Safe to the land! Safe to the land!
The end is this.
And then with Him go hand in hand,
Far into bliss.
DEAN ALFORD.
FOR some time past all the busy, active life of Pihel had revolved around the quiet room where the lady of the castle lay. The great state bed, with its pillars of oak, carved elaborately by skilful hands, its coverlet and cushions of embroidered silk, its hangings of rich tapestry, was surrounded by screens and curtains, making a chamber within a chamber, which excluded drafts and ensured privacy. Loving hearts and gentle hands were always there to minister to the sufferer. Her own bower women, and her daughter's bower maiden, Aninka, were assiduous and devoted; so, indeed, were all the household, down to the little page, Karel Sandresky, not yet thirteen, who was made supremely happy by being allowed to do trifling services for the Páni , or sometimes to watch beside her for an hour while she slept.
But the post of honor belonged to Zedenka. She was not only her mother's head nurse, she was also her physician. She administered the herbs and simples which were her only medicines, and watched her night and day with all the devotion of a daughter.
Beside the great bedstead was a tall, straight, high-backed chair, carved in oak with the same pattern. On that chair not one of the household ever sat—not even Zedenka, though her favorite dog, Bralik, was wont to lie crouched before it, watching all that went on with looks of half-human interest. But the Páni's dark eyes, large and bright in the wasted fate, were forever turning to that chair. Even when it was empty it seemed to soothe and comfort her. When it was occupied, her heart was at rest.
At the first sound of the familiar step upon the stairs the white cheek on the pillow used to flush, and a quiver of expectancy pass through the wasted frame. Then Bralik would prick his ears, rise up, go softly towards the door, Chlum would come in, and, as he pushed the screen aside, the Pani never failed to raise herself to greet him, while, not so much over her face as into it from some depth within there came a light, like the flame newly kindled in a lamp of translucent porcelain. He would bend over her frail hand and kiss it-sometimes with some low word of tenderness, sometimes in silence. Then he used to take the chair beside her. Often he read to her from the Czech Bible, or from the writings of Master John; oftener still, as the days went by, he was content to sit there silent: while she, if only he was there, was more than content. His presence was enough for her.
Now and then there were interludes of quiet talk, usually begun by her, such as this:—
`My knight, knowest thou that Frantisek is some time out of his apprenticeship, and his master, who could not well do without him, pays him good wages? '
Chlum started, as if aroused from a reverie.
‘I did not know it, dear heart,' he said. 'It fell out, I suppose, whilst I was with the king.'
Chlum, during the past three years, had been often at the court of King Wenzel—assuredly not for his own enjoyment.
‘It was more than six months ago. My knight, he loves our Aninka. What thinkest thou? '
‘I think she is a fortunate maiden. But, my Pani, we cannot part with her.'
‘Not yet. But this is what I think. Frantisek and Aninka might strike hands at once, and plight their troth to each other.'
‘What of the father—that wrong-headed, stony-hearted Papist? '
‘I think he can be managed, with thy good help, my Kepka. There are some things Peichler loves better than the pope's bull. He is ambitious, and he is covetous. If thou wouldst promise to dower Aninka, and to give her in marriage thyself, as one of thy household, with some little honor and observance, I suspect Master Peichler's consent might be won. Especially if he is made to understand that his daughter will wed none other.'
‘He might take her from us, and force her to do it. He is an evil man, my Páni.'
‘Force her? Neither king nor Kaiser could do that.' Chlum shook his head, and looked incredulous.
‘Poor child!' he said.
‘My knight, thou dolt not understand her. Look at you cup of water. Could anything be weaker—more yielding to thy touch? Yet its drops will wear the hardest rock, and no man living could squeeze it into a smaller space than likes it.' Chlum's eyes followed hers to the cup.
‘I see thy meaning,' he said. ‘All shall be as thou wilt. We will dower Aninka and in due time give her in marriage.'
‘Thou wilt, beloved.'
Then on both a silence fell, for both knew what neither cared to say. ‘Not yet.’
By-and-by the Páni resumed: ‘Strange if the maiden were to wed before the mistress. Our Zedenka's future is not clear to me, Kepka.'
Apparently it was not clearer to her father. He bent down and stroked Bralik ere he answered: ‘If I had known young Hussenec̆ was going to stay in foreign parts these two years and more, I might have given him fewer fair words ere he went. Still, for some things, he is well away. When the father levies armies, and lets men say of him that he is like one day to be King of Bohemia, the son stands in slippery places. Thinkest Thou that Zedenka hath a favor to him, my Páni?'
‘Truly I cannot tell. If no, why would she not even hear the suit of the young lord of Austi, whose father was Master John's chosen friend, and whose mother is one of the best and noblest women in all the land? If yes—but that I cannot think. It is all dark to me. God will guide.'
So the conversation dropped.
Another day she said: ‘My knight, it were well, I think, to send Vitus to Prague for Vaclav.’
Chlum's strong heart quivered with a new pang. But he gave no sign.
‘It shall be as thou sayest,' he answered quietly. 'Vitus shall go at once.'
‘Let them all come,' she went on. ‘Dear Hubert, who is as a son to us, Lucaz, and Ostrodek.'
‘Ostrodek is not there. Would I knew where he is! Sorry enough I am now that I sent him on that errand to Hussenec̆. His is a wild nature, like Ishmael's in the Holy Scriptures.'
The Páni lay silent, with eyes half-closed. Presently a tear stole from under the drooping lids, and her lord heard her murmur, "Oh, that Ishmael might live before Thee!" ‘Dear heart, thou wert ever tender over him. Thou didst pity him,' he said.
‘No; I loved him. I love him. Let Hubert have him sought for everywhere, and told—' She stopped there.
‘Told what, dear heart? '
‘That I want to see him, to say good-bye.'
Without a word Chlum went out and did her bidding; with the result we know.
The Owning of Václav and the others cheered both the invalid and the watchers, and even produced a temporary rally. This was in no way owing to the physician; for Zedenka was positively angry with Hubert for bringing him, and would by no means allow him to undertake the case. She had a horror of physicians, not at all surprising, considering the remedies they were accustomed to use in those days. From time immemorial the ladies of their house had attended the sick and dying, and done for them everything that could or ought to be done. Why should they change the customs of their fathers and their mothers, and bring in Jