul," said Mademoiselle
Grand in a low, sad tone. "My father—"
"Your father—" repeated Paul, as she paused.
Still, the young lady did not speak. She was gazing away into the
distance, as if she saw something that Paul could not see. Looking up
at her pale, sad face, outlined against the clear evening sky, the
child was dimly aware that it was very beautiful. Suddenly she seemed
to become conscious of his presence again. She turned, and seating
herself on a low bank of earth, drew Paul towards her. As she put her
arm about him, the child could feel how it trembled.
"My father, Paul," she said, "is a good man; but stern and hard. It is
always the good people who find it most hard to forgive evil in others.
He loved me in his way, and he did much for me; he was proud of me
till—I was a bad daughter, Paul. I ran away from him. I know I have
broken his heart. He will never forgive me."
"Oh yes, he will," said Paul, confidently. "If you go home and tell him
that you are sorry, he will forgive you; fathers always do. There was
the pwodigal son, you know. His father came to meet him with his arms
stretched out wide. I've seen the picture of it."
"Oh, the prodigal son!" said Mademoiselle Grand. "That is in the Bible."
"Yes, that's why I know it is true," said Paul.
"Well, I'm a prodigal daughter, so it's a similar case," she said
bitterly; "but I don't think I dare go home. Yet, what will become of
me?" She broke off abruptly, and her tears gathered afresh.
"I should go home if I were you," said Paul. "Depend upon it, your
father will come to meet you. And if he seemed angry, you could tell
him you would be one of his servants."
"My father does not keep many servants," said Mademoiselle Grand, with
a sad smile. "Ah! How sick I grew of my quiet Highland home, and now
I weary to see it again, though I know the sight of it would break my
heart! Would to God I had never left it! Well, Fritz, what now?"
For all the time she was speaking, Fritz was nestling close to her,
licking her hands and cheek, and striving by every means that dog can
employ to show his love for her.
"How fond of you Fritz is!" said Paul. "What would he have done if you
had fallen off the wall?"
"He would have sprung after me," said Mademoiselle Grand. "He has too
true a heart to live on, if I were dead. Dogs are more faithful than
men."
"Poor dear Fritz," said Paul, fondling him. "I'm glad you did not fall.
But now, please—" there was a sudden break in his voice—"you take me
home? I'm lost, you know, and nurse is looking for me. And I am so
dreadfully hungry."
Mademoiselle Grand rose quickly, and taking the little boy's hand led
him homewards. Up to this moment she had been too absorbed in herself
to wonder at his being there alone. At the gate they met Janet, looking
like one distracted. She had been to the hotel, to see if Paul had
found his way back alone. Great was her relief on seeing him with
Mademoiselle Grand; but she gave but scant thanks to the young lady for
her care of him.
"Good-bye," said Paul, as he shook hands with her, "you won't go back
to the wall, will you?"
"I? Oh no!" said Mademoiselle Grand, with a nervous laugh. "See, they
are closing the gate. Good-bye, my little friend; I shall not forget
what you have said."
"What did you say to her?" asked Janet curiously, as they walked away.
"And what did you mean about the wall?"
"I thought she might walk too near and fall over, you know," said Paul.
"It was a pity you did not go on looking for me, Janet, I was in such a
lovely hiding-place."
"It was very naughty of you to go away and hide, when it was time to go
home," said his nurse; but she was too thankful to have found him to be
hard upon him.
Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Grand had paused outside the gates of the
Pincio, and stood beneath the ilexes, gazing across the house-tops to
the dome of St. Peter's, looming dark against the grey sky. In all the
wide city there was perhaps no more desolate and despairful creature
than this young girl, so beautiful and so exquisitely dressed. She
had bartered all that a woman holds most dear for what had proved a
worthless exchange. She had sinned, and bitter was her repentance.
This evening she had meant to end her life, but God had stayed her by
the hand of a little child, and by that child, it seemed to her, that
He had spoken to her. She would go home, she who had sinned against her
father and her God. It might be that there was forgiveness for her with
both; but for that she dared not hope.
CHAPTER IV.
A Burdened Heart.
"MADEMOISELLE GRAND has gone away," said Janet the next morning, as she
was brushing Paul's hair.
"Has she? Gone already!" exclaimed Paul. "And Fritz too! Oh, I am
sorry! I did want to say good-bye to them before they went."
"She left the hotel at seven o'clock," said his nurse. "Did you know
she was going away?"
"Yes, I knew," said Paul, with a nod. "She has gone home to her father."
"Oh, really!" said nurse.
"Yes, and I'm glad she has gone, though I wish I had said good-bye to
her," said Paul. "Nurse, how is it that I haven't got a father? All
other children have."
"You are mistaken, Master Paul. There are many poor little children
whose fathers are dead."
"Is my father dead?" asked Paul.
Janet made no reply, but pursed up her lips as if she never meant to
open them again. When Paul persisted in putting his question she told
him to be quiet, and not to worry her. But Paul's desire to obtain
information was not to be quenched by a single rebuff. When Janet
refused to answer him, he said to himself that she did not know. He
waited till later in the day, when he was alone with his mother in her
room, and then put the question to her.
"Is my father dead?" he asked, looking up into his mother's face with
his open, appealing gaze.
She started nervously as he spoke. "What do you mean, Paul? What makes
you ask me that?"
"People are always asking me," he said. "That lady in the green frock
asked me yesterday, and when I said that I had never had a father, she
laughed, and said I 'must' have had one; but if I did not know anything
about him, she supposed he was dead. Is he dead, mother?"
Mrs. Bernard opened her lips to speak hastily, but as she met her boy's
earnest, innocent eyes, she paused. She could not speak falsely to Paul.
"No, he is not dead, Paul," she said slowly; "but dead to me—dead to
me."
"Not dead!" said Paul eagerly. "Then shall I see him some day, mother?"
"Perhaps," she said faintly. He little knew how he pierced her heart by
the question. "But I cannot talk about it, Paul, nor must you."
"Why not?" he protested. "I want to hear about my father. I am so glad
that I have one. Marie's father gives her chocolates and carries her on
his shoulder. When shall I see him, mother?"
"I cannot tell, Paul. Now, you are not to talk any more; you make my
head ache. Run away to Janet; I am going out."
Mrs. Bernard's hands trembled as she arranged before her mirror the
large velvet picture hat which set off her beauty so admirably. It
seemed to her that her face had suddenly grown white and haggard. Paul
saw no change in it, however.
"You do look so pretty in that hat, mother," he said. "Where are you
going? Do take me with you."
She responded by taking him into her arms and kissing him passionately.
There was a tear glistening on Paul's cheek when she released him from
her embrace. She was going where the presence of a child might prove
inconvenient, but she could not refuse to take him, and it would be a
gratification to her motherly pride to show Sister Célestine her lovely
boy.
So Paul went with his mother to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. He was
greatly impressed by Sister Célestine in her flowing white veil and
long robe of turquoise blue. He felt the charm, too, of her sweet,
gentle voice and kindly eyes. She understood children, and Paul was
perfectly good and happy in her company. When she wished to talk
quietly with his mother, she called one of the novices, and bade her
take Paul to see the pretty black and white kitten, a true Dominican,
which had been sent to the convent from the monastery of St. Sabina.
Paul thoroughly enjoyed playing with the kitten, and did not like
leaving her, when the summons came for him to rejoin his mother.
Mrs. Bernard had a grave and harassed look as she quitted the convent.
She stood in doubt as Paul sprang into the carriage which awaited them
at the door of the church.
"Shall we go back to the hotel, Paul?" she asked.
"No, no," cried Paul emphatically, "let us go for a drive, mother!"
"Very well," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "we will go to the
Villa Mattei; it is open this afternoon."
Paul chattered eagerly as they went along; but she only half heard
what he was saying. She was thinking of the strong, earnest words of
the nun. Would she be happier if she joined the Roman Church? Would
she find relief in the office of the Confessional? Would the weight of
bitter remorse that lay upon her heart be lifted off it? One thing was
clear to her. If she became a Roman Catholic, she would raise a last
barrier between herself and her husband. He was an Englishman and a
Protestant. She knew the light in which he regarded the Roman Catholic
Church. If she should join it, her doing so would appear to him a fresh
act of defiance. As this thought struck her, Mrs. Bernard looked at her
boy and shivered.
"He would certainly take Paul from me if I became a Roman Catholic,"
she said to herself.
It was a strange destiny which had bound the life of a man like
John Bernard, of Huguenot ancestry, serious, earnest, with strong
principles, inflexible pride, and a will of iron, to a self-willed,
spoiled, frivolous girl, such as Clarice had been when she married him.
She had fascinated him so completely in the days of their courtship
that she, not unnaturally, expected to dominate him as a wife. She
was astounded when, gently but firmly, he made known his intention of
having his own way in certain matters pertaining to their mutual life.
She refused to surrender her will, and their life became one of
perpetual discord. Clarice had so little understood her husband that
it had seemed to her that if she persisted in her defiance, she must
conquer in the end. Finally, in passionate resentment of a wish he had
thwarted, she had fled from his home, taking with her their infant son,
and settled herself with friends at a distance. She had never doubted
that John would seek her in haste, and implore her to return to him.
He had acted quite otherwise. He took her flight to signify that she
thought it better they should live apart for the future. To her sore
mortification, he never even asked her to return to him, but sent his
solicitor, to explain to her the terms on which he proposed they should
for the future lead separate lives. They were terms to which she could
take no exception. Her husband left her free to spend as she would the
whole of the handsome fortune she had inherited from her parents, and
she was permitted to have the guardianship of her child until he was
seven years of age.
Clarke was not the woman to humble herself and ask forgiveness. In
her way she was as proud as her husband, and she accepted his terms
without a demur. She bade the solicitor tell him that she meant to quit
England, where she had known no happiness, and return to America. There
she had many friends, and might yet find life worth living.
But in her heart Clarice knew that there was for her no joy in life
from henceforth. In spite of her perversity, she loved her husband, and
she mourned bitterly over the wreck of the happiness which had seemed
so sure on their wedding day. At first she resented passionately what
she chose to regard as her husband's harshness; but there came to her
the conviction that she had been most to blame.
"Every wise woman buildeth her house," said Solomon; "but the foolish
plucketh it down with her own hands." Clarice had committed that
supreme act of folly, and now she suffered the anguish of a hopeless
remorse. Her very love for her boy became a torture to her. She could
not rejoice in his beauty and growth, for sickening dread of the hour
when he should be taken from her. "Oh! For power to undo the past!" was
the daily cry of her heart.
Mrs. Bernard returned to Boston, her native place, and lived there
a life which was outwardly pleasant enough; but the ache of regret,
the sore craving for the love she had forsaken, never ceased. Only
in constant diversion and change could she find relief. It was this
necessity which, after four years passed in America, had brought her
again to Europe. In all that time no word or sign from her husband had
reached her. He had not even sought to see his child. He might be dead,
for aught she knew.
Paul and his mother alighted from the carriage at the entrance to the
Villa Mattei. The gardens were delightful on that April afternoon.
Beneath the warm sunshine the tall box hedges gave forth their subtle
perfume. It was pleasant to walk beneath the shade of the old, gnarled
ilexes, and Paul was charmed with the quaint and somewhat mutilated
statues and antique bits of carving which lined the way.
Presently they found a seat which commanded a lovely view of the
Campagna. Orange and lemon trees, laden with golden fruit, grew near,
and bees were buzzing to and fro and rifling the flowers of their honey.
"I like this willa," said Paul. "It is much nicer than the Pincio."
"What will Janet do without you this afternoon, I wonder?" said Mrs.
Bernard, as she patted his curly head.
"Oh, she will be all right," said Paul indifferently. "She will be able
to talk to that old woman on the Pincio as much as she likes."
"I do not suppose she will go on the Pincio alone," said his mother;
"she is most likely sitting in her room sewing for you. I don't know
what you would do without Janet."
"No," said Paul gravely. "She is very good; but, mother, I like best
to be with you. I should like to be with you always. I would never wun
away from you; never!"
"I should hope not, my darling," said his mother, rather tremulously.
"Why should you run away from me?"
"Some people do," said Paul, with the old man air of wisdom he
sometimes wore. "I have heard of people running away from their fathers
and mothers; but I never will, mother, not when I am grown-up ever so
tall."
"I am sure you would not," said his mother; "but suppose, Paul—suppose
some one should try to take you away from me?"
"I would not let them!" cried Paul. "I would fight them!" And doubling
up his tiny fists, he began to strike out at an imaginary foe.
"But if they should tell you, Paul, that your mother was a naughty
woman," said Mrs. Bernard slowly; "if they should tell you, you would
be better away from her?"
"I should tell them it was a wicked story," said Paul stoutly. "You are
not a naughty woman, mother."
"I am afraid I am, Paul," said his mother sadly. "Yes, it is true; I
have been very, very naughty."
"Have you, mother?" exclaimed Paul, his blue eyes opening wide in
astonishment. "But you are sorry now, aren't you?"
"Sorry!" cried his mother, her voice breaking with a sob. "I am more
sorry than I can tell you, Paul!"
"When I have been naughty," said Paul, "I tell Janet that I am sorry,
and she forgives me. And when I say my prayers, I tell God that I am
sorry, and He forgives me. You will tell God that you are sorry, won't
you, mother?"
"Do you think He would forgive me?" she asked.
"Why, yes," said Paul, in a tone of absolute certainty. "God always
forgives."
He was silent for a few moments, while his little face wore a look of
serious reflection.
"I don't know," he said presently, "whether there is anyone else to
whom you ought to say that you are sorry."
His mother thought that she knew; but she said nothing. She bent over
Paul and kissed him again and again. "You love me, Paul?" she said;
"promise me that you will always love me."
"Of course," he said calmly. Once more his little face was grave with
thought for a few seconds ere he said: "I've been thinking, mother,
what a good thing it is that God sent me into the world, for I shall
always be able to take care of you. When I am a big man, and you are a
little, old woman—you will be old then, you know—I shall give you my
arm and lead you along, as M. Roget leads his old mother."
Mrs. Bernard laughed at the strange vision of the future presented
by her son; but there were tears in her eyes. A lizard darted across
the path, and Paul ran off in pursuit of it. She was left to her
own thoughts. Was it all as simple as her child had said, she asked
herself? Had she but to seek forgiveness and to receive it? Was there
no need of the intervention of a priest, no virtue in the priestly
absolution of which she had heard so much? Was God indeed so ready to
forgive?
Like a swift response to the question, a voice within her mind seemed
to utter words, familiar once, yet never heeded before:
"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
CHAPTER V.
Paul Adds a New Petition to his Prayers.
MRS. BERNARD went no more to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. The
spell that drew her thither was broken; the gorgeous Roman rites and
ceremonies had lost their fascination for her. She felt that she needed
that which was at once greater and simpler. She wanted to know that
she was forgiven, and the sin of the past blotted out; but she could
no longer believe that any earthly priest had power to pronounce her
forgiveness, or to make her peace with God.
She was restless and unhappy, and her friends found her moods
unaccountable. She talked of leaving Rome, but could not make up her
mind where to go. All places were alike distasteful to her. Even while
she listened to the most favourable descriptions of places she had
not visited, her heart sickened within her. She knew that she would
feel heart-sore and weary wherever she went. It is not in the power
of beautiful scenery, or the most perfect climate, or the gayest
spectacles, to minister to a mind diseased. She was tired of wandering
to and fro; her heart craved rest and home; but these were blessings
she could never hope for more.
Then she sought relief in the fulfilment of duty. It struck her that
she had not sufficiently realised her responsibility as a mother. She
would devote herself to teaching and training her boy. Paul was not yet
five; it was early to begin regular lessons, but in two years he might
be taken from her, and she would no longer be able to do anything for
him. Well, her husband should see that she had done her best for their
child. Hitherto Janet alone had instructed Paul. She had taken pains to
teach him his alphabet, and he was even beginning to read tiny words
and to form his "o's" and "pothooks" in a funny quavering hand.
Paul was delighted when his mother became his teacher. She was
astonished at the quickness with which he learned. "He will be a clever
man," she said to herself, with a throb of mingled pride and pain. Then
followed the thought—
"How proud of him his father will be!"
At that moment Clarice Bernard realised how much her husband was
missing, how much he had lost of the joy of watching the development
of this beautiful child. She no longer thought of her husband as a
hard-hearted tyrant. She knew him capable of loving Paul with a love as
deep and strong as her own, and there came to her a new sense of the
wrong she had done him when she quitted his home. She breathed a heavy
sigh, as she thought of "what might have been."
"Why do you sigh, mother?" asked Paul.
"I sigh because I am unhappy, darling," she replied.
"Why are you unhappy?" he said.
"I cannot tell you, Paul; you would not understand," she said gently.
"I do not like you to be unhappy," Paul said, almost with impatience.
Children naturally shrink from those who are sad and melancholy, and
there was not a more sensitive little mortal in the world than Paul.
His mother's sigh checked for a moment his exuberant gladness, and cast
a shadow on his loving little heart.
That evening Mrs. Bernard sent Janet out to make some purchases, and
she herself put her boy to bed. As Paul knelt at her knee to say his
evening prayer, his upturned face and curly head, emerging from the
white-frilled nightgown, had the beauty and sweetness of one of the
cherub heads which the old painters loved to depict.
"'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child,—'"
he repeated. At the close of the familiar lines, he offered a few
petitions of his own.
"Please God, bless my mother, and make her not to be unhappy any more.
And bless Janet, and please may she not hurt me so much when she combs
my hair. And bless Orlando, and the lame boy who sells matches, and
Marie and M. Roget, and—" There was a pause. Paul had opened his eyes,
and those large blue orbs were looking with their deep earnest gaze
into his mother's.
"Mother," he asked, "may I pray for my father?"
For a moment she could not speak; then she said, with breathless haste,
"Yes, yes, surely, Paul; it is right that a little boy should pray for
his father."
Paul shut his eyes, and continued his prayer.
"God bless my father," he said, "and make him a good man, and please
let me see him very, very soon."
Mrs. Bernard's bosom heaved with a sigh as she heard him; she could not
say "Amen" to her child's prayer.
From that time Paul prayed for his father every day. It was wonderful
to him that Janet made no comment on the new petition he had added to
his prayers; but his nurse had the wisdom of the Scotch, and knew the
things that are best passed over in silence. Janet had travelled far
and wide, and it was in America that Mrs. Bernard had met with her.
When she entered that lady's service, she learned that Mrs. Bernard's
husband was living; but she had never allowed the other servants to
gossip with her about the separation, for she considered it beneath her
dignity to pry into facts which her mistress chose to conceal from her.
Therefore, though she wondered greatly what had led Paul to pray thus,
she refrained from questioning him, and he, on his part, maintained a
reticence on the subject, which was remarkable in so young a child.
One afternoon Paul was in the drawing-room of the hotel, when his
mother and Mrs. Dunton and Father O'Connell were taking tea. Paul,
seated on a rug amusing himself with a large piece of cake, and a book
full of pictures which he had found on one of the tables, for a while
paid no heed to the talk which was going on; but when he had exhausted
alike the cake and the pictures, he turned to the ladies for amusement.
Mrs. Dunton was speaking with the utmost seriousness. "I have a
black lace mantilla, which will be just the thing," she said; "it is
beautiful Spanish lace, and will look well with my black silk gown."
"And will be most becoming," said Father O'Connell; "I love to see
ladies with their heads draped in black lace."
"Your new black silk is really too good to wear in such a crowd as
there will be," said Mrs. Bernard.
"Oh no!" said Mrs. Dunton, decidedly. "Nothing is too good to wear when
one goes to see the Holy Father."
Paul's blue eyes opened wide in astonishment as he looked at her. Was
it really true that she was going to see the "Holy Father"?—"Our Father
which art in heaven!"
He could not believe that he had heard aright. He crawled to the lady's
feet, and asked eagerly, "Who are you going to see, Mrs. Dunton?"
She was so interested in discussing the details of her dress on the
occasion that she paid no heed to the child's question. He had to
repeat it more than once, and even to tug at her gown, ere he could
attract her attention.
"What is it, dear?" she said at last.
"Who are you going to see when you wear your black silk and that lace
thing on your head?" he demanded.
"Whom am I going to see?" she said. "The Holy Father, my dear."
She uttered the words as if she expected Paul to be impressed by them,
and so indeed he was. "The Holy Father!" he said in an awe-struck tone.
"Why, I did not think that anyone 'could' see him."
"It is not easy to do so, my dear boy; it is only possible now and
then," said Mrs. Dunton earnestly. "It has been my desire for years to
see him, and now I hope to do so on Sunday. Oh, I cannot tell you how
glad I am!"
"I should think so," said Paul. "Are you going to see him too, mother?"
"I believe so, Paul," said his mother. But she spoke almost with
indifference.
"Oh, do take me with you!" Paul cried eagerly. "I do want to see the
Holy Father so much."
"My dear boy, I could not possibly take you into such a crowd," said
his mother. "There will be no room for little boys, I assure you."
Paul looked sorely disappointed.
"You will speak to him, mother, when you see him, won't you?" he said.
"Oh no, I shall not speak to him," replied his mother, with a laugh,
which struck curiously on Paul's ear. "It will be honour and glory
enough to look upon him."
"I should want to speak to the Holy Father if I saw him," said Paul.
At this both the ladies laughed.
"But I can speak to him without seeing him," the child added, "so I
would not so much mind if I did not speak to him when I saw him."
"What does he mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Dunton.
Mrs. Bernard only smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
"Where are you going to see him?" Paul asked, a moment later.
"To St. Peter's," said his mother. "The Holy Father lives close by
there—in the Vatican, you know."
"Does he?" exclaimed Paul. "I have been in St. Peter's. Janet took me
one day."
And as he recalled his childish vision of the vast basilica, with its
shining marbles and huge statues, the gold embossed ceilings so far
above his little head, the wonder of the dome, and the glittering
lights about the high altar, it was not difficult for him to believe
that the Great Father might be seen there.
"Is the 'Watican' beautiful, too?" he asked.
"Beautiful!" cried Father O'Connell. "I should rather say it was. Some
of the most beautiful things in the world are to be seen there. You
should take him to see the sculptures," he added, with a glance at Mrs.
Bernard.
"It's the Holy Father I want to see," said Paul. "Oh, do take me,
mother, do take me!"
"My dear Paul, you are asking for what is quite impossible, so it is of
no use for you to say another word about it," said his mother.
"I tell you what, Paul," said Mrs. Dunton, touched by the child's
strong desire to see the Pope, "I am going to the Vatican directly to
see Monsignore Nero, and, if you like, I will take you with me."
"Shall I see the Holy Father?" asked Paul eagerly.
"Well, no, I am afraid I cannot promise you that," said Mrs. Dunton,
with a smile; "but at least you will see something of the palace where
he lives."
So within half an hour, Paul, looking highly delighted, drove away with
Mrs. Dunton to the Vatican.
CHAPTER VI.
Paul sees the Pope.
ALIGHTING from her carriage at the great bronze door of the Vatican,
Mrs. Dunton led Paul into the broad corridor and up the wide staircase
to the right. The boy's eyes surveyed with delight the Pope's Swiss
guard in their picturesque parti-coloured uniform, stationed within the
entrance. He began to ask questions eagerly in his high clear tones, to
which Mrs. Dunton replied in a voice discreetly lowered, till, as they
ascended the stone steps, the solemn, decorous atmosphere of the place
affected even Paul, and he, too, became quiet, though nothing escaped
his eager eyes.
Mrs. Dunton ascended to the second floor, and, entering a small office
on the right, spoke in Italian to the sedate, demure official in suit
of glossy broadcloth and white cravat, who advanced with noiseless
tread to meet her. She gave him her card, and he ushered her into a
small sitting-room to wait while he carried it to Monsignore Nero.
The room was furnished in a plain though substantial style and lighted
from above. There was little in it to please Paul's eyes, and he grew
weary of sitting still, as many minutes went by and the monsignore did
not appear. He got down from his chair, and began to move restlessly
about the room. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Mrs. Dunton left him to
himself.
At last, the door opened and there entered a tall, large man with
handsome features and dark eyes. In a soft, deep voice, with charming
kindliness, he welcomed Mrs. Dunton, patted Paul on the head and called
him "a fine little fellow;" then sank into a chair beside the lady, who
was soon engaged in earnest talk with him.
Paul felt himself out of it, and decidedly bored. The door into the
outer room stood open. There was the sound of voices and the stir of
life outside. He wanted to see more of the strange, vast building
in which he found himself, so, taking advantage of Mrs. Dunton's
pre-occupation, he slipped out of the room, and crossing the next, came
on to the open court which was at the top of the staircase.
Two Carabineers in their smart uniform stood on guard at the entrance
to the court, but it chanced that their attention was at that moment
engaged by an official of the Vatican, with whom they were in close
consultation. The little boy slipped behind one of them, and ran across
the courtyard and out by an exit on the other side, without attracting
the attention of any of the three. Delighted with his freedom, he sped
on along the passage in which he found himself, turned to the right,
crossed another court, and came into a road at the back of St. Peter's,
near the entrance to the Sculpture Gallery, where there were several
carriages drawn up. A group of students in long black gowns with red
sashes stood by the door. They were talking earnestly, and Paul slipped
by them without attracting any special attention. He found himself
beside a large iron gate which stood a little way open. Beyond he saw a
broad gravel terrace, with tall trees and masses of bright flowers in
the distance.
In a moment Paul was through the gate and running along the terrace.
Instinct told him that he was on forbidden ground. These must be the
beautiful old gardens of the Vatican, of which he had heard people
speak. Well, here he was, and he would see all he could while he had
the chance.
Paul was conscious of a strong and delicious perfume, as he ran along
the terrace. It came from the orange and lemon trees planted against
the walls, and covered with a wealth of white blossoms, enough to
provide wreaths for all the brides of Christendom. Paul sniffed their
fragrance with rapture as he hurried on, anxious to see as much as
possible ere he was reprimanded and borne away, as he fully expected to
be.
The sound of falling water reached his ears. He turned to the right,
and saw a tiny cascade falling over stones, fringed with maiden-hair
fern. He paused for a few moments to gaze at this, then went on, being
now out of sight of the gate, and found fresh wonders and delights at
every turn. There were roses in abundance, and of every species, from
the tiny Banksia, trained over arbours and trellises, to the large
thick cabbage roses and the exquisite pale yellow Maréchal Niel.
But, though he loved flowers, Paul presently came on what interested
him more. Within a large fenced enclosure was a collection of curious
animals—ostriches with their tall, swift limbs, and long awkward necks;
a pelican, with its extraordinary bill; a few goats and deer; and a
couple of sheep of a peculiar breed. Paul stood as if glued to the wire
fence which enclosed these creatures. He started as a voice addressing
him in Italian said:—
"Who is this little gentleman who admires so much the Pope's menagerie?"
Paul looked round, and saw an elderly man, wearing a grey suit of
clothes and a broad straw hat, who was regarding him with an amused and
benevolent expression.
"I do not know what you say," said Paul, looking up into the stranger's
face with his open, fearless expression; "I am an English boy; I cannot
speak Italian, except just a word or two, you know."
"Ah! He is an English boy," said the man, speaking Paul's native tongue
in a way that the child thought rather funny; "I can speak the English,
but it is not much. I have been to England. They know how to make the
garden in England."
"Yes; but Janet says the Scotch are the best gardeners," said Paul.
"She says a Scotch gardener would be ashamed to let the gardens get so
untidy as they do in Italy."
"Ah! It is true; the Scotch does know how to gardener," replied
the stranger, "and they does think that they does know better than
everybody else. But how comes the little English boy into my garden?"
"Is it your garden?" said Paul in surprise. "I thought it was the
Pope's."
"So it is, but I—I am the Pope's head of the gardeners," said the
stranger with an air of importance, which was not lost upon Paul.
"Are you angry with me because I am here?" he asked. "I have not
touched any of the flowers, indeed. I came with Mrs. Dunton to see
Monsignore Nero, you know."
"Ah! It is Monsignore Nero brings you," said the gardener, looking
round.
"No, he did not bring me; it was Mrs. Dunton," said Paul.
"It is the same," said his new acquaintance. "Have you seen our
parrots?"
"No," said Paul eagerly; "but I should like to see them."
"Come with me, then," said the gardener. And he led Paul to another
part of the garden where stood a large cage containing parrots of
splendid plumage—green, red, and yellow.
Paul was charmed to watch these, and to hear them say, "'Buon giorno'"
in hoarse, inward tones.
So far from being angry, his new friend seemed to take pleasure in
showing him everything that was likely to please him, and as they
went along, he picked roses and other flowers for Paul. They came to
a splendid fountain sparkling in the sunshine, and filling almost to
overflowing a large deep basin. A little farther on was an entrance
into a lovely miniature wood. Wild flowers grew there in abundance, a
fountain gleamed prettily in the distance, and an antique statue was
visible amid the trees.
"He may pick as many of those flowers as he likes," said the gardener.
Paul looked wistfully into the wood and longed to explore it; but it
had just occurred to him that Mrs. Dunton's talk with the monsignore
must be over by now, and she was probably looking for him.
"I should like to pick some of those bluebells," he said; "but I expect
I ought to go back to Mrs. Dunton."
"You do better to stay here," said the gardener, thinking that the
monsignore and the lady were somewhere in the grounds; "they are sure
to come here presently. If you go one way, they may go another, and you
miss."
This advice accorded so well with Paul's inclination that he thought it
excellent. The little wood was bounded on this side by a tall, thick
hedge of box, which gave forth a sweet, subtle fragrance beneath the
slanting rays of the sun. On the other side of the hedge was a broad,
gravelled path. The gardener glanced down it as he spoke, and saw a
little group of persons at the farther end.
"Here they come, I believe," he said.
Paul looked in the direction indicated; but there was no lady amongst
the persons advancing, all black-robed, save for a tall, slight form in
the centre, which was clad in white.
"Mrs. Dunton is not there," he said.
"No, indeed," said the gardener; "I see now that it is the Holy Father
who comes."
"The Holy Father!" exclaimed Paul, in an awe-struck tone. "Oh! Shall I
see him? 'May' I see him?"
"I don't know," said the gardener, looking grave. "The Holy Father may
not like to see a little English boy in his garden; but stay—I know
how. You shall stand in the wood, and the holes in the hedge are many
through which you can see. Quick—here."
He led Paul within the wood, and soon found a hole through which the
little boy could look upon the path, while keeping himself out of sight.
"You stand there and keep always quiet," he said, "and you will see,
and no one see you."
"But the Holy Father will know that I am here," said Paul.
The gardener looked puzzled, but with a gesture, he enjoined Paul to
keep silence, and, stepping back into the path, went forward to meet
those who were advancing.
Paul's heart was beating fast, and the breath came quickly through his
parted lips. "Adam and Eve hid themselves when He walked in the garden
in the cool of the day," he said to himself, and he trembled at once
with joy and fear.
Five persons were approaching, but Paul saw but one. His eyes were
riveted on the slight, gaunt, yet dignified form, clothed in a long
white habit, which advanced with slow, feeble steps leaning on a stick.
It was that of an old man, with silvery hair showing beneath his small,
close-fitting cap. His face, with its strongly-marked features, keen,
piercing glance, and complexion of the colour of old ivory, impressed
the child deeply, but was not what he had expected to see, if, indeed,
he could have given form and colour to his vague anticipation.
He watched as the gardener went forward, and with deep reverence
saluted the aged personage. He saw the deeply-lined face break into
a broad smile—he heard questions and answers exchanged, but not a
word could he understand. He noted that certain words, uttered by the
venerable centre of the group, in a voice that was clear and strong,
though a trifle tremulous, caused smiles and even a ripple of laughter
to pass among his companions. Then the little party moved on, and
presently the gardener came back to Paul.
"Well, did you see him?" he asked.
"No," said Paul, in a tone of disappointment; "I saw that old man in
white; but he was not the Holy Father."
"But he was," he replied. "Do you mean for to tell me that I know not
the Pope?"
"Oh, the Pope!" said Paul. "Was he the Pope? But I thought I should see
God—'our Father in heaven,' you know."
"God!" repeated the gardener, in a startled tone. "How could you expect
to see God, my dear little boy? No one can see Him."
"But Holy is His Name," said the child; "and He used to walk in the
garden where Adam and Eve lived."
"Ah! But that was in Eden, and a long while ago," said the man, with a
smile. "No mortal can look upon the face of God. The Pope is His Vicar;
that means, you know, that he stands in His place. People look on him
instead of on God, and he acts in the name of God—so at least the
priests say; but I don't know myself."
"How can he?" said Paul, with a perplexed and even troubled expression
on his guileless face. "Why, it was Jesus who came to show us what God
is like. I know, for nurse has told me. Ah! And I remember she said
that the Roman Catholics put the Pope and the Virgin Mary in the place
of Christ."
The gardener looked on him in wonder. "So you are a Protestant, my
little gentleman?" he said.
"Yes, certainly I am a Protestant," said Paul, unconsciously
straightening his tiny form as he spoke. "Will you tell the Pope, and
will he have me burned?"
He asked the question eagerly, and without the least appearance of
fear. His imagination had grasped the idea of the glory of martyrdom
without taking account of its pains.
The gardener stared at him for a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh.
"No, no," he said, as soon as he could speak. "We do not burn
Protestants in Rome to-day. We will not give that baby face and those
pretty curls to the flames. But what an innocent it is! And what is
Monsignore Nero about, that he lets such a little Protestant run wild
in the gardens of the Vatican?"
"I don't think he knows I am here," said Paul. "He and Mrs. Dunton were
talking hard in the little parlour, and I slipped away. I expect she
thinks me naughty."
"What! You came into these gardens alone? I never heard of such a
thing. Come, come, we must go and find this lady."
So saying, the gardener took hold of Paul's hand, and marched him off
to the entrance, which was at no great distance. They had not gone
many steps from the great gate when they encountered Mrs. Dunton and
Monsignore Nero, the lady looking flushed and distressed, but the
ecclesiastic serene as usual.
"Ah! Here he is," he said; "here is our little friend!"
"Oh, Paul, where have you been?" cried Mrs. Dunton. "We have been
searching for you everywhere."
"I have been in the Pope's gardens," said Paul calmly.
"And he has seen the Holy Father," said the gardener.
"No, I have not," said Paul, "I have only seen the Pope."
"But, my child, he is the Holy Father," said the monsignore.
"No, he is not," said Paul stoutly. "God is the Holy Father, and I
thought I should see Him."
For a moment all were silent from astonishment, as they looked into the
child's uplifted face, so serious and so sweet.
A change passed over the face of the monsignore. He laid his hand
tenderly on the child's golden head, and said, in his full, deep tones,
"That vision, too, may be yours some day, little Paul, since it is
written that the pure in heart shall see Him."
CHAPTER VII.
A Letter from the Highlands.
JANET could not make it out. A letter had just been given to her,
addressed to "Master Paul Bernard, the Hotel Londra, Rome," and she
saw to her surprise that it came from Scotland. It bore, indeed, the
postmark of a little Highland town which Janet had known in her youth.
She could almost fancy that she smelt the heather and felt the strong,
keen air of the moorland district from which it had come. Who could
have written from thence to her young charge?
"I never knew that they had friends in Scotland," she thought; "perhaps
it is from one of those children with whom he got so friendly on the
steamer coming over. But how could they know that he was at the Hotel
Londra?"
The puzzle increased as she studied the letter. The writing was not
that of a child. It was a free, flowing hand with a certain audacity in
the way the capitals were formed. She could appease her curiosity only
by giving the letter to its owner. Janet hurried along the corridor
towards the room where Paul was at play.
"See what the postman has brought for you, Master Paul," she said; "a
letter, all your very own."
"Has it my name on it?" asked Paul, turning eagerly from his bricks.
"To be sure—here it is—'Master Paul Bernard,' big enough for you to
read," said Janet, "and it comes all the way from Scotland—from the
Highlands."
"Then I know who it's from," said Paul, in clear, ringing tones; "it's
from Mademoiselle Grand."
"Why, what makes you think that?" asked Janet, and she felt doubtful
whether she ought to let him have the letter.
Paul, however, had already seized the letter, and was trying to open
it. He would not let Janet help him. It was the first real letter he
had ever received, and he was determined to open it himself. At last,
he accomplished it, with the help of Janet's scissors; but, though his
correspondent had written as plainly as possible, to read it was beyond
his power. He had to ask Janet to read it to him.
This was the letter she read:—
"MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, PAUL,—I have thought of you so often since I
came home, that I feel that I must write and tell you what a little
God-sent messenger you were when you told me to go to my father. For
I am at home once more, filling the child's place in the house of the
best of fathers, and I should be happy, could I ever forget how little
I deserve such love, and how I have sinned against it.
"'Fathers always forgive,' you said, and truly I found my father ready
to forgive. He was aged, enfeebled, sorrowful, as the result of my sin;
but he was waiting for me with open arms, watching and praying for my
return, 'going to meet me' in his heart.
"I could not believe in such forgiveness; but the Father in heaven
revealed it to you, little Paul. And His love is beyond and above all.
He watches with yearning heart for the return of His prodigal children,
and welcomes them with a love which makes them know and feel their sin
as nothing else can. You taught me that truth, dear Paul, and I hope
and pray that you will live to teach it to many another poor wanderer.
I can think of no better way for a man to spend his life than in
seeking the Father's lost children in the far country, and telling them
of the love that waits to welcome them. May God bless you, dear boy,
and all belonging to you, and make you a blessing to many, as you have
been to—
"Your loving friend,
"ISABEL GRAND.
"P.S.—Fritz is sitting by my side and watching me as I write. If I
could make him understand to whom I am writing, he would bark his good
wishes, I know."
"Fritz barking his good wishes!" cried Paul, with a merry laugh. "I'd
like to hear him. I'm glad she got home safe. Of course I knew her
father would run to meet her. Is it far to the Highlands, nurse?"
But Janet did not answer. Her voice had grown hoarse and her lips
tremulous as she read the letter. She turned aside, that Paul might not
see her tears.
He, that little child, had led her to go home—home to her earthly
father, home to her God; and she, who for so many years had called
herself by the name of Christ, had had no word of love, or pity, no
Gospel message for this poor sinner!
"May God forgive me," Janet said to herself, "that I looked on that
poor wanderer with the eyes of a Pharisee, and forgot how my Lord
welcomed such an one, and sent her away in peace! I, to whom He has
forgiven so much, to despise another sinner—and she from bonnie
Scotland, too!"
"You must keep this letter, Paul," she said. "It will mean more to you
when you are older than it does to-day."
"I can understand it," said Paul.
"I daresay," said his nurse; "but you'll understand it better
by-and-by."
"I wish I could write an answer," said Paul. "I should like to send
some kisses to Fritz."
"Then you must make haste and get on with your writing," said Janet.
And Paul decided that he would write a copy forthwith.
CHAPTER VIII.
In a Garden with Graves.
"SO this is the Protestant Cemetery," said Paul, as, holding his
nurse's hand, and somewhat awed by the solemnity of her manner, he
stepped within the great gateway.
The vague fear which had crept into his mind vanished as he looked
about him. Masses of red and white and mauve azaleas were blooming in
pots on either side the entrance; roses of almost every variety grew
amid the tombstones, and though the violets were over, their abundant
leaves made green coverings for the graves. The tall, dark green spires
of the cypresses rose beautifully against a sky of perfect blue; bees
were buzzing and butterflies flitting among the flowers; it was a place
to make one in love with death. Yet it was not of death, but of life
that everything testified on that lovely afternoon.
"I like this place," said Paul, breaking away from his nurse in his
eagerness to explore it. "Shall I be buried here when I die?"
"I hope not," said Janet, with a sudden sense of pain; "but who can
say? Only God knows when or where or how any of us will die."
"Why do you hope not?" asked the child. "I think I should like to be
buried here. It's so nice and warm in the sun, and the flowers smell so
sweet. And how the birds do sing! Does God send them here to sing to
the people in their graves?"
"Why, no, Master Paul; there's no hearing or seeing or smelling in the
grave. There are no people there, indeed, only their worn-out bodies.
Their souls, their real selves, you know, are with Jesus in heaven."
"Oh!" said Paul, wonderingly. "With Jesus in heaven! How do they get
there after they are put in the ground?"
But Janet had passed on, intent upon finding Shelley's grave, and paid
no heed to his question. Paul slowly wandered after her, his feet
finding little irregular paths amid the graves. He looked up at the
shafts of light falling on and between the dark cypresses. How high the
trees were! Their tops seemed to touch the sky.
"Heaven is up there," the child said to himself; "God lives on high,
above the sky. How do they get there? Do they climb up through the
trees?"
Then Paul remembered having seen a picture representing two angels
supporting a slightly clad female form upon their wings as they sped
upwards towards the sky. He had been told that they were carrying the
woman to heaven.
"Perhaps," he said to himself, "they climb as high as they can, and
then the angels come and carry them the rest of the way."
And the more he mused upon the explanation he had found, the more
satisfactory it seemed. Then, moved by the songs of the birds and the
sweetness of the flowers and the sunshine, he suddenly began to sing
words which accorded ill with the clear, joyous swell of his childish
voice:
"'I'm but a stranger here,
Heaven is my home;
Earth is a desert drear,
Heaven is my home.'"
The child's song reached the ear of a gentleman who was standing at a
little distance, accompanied by the large and beautiful dog which was
his constant companion. He was a man barely forty years of age; but he
looked older, for his face had a worn and melancholy expression and
showed signs of ill-health.
He had paused to read the inscription on an old tombstone, one of the
oldest in the cemetery, which recorded the death, by sudden accident,
of a young girl.
"Reader," said the mute warning, "whoe'er thou art, who may pause to
peruse this tale of sorrows, let this awful lesson of the instability
of human happiness sink deep in thy mind. If thou art young and lovely,
build not thereon, for she who sleeps in death under thy feet was the
loveliest flower ever cropt in its bloom."
A sad smile passed over the face of the man as he read the words.
"It is not here alone that one may learn the instability of human
happiness," he said to himself. "There are worse calamities than an
early death, and worse partings than it effects. Life can separate more
utterly than death."
And with the thought, the very sunshine seemed to darken, and earth was
to him indeed a desert. At that moment the child's song fell on his
ears. He was struck with the inappropriateness of the words which came
with such a joyous lilt from the childish lips.
He listened. The sounds came nearer.
Suddenly they ceased. Then—"Oh, what a dear dog!" said the fresh young
voice from behind him.
The gentleman turned, smiling with genuine pleasure. The sight he saw
was prettier than the sounds which had reached his ear. He had seen
that morning Raphael's famous fresco in the church of Santa Maria della
Pace, and now, peering over a low gravestone, much in the attitude
depicted by the great painter, he seemed to see in the flesh the very
angel-boy Raphael has so exquisitely introduced into his sublime group
of Sibyls. The soft, golden curls, drooping low on the childish brow,
the innocent blue eyes, the purity and sweetness of expression, were
indeed such as that painter loved to render, but the picture vanished,
as the child bounded to the side of the dog.
"You need not be afraid; he will not hurt you," said the gentleman; but
the words were unneeded.
Paul did not know fear where animals were concerned. Already his arms
were around the dog's neck, and he was kissing his soft glossy coat.
"What a beautiful great, big dog!" he said. "What is his name?"
"Beppo," answered the dog's master; "and yours—what is your name, my
little man?"
"Oh, I'm Paul," said the child. "Beppo! That's a funny name, isn't it?"
"Paul!" repeated the gentleman, and looked at the child with a new and
deeper interest. "How old are you, Paul?"
"I'm nearly five," said the boy; "Janet says I shall be five in August,
if I'm spared. That's when my birthday is, you know."
The gentleman did not smile at the child's quaint phraseology. He was
gazing at Paul with an intentness the boy found embarrassing.
He turned, and rested his cheek against the dog. "Why did you call him
Beppo?" he asked.
"I did not give him the name," said the gentleman. "He was named by the
monks of St. Bernard, from whom I had him. He belongs to the race of
dogs known as St. Bernards."
"Well, now, that is funny!" exclaimed Paul in a clear, ringing voice.
"For my name is, Bernard, you know. Mother is Mrs. Bernard."
"Really!" the stranger's voice quivered as he spoke. He dropped on one
knee beside the child, and put his arm around him.
"And your father, little Paul," he murmured; "you have a father?"
"Yes," said Paul, "I have a father, though I never see him. But I shall
soon; oh yes, I shall see him soon!"
"Why do you say that, Paul? What makes you think that you will see him?"
"Why, because I ask God every day to let me see my father very soon,"
said Paul, in his matter-of-fact way, "so of course I shall."
"Why do you wish to see him?" asked the gentleman.
"Because he is my father," said the child, "and fathers are good and
kind. Besides, I think mother would not be so unhappy if father were to
come."
"Is she unhappy?" asked the gentleman, quickly and breathlessly; "are
you sure she is?"
"I should think so," said the child; "she sighs because she is unhappy;
she told me so. Sometimes there are tears in her eyes when she talks
to me, and that shows, you know, that she is sorry, or else naughty.
I remember that mother said one day that she was naughty; but I could
hardly believe it."
"Of course not," said the stranger, and his voice had a strange sound.
"You love your mother very much, I am sure, little Paul."
"Yes, I do," said the boy, "and I should love my father, too, if he
would only come."
"Would you—would you really?" said the gentleman. "Will you give me a
kiss for your father, my dear boy?"
"Give you a kiss for him?" returned the child. "Do you know my father,
then?"
"Yes, I know him. Give me a kiss, little Paul."
The child looked for a moment into the grave, pleading eyes that were
only a little less blue than his own; then he threw his arms around the
stranger's neck and kissed him warmly.
"Be sure you give him the kiss, and tell him it's from Paul," he cried.
Then he turned again to hug the dog, which licked his face and gazed on
him with great, friendly eyes, and the next minute he heard his nurse's
voice calling him.
"That's Janet," he explained, "I must go."
His new friend made no attempt to detain him; but he watched the
graceful little form till it passed out of sight. Then he clutched at a
head-stone for support, for he was trembling exceedingly, and all his
strength seemed gone from him.
CHAPTER IX.
A Moonlight Expedition.
MRS. BERNARD had at last made up her mind to leave Rome. She resolved
to travel northward, spending some time at Assisi and Perugia, and
other places of interest. She hoped finally to establish herself for
the hot summer months in some mountain resort in the neighbourhood of
Turin. Having made her plans, she found, as most persons find on the
eve of a departure from Rome, that the famous old city had laid its
spell upon her, and to leave it was like parting from a friend. There
were last visits to be paid and long-talked-of things to be done that
would fill almost every hour of the few days that remained.
"You must pay a moonlight visit to the Coliseum before you go," Mrs.
Dunton reminded her. "We have talked of it so often, yet left it to the
last. Happily, the evenings are lovely now. The moon was brilliant last
night. What do you say to going tonight, if we can make up a party?"
"I should like to go," said Mrs. Bernard, with more animation than she
often displayed. "I feel as if I had not done my duty by the Coliseum,
and now there is so little time."
"Oh, mother, may I go, too?" cried Paul eagerly. "I do so want to see
the Coliseum by moonlight."
Mrs. Bernard shook her head. She was sorry the plan had been mentioned
in the child's hearing.
"That is impossible, my darling," she said gently. "It would not be
good for you to be out so late. Besides, you have a cold already. I can
hear that you are hoarse."
"No, I'm not," said the child. "I'm not cold at all. Feel my hands how
warm they are."
And indeed the little hands were very hot.
"You certainly have a cold," said his mother, "and I am afraid you are
feverish. I must tell Janet to give you some medicine when she puts you
to bed."
"I don't want any nasty medicine!" cried Paul impatiently. "I don't
want to go to bed. Do take me to the Coliseum."
"No, dear, I cannot do that," said his mother firmly.
Paul began to cry.
"Oh, if you are going to behave like a baby, you must go to Janet,"
said his mother, rising to ring the bell.
Paul's sobs increased in intensity, till his nurse bore him away in a
passion of tears.
"I cannot think what is the matter with him," said Mrs. Bernard,
looking troubled. "He is not at all himself to-day. He would not cry
like that if he were well."
"Oh, I daresay the heat has upset him," said Mrs. Dunton. "You must
expect children to get out of sorts now and then."
She thought privately that Paul's mother had rather spoiled him; but it
was excusable, since he was her only child and the one object of her
love.
Janet also was of opinion that Paul was not well. She had hardly ever
known him so fractious as he showed himself for the rest of the day.
He continued to fret because he could not go to the Coliseum, and
he resisted strenuously his nurse's desire to put him to bed rather
earlier than usual. When at length she got him between the sheets, his
perversity continued, and it was long ere he would lie still, or show
any inclination to sleep.
Janet was therefore thankful when, coming to peep at him, she at last
found that he had fallen asleep. But his face was deeply flushed, his
breathing quick, and his appearance made her uneasy.
"I wonder if I have done the best for him," she thought. "I've a good
mind to run across the Piazza and ask the English chemist."
It was nine o'clock. The moon was slowly rising above the houses. Mrs.
Bernard had just driven off with her friends to the Coliseum. The
chemist's shop would probably be closed; but Janet believed that she
could speak to him if she rang the bell. She put on her bonnet and
hurried off, glad to know that Paul was sleeping.
But Paul was less sound asleep than his nurse supposed. Scarcely had
she left him when he woke, and began moving about restlessly again. A
streak of bright moonlight fell across his bed. He sat up and laid his
hands upon it; he was hot and thirsty. He ran to the washhandstand and
drank eagerly from the bottle of water that stood thereon.
He pulled aside the window-blind and looked out. The Piazza was as
light as day. Oh, the glorious moonlight! Oh, to see the Coliseum! A
fascinating idea took possession of the child's fevered brain. He would
go to the Coliseum; he knew the way; he was sure he could find it. He
would run all the way, and get back before Janet had time to miss him.
He was in a mood to which nothing seemed impossible. He began to put
on his clothes. He had never dressed himself wholly unaided, and the
buttons and straps presented some difficulty. No matter; he fastened
them as best he could, and the little pilot coat he dragged out of the
wardrobe covered all defects. His cap lay to hand; he put it on his
head and ran to the door.
No sign of Janet in the corridor. He made his way to the head of the
stairs and darted down them. The hall of the hotel was deserted, for a
wonder. The waiters were talking together in the dining room, and the
porter had been called upstairs. If anyone saw the child, it did not
occur to that person that it was strange he should be running out alone.
Paul had a sense of exultation as he ran across the Piazza in a
slanting direction. The cool air was delightful and the moonlight most
lovely. How surprised his mother would be to see him at the Coliseum!
It did not strike him that she would call him naughty for coming. Paul
had never walked to the "big wound wooin," but he had a vague idea of
the direction in which it lay, though he had not the least notion how
far off it was. He ran on through the narrow streets, turning corner
after corner till he found himself in the Corso. The streets were full
of people, nor were children lacking, for Italian children are often
allowed to sit up till unheard-of hours. Paul passed along unnoticed,
for no one seeing him could imagine that he was out at that hour
unattended. The pavements of the Corso were so crowded on that lovely
moonlight night that the child found it difficult to push his way
through the people.
It was impossible to run; but he had ceased to feel like running. A
terrible weariness oppressed him, and he was conscious of being both
hot and cold. He thought that the Coliseum was somewhere at the end of
the Corso, but he had not known before that the Corso was so long. In
places nearly the whole of the pavement was occupied by people seated
at little tables eating ices or drinking coffee. All seemed to be
laughing and talking gaily, and the sound of their voices made little
Paul feel strangely desolate. He looked into their faces, longing to
see someone whom he knew. If only he could sit down for a minute; if
only they would give him something to drink!
Still he pushed on, though a faint, sick feeling was beginning to creep
over him, and a strange singing sounded in his ears. He came to a place
where the Corso widened out into a little piazza in which stood an
ancient church. The space in front of the church was bare of people.
Instinctively Paul staggered towards it. One side of the steps lay
deep in shadow. The child crawled up them, and sank into a dark corner
beneath the portico. There he found rest at last, for consciousness
forsook him.
CHAPTER X.
What Beppo Found.
MRS. BERNARD and her friends were by no means the only persons who
visited the Coliseum on that lovely moonlight night. A considerable
number of people were gathered in the arena. Amongst them was the
stranger with whom Paul had talked in the Protestant Cemetery. He was
feeling impatient of the crowd, and the noise and stir they made, as he
walked along one of the deserted corridors with his great dog at his
heels. He wanted to feel the poetry and sublimity of the huge historic
ruin, and the careless voices and idle laughter jarred on his ear.
He stood in the shadow of one of the arches, and looked across the wide
circle. A party of ladies had halted at a little distance from him
and were looking up at the tiers of arches. They stood in the bright
moonlight, but he had not heeded them, till one of them spoke, and
at the sound of her voice his heart seemed to stand still. He turned
quickly. There she stood, within a few yards of him—his wife! She was
beautifully dressed as usual. The pale blue cloak with silver clasps,
the large black hat with drooping plumes, became her exquisitely. For
a moment he thought her unchanged; but as he looked more closely, it
seemed to him that she had grown thinner, and there was a sad, weary
look on the face, the delicate profile of which he could see so clearly
as she gazed upwards at the mighty walls.
"Yes, it is beautiful, very beautiful," she admitted; "but all these
people destroy the romance of it. One needs stillness and solitude to
get properly awed and thrilled by such a scene."
"Well, you've seen it by moonlight, anyway," said a voice, unmistakably
American, "and I guess that's the main thing. You can imagine the
romance when you get home."
"Is it true, Mrs. Bernard, that you leave Rome this week?" asked
another of the party.
"Yes, I am sorry to say that I leave on Saturday," she replied; "but I
am going to spend the summer in Italy, and shall perhaps return to Rome
in the autumn."
"The summer in Italy!" repeated her friend. "That is unusual, and you
will find it rather dull, I should think. But, of course, you will not
be alone?"
"No, I shall not be alone," she said; "I shall have my boy with me."
"Yes; but a child is all very well, and we know that you are a devoted
mother, yet you ought to have another companion."
"I do not think so," replied Mrs. Bernard; "my boy is a great deal to
me. I shall not soon weary of his company."
And the unseen observer, watching her so closely, saw her lips quiver
as she spoke, and a shadow, as if of pain, pass over her face. The
ladies moved on, and he followed them slowly, keeping in the gloom.
They did not linger much longer. He saw them get into the carriages,
which awaited them at the entrance. Then they drove off, and he, too,
moved away.
He took the road leading to the Arch of Titus, and passing beneath it
went on past the old Forum, lying still and beautiful in the moonlight.
In the perfect quiet that reigned in that spot, he began talking to his
dog, as he was wont to do.
"I could not take the boy from her, could I, Beppo? It would break her
heart. Did you see how she looked when she spoke of him? What is her
husband to her in comparison? Well, she is happier than I am, for she
has him. And she is a devoted mother. Poor little Paul! he is not to be
congratulated on his father. Yet he desires to see him; he prays God
to send him. Can it be that I have been brought here in answer to his
prayer? Yet what can I do to bring about a reconciliation? I dare not
approach her. I have no reason to suppose that her feelings towards me
have changed. What can I do, Beppo? Can you tell me?"
Beppo was looking up into his master's face with his great wise eyes.
When Mr. Bernard ceased speaking, the dog thrust its black muzzle into
his hand with a low whine which said—if it said anything—"Wait!"
Turning along one by-lane after another, he came into the Piazza
Venezia, and from there made his way into the Corso. He was walking
briskly forward, when Beppo suddenly left his side, and bounding across
an open space to the right disappeared beneath the portico of an old
church. Presently he reappeared, barking vigorously and bounding
against his master, seemed anxious to direct his attention to the spot
he had quitted. Mr. Bernard was tired, and little disposed to go out of
his way.
"Nonsense, Beppo, it's nothing," he said; "or if it is, I really cannot
stay to look at either a beggar or a stray cat. Come along."
But Beppo would not come. He rushed back to the church, and his loud,
ringing barks began to attract the attention of every one in the
street. Much annoyed, Mr. Bernard went after the dog.
"What have you found now?" he asked.
Beppo was crouching over something that lay in the dark corner of the
portico. Bending down, Mr. Bernard could dimly see the form of a little
child, apparently asleep. He lit a match to enable him to see more
clearly, and to his unutterable amazement, the light revealed the face
of his own child.
What did it mean? How had he come there? Had there been foul play? A
hundred questions presented themselves, as with tremulous tenderness he
lifted the child into his arms and examined him carefully.
Paul opened his eyes for a moment as he was moved; but they closed
again, and his head fell drowsily on his father's shoulder. But he was
sound in body and limb, and with a feeling of relief his father carried
him into the street, and hailing the first empty carriage, was driven
with the child in his arms to the house where he was staying, which
happily was close by.
How thankful he was that he had established himself in quiet rooms, and
not at a large hotel! There was no one but his faithful servant, who
looked after his comfort as well as any woman could, to receive him as
he entered with the child.
"Has he had a fall, sir? No?" With the seriousness of a medical man,
James felt the child's pulse and laid his hand on his brow. "It seems
to me like a case of fever, sir," he then remarked in the calmest
manner, for he was a man who never suffered himself to be perturbed
whatever happened.
"I think so, too," said his master. "You must fetch a doctor at once,
James; and, stay, you must also carry a note to the child's mother at
the Hotel Londra."
"If his mother is at the hotel, sir, wouldn't it be better to take him
there?" the servant ventured to suggest.
"No," Mr. Bernard replied sharply; "he shall stay here."
It took him but a minute to write a few words on a piece of paper and
direct them to Mrs. Bernard. James went off with it at once; and Paul's
father, with awkward yet tender hands, proceeded to undress the child
and lay him in his own bed.
CHAPTER XI.
Reconciled.
JANET could hardly believe her own eyes when, on her return from
visiting the chemist, she found Paul's little bed empty, and the child
nowhere to be seen. She searched for him through the hotel, thinking
that he must have wandered from his bed in delirium. Then, with a new
sense of horror, she discovered that his clothes had vanished likewise.
Even his little overcoat and cap were missing, so he must have gone out
of doors. Surely someone had come during her brief absence and carried
him away. Like one distracted, she ran to inform the manager of the
hotel.
He was startled by her statement that the child had been stolen, but
assured her that it was impossible for anyone to enter the hotel and
carry off the child unseen.
"He cannot be far off; he must be found directly," he said. And sent
his servants hither and thither in search of the wanderer.
Janet herself went to and fro, searching in every likely and unlikely
place without result till she was almost beside herself. No light had
been thrown on the mystery when Paul's mother drove up to the hotel
accompanied by her friends.
How Janet told her mistress she never could remember. The faithful
servant was too miserable already to suffer much more, when Mrs.
Bernard turned on her with bitter reproaches.
"You had no right to leave him for an instant!" cried the
anguish-stricken mother. "I thought I could trust you. My child is lost
to me now. I will never forgive you, never."
"Don't say that he is lost," said Mrs. Dunton, "that is impossible. He
cannot be far off; he must be found immediately."
Mrs. Bernard shook her head. Her face had grown white and set.
"This is my husband's doing," she said in Mrs. Dunton's ear. "He has
taken my boy from me; I knew he would."
"That cannot be," replied her friend. "Why should he do such a thing?
It was agreed that you should keep Paul till he was seven years old."
Mrs. Bernard made no reply. The idea that had taken possession of her
mind was not to be lightly dislodged. Just then the manager hurried
towards her with a note in his hand.
"This has been brought this moment for madame," he said; "perhaps it
contains news of the child."
Her hands trembled visibly as she tore open the envelope. It contained
but a few words, yet it took her some moments to grasp their meaning,
so great was her agitation.
"MY WIFE,—I have found our child lying senseless in a street corner. I
have brought him here. He seems very ill. Will you come?
"Your husband,
"JOHN BERNARD.
"96, Via Nazionale."
In a few minutes, Mrs. Bernard was in a carriage on her way to the Via
Nazionale. Mrs. Dunton had offered to accompany her; but she preferred
to take Janet, in spite of her indignation with that honest servant.
Mrs. Bernard said scarce a word as they drove along. She was astounded
by the facts presented by that brief note. Her husband in Rome! That he
should find his child senseless in the street!
"A pretty mother he will think me!" she said to herself with anguish.
"He will surely judge me unfit to be longer the guardian of his child."
Yet there was sweetness as well as bitterness in the thoughts suggested
by the note. As she held it tight within her hand, she was glad to
remember that it began with "my wife" and ended with "your husband."
Husband and wife! "What God has joined together." The hot tears sprang
to her eyes; then her thoughts turned back to her child in deep anxiety.
She felt like one in a dream when her husband, who was on the look-out
for her, helped her to alight from the carriage and led her into the
house. She had a dim sense that he looked older and thinner than she
remembered him. His voice was so gentle that it made her afraid.
"How is he?" she asked with faltering voice. "Tell me the worst at
once, please. He is not—he is not—"
"No, no," said her husband; "he is unconscious and in a high fever, but
I have good hope that he will recover! The doctor is with him now; you
shall see him in a few minutes, but pray calm yourself first."
"You must think me a most careless mother," she said; "but I left him
in good hands, as I thought. Janet was responsible for him; she can
perhaps explain how he came into the street."
"That I cannot indeed," said Janet. "I left him fast asleep in bed, and
I just ran round to the chemist's to get him some medicine. I was not
away more than half an hour; but when I got back, he was gone!"
John Bernard looked keenly at the nurse as she spoke. He recognised her
as the woman he had seen with Paul in the cemetery. He felt, too, that
she spoke truly, and was worthy of trust.
"It was a pity you left him; but it cannot be helped now," he said
kindly; "no doubt he was delirious when he got up and ran out. When
I undressed him, I found that his clothes were huddled on in the
strangest fashion."
A few minutes later, they were all standing beside the bed on
which Paul lay. His stupor had passed. He was talking rapidly and
incoherently; but he knew no one who looked on him. Now Janet's name
was on his lips, and now his mother's. Now he talked of the Coliseum,
and now he was amid the graves in the cemetery, puzzling over their
connection with the heaven above. Then he began to speak of his father:
"If only my father would come!" he sighed. "I want him to carry me; I'm
so tired. No, that's not my father; that's the Pope. The Pope is only
the Pope; but I want my father. Why does he not come?"
"Your father is here, little Paul," said Mr. Bernard, kneeling beside
the bed, "here, by your side, holding you."
But the child was conscious of neither voice nor touch. John Bernard
glanced at his wife. She had covered her face with her hands.
The medical man found himself at present unable to determine the
nature of the fever which had attacked the child. His exposure to the
night air and sleep on the hard stones had rendered his condition more
serious than it would have been if taken in hand at first. The doctor
was anxious but hopeful, since his patient was a sturdy little fellow,
who might battle successfully with disease. He spoke encouragingly;
but Paul's mother could take no comfort from his words. She looked the
image of despair as she sat beside her child. Janet went back to the
hotel to fetch various things that were needed; but Mrs. Bernard would
not quit the little sufferer for a moment.
Paul grew quieter about midnight. The husband and wife were alone
beside him.
John Bernard turned from his child to his wife.
"Clarice," he said gently, "take comfort. He will live. Something
within me tells me that he will live."
She sighed heavily.
"The voice within me says otherwise," she said after a moment; "I have
been a wicked woman, John, unworthy to be the mother of such a little
child, and he will be taken from me. It is my punishment."
"God's punishments are blessings, my dear wife," he replied. "Already
there is mercy in this trial, since it has brought us together. The
poet tells how husband and wife who had fallen out were reconciled as
they stood beside a little grave. Thank God, dearest, you and I may
clasp hands over a living child, and join our prayers for his recovery.
Shall we do so?"
His wife broke into sobs. He threw his arms about her, drew her to his
heart, and they kissed again with tears.
CHAPTER XII.
A Surrender.
JOHN BERNARD entered the room where his wife lay, having at last
consented to take a little repose. She was on the couch by the window.
There was bright sunshine outside; but the venetians were closed,
making a pleasant twilight in the room. She still wore the handsome
silken gown in which she had dined and gone forth to view the Coliseum
by moonlight. She had lain down, intending only to rest for half an
hour; but sleep had stolen upon her, and she had been sleeping for more
than two hours. She was still pale, and there were dark circles beneath
her eyes; but her look was peaceful, and her husband felt as he gazed
down on her that she had lost none of her beauty or her charm. Thankful
to find her sleeping, he was about to steal away when she opened her
eyes. For a moment they met his in bewilderment; then her colour rose
and she sat up.
"Paul," she said quickly, "how is he?"
"He is going on all right," said her husband cheerfully. "A rash has
appeared which leaves the doctor no longer any doubt as to his malady.
It is scarlet fever."
She shuddered. "Scarlet fever! That is terrible."
"It might be worse, dearest. I think the doctor is relieved to
find that it is scarlet fever. There is every reason to hope that
the disease will follow a normal course, and the child make a good
recovery."
"God grant it!" murmured Mrs. Bernard, as she rose and hastily crossed
the room.
Her husband laid his hand on her arm as she was about to open the door.
"Stay a moment, Clarice. I have something to say to you."
She looked up at him inquiringly, her hand still on the door.
"Janet is with him now, you know," said Mr. Bernard. "She says she has
had the fever, and has not the least fear of infection."
"Nor have I," said Mrs. Bernard quickly. "If that is all—" and she
turned the handle.
"It is not all," said her husband. "Of course, I knew you would be
fearless; but, dear, I want you to think of our boy's best interests.
The doctor and I have agreed that it would be most unwise to suffer you
to run any risk of infection."
Mrs. Bernard turned on him with a flash of defiance in her eyes.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "You cannot suppose that I am not going
to nurse Paul myself. It is my right as his mother."
"Then, dearest, I will ask you to forego that right for his sake and
mine," said Mr. Bernard; "Paul cannot afford to lose his mother, nor
can I afford to lose my wife."
Clarice Bernard stood motionless. The word wife thrilled her with the
memory of their recent reconciliation, and the joy which had come in
the midst of sorrow and dread. Were their wills clashing already?
"I do not see why you need imagine such a thing," she said; "I am not
at all likely to take the fever."
"We cannot tell that," said Mr. Bernard, "and I do not think you ought
to run the risk. Janet is perfectly able to nurse him, and I shall be
at hand to help her."
"If I ought not to run the risk, you ought not," she said.
"It is not an equal risk for me," he said; "I am older, and I shall
take every precaution. There is less fear for me, indeed."
"I cannot see that," she said. "You look anything but strong."
"I am stronger than I look," he replied. "Dearest, I am persuaded that
all will go well, if you will only do as I wish. The doctor says you
may return to your hotel now without any fear of carrying infection. I
will arrange to meet you every day and tell you all about Paul, then as
soon as it is safe, we will go into the country together."
Mrs. Bernard stood motionless. Her hand had dropped from the door. When
at last she spoke, her voice had an unnatural sound.
"You are asking a very hard thing of me," she said.
"I know I am," he replied tenderly. "It seems cruel to ask it, but I
believe it will be for Paul's real good, and he and I will both thank
you ere long for the sacrifice you have made."
"I can make it upon one condition only," she said after a moment.
"What is that?" he asked.
"That if Paul should be very ill," her voice quivered painfully as she
spoke; "if there should be danger, you will let me see him before—" She
could not finish, but her husband understood.
"Yes, yes," he said, and his own voice was husky, "I promise you that;
you may trust me."
She turned with a sob, and taking up her hat, which lay on a chair, put
it on.
"I had better go at once, ere my courage fails," she said.
"God bless you, my darling!" said her husband. "It grieves me to send
you away thus, but I am sure it is the best thing for us all."
She looked at him shyly through her tears.
"You have conquered me," she said softly. "It was not—it was not for
Paul's sake only that I gave in. Give me another promise—that you will
take care of my husband for me, as well as of my child."
The happy smile with which he answered her made her heart glad in spite
of all.
CHAPTER XIII.
A Festival.
SO Mrs. Bernard stayed on in Rome after most of the English visitors
had departed. Her acquaintances bestowed much pity on her as they made
their adieux; but, in truth, the weeks she passed so quietly were by no
means unhappy ones, though she would have been loth to admit how much
enjoyment she found in them.
The fever followed its usual course, and though Paul suffered a great
deal, he was never in danger. Every day his mother found something
to send him. Every day, too, she met Paul's father and heard from
him the details which had for her such intense interest. They would
walk together in the Villa Borghese or the Villa Doria, and the long
afternoons they spent thus seemed to pass with marvellous rapidity.
Slowly the child's tedious convalescence advanced, till the infectious
stage was over. It was a happy day for Mrs. Bernard when she set out
for Frascati to seek rooms there to which she might welcome her husband
and child, and still happier that of their arrival.
Frascati was in the perfection of its summer beauty. The country around
was green with spreading vines and the deeper verdure of magnificent
woods. The greyish hue of the olive-trees contrasted powerfully with
the vivid green of the grass which grew about their roots. Even the
ancient ilexes had a suggestion of youth in the fresh, yellowish shoots
they were putting forth. The brilliant sunshine rendered delightful
the deep shade of the bosky villas, while it brought to perfection the
roses which flourished so luxuriantly in their gardens. It seemed to
Clarice Bernard that she had never seen a more lovely place. Her heart
was so full of joy and thankfulness that the inner sunshine enhanced
the glory of the outer.
She stood on the top of the flight of steps leading down to the railway
station, looking far into the distance, and watching for the snowy
streak which should reveal the approach of the train from Rome. It was
the most lovely hour of the day. The sun's level rays illumined the
vast, broad Campagna, and made the sea-line gleam like silver. But
Paul's mother had only one thought at that moment. The train was late;
but at last it came into view. She ran quickly down the steps, and was
soon clasping her boy to her heart.
Paul looked radiant. Illness had not marred his appearance. It had
given a more delicate bloom to his complexion, and made his eyes look
larger and more earnest. Evidently it had not rendered his tongue less
nimble.
"Oh, mother!" he cried joyously. "Is it not nice that we are all
together again, you and father, and Janet and Beppo?"
"So Beppo is one of the family now," said his mother with a smile.
"Yes, it is indeed nice, Paul; better for me than for you. I have
wanted my little boy so badly."
"And I have wanted you," he said. "But was it not a good thing, mother,
that I ran out that night? If I had not, perhaps father would never
have found me, or I him."
"It made me very unhappy at the time, Paul," said his mother; "but I
think now that everything has turned out for good."
They went slowly up the long flight of steps, looking at the beautiful
plantations, the flowering aloes, the roses, the fountains that
gradually came into view.
"What a lovely place it is!" said Mr. Bernard. "It looks one great
garden."
"It is like the Garden of Eden," said Paul.
His parents looked at each other and smiled. They were so happy that
they seemed indeed to have found a Paradise.
The following was a high day at Frascati, the festival of Corpus
Christi. From the balcony of the house in which they were lodging,
Paul and his parents looked down on the gay scene presented by the
crowded piazza. The whole place seemed astir. Peasants wearing blue
blouses were seated on the steps of the church; other country folk were
arriving on donkeys; women in gay attire with their rich black tresses
gracefully coiled, stood knitting and chatting in groups, brown-frocked
friars moved amid the crowd, and boyish priestlings sped to and fro on
important errands. Paul watched everything with eager eyes, and asked
innumerable questions.
About noon a series of mild explosions announced that the procession
was about to set forth from the old cathedral. First came the acolytes
in their white gowns and pale blue capes with quaint white hoods,
then a troop of boys wearing surplices made of coarse black calico
with white linen bands hanging beneath their chins, giving them a
resemblance to Scottish doctors of divinity. Huge black crosses,
crucifixes, and gorgeous banners were borne aloft as they advanced.
After these stepped some tiny girls dressed as "angelette," in white
frocks veiled with chiffon, from which peeped forth at their shoulders
gilded wings. Then came a group of elderly women, who had donned the
ancient and beautiful costumes of the country-side. These were followed
by a band of young girls in white, wearing their "first communion"
veils. Last of all, the archbishop attended by clergy marched forth
under a canopy, carrying the Host. As it approached, the people in the
piazza fell upon their knees.
"What superstition, what blind materialism it seems!" Mrs. Bernard
whispered in her husband's ear. "John, can you believe that I came near
joining the Roman Catholic Church?"
"No, that I cannot believe," he said.
"Yet it is true," she replied. "I was so weary, so burdened, so
desolate, and they promised me rest and peace. They said that the
confessional would ease my conscience, and the priest absolve me from
my sin."
"But you did not listen to them?" he said.
"Alas, I did!" she said. "I tried to believe their words. It was our
little Paul who kept me from that fatal mistake. His childish words
taught me that God is near and ready to forgive, and that we can come
to Him in sorrow and penitence without the intervention of any human
priest. And now that I have confessed to my God, and know myself
forgiven for my Saviour's sake, I marvel that I was ever fascinated by
this elaborate and materialistic system of religion, which hides the
very truth it professes to set forth."
"Ay, truly," said her husband. "They lift the cross on high and wreathe
it with flowers; they exalt the image of the suffering Christ, yet deny
the power of His cross, and teach men to trust for salvation to human
rites and ceremonies. It is a strange perversity by which they make
the very forms and methods of their worship defeat the main purpose of
worship and separate the soul from God."
"What is that gilt thing he is carrying, and why do the people kneel?"
asked little Paul. "Did Jesus tell them to do that?"
Mrs. Bernard smiled as she laid her hand on her boy's curly head.
"Paul's question points to the mainspring of all true Christian life
and service—the word of Christ," she said. "Truly, one must become as a
little child to enter the kingdom of heaven."
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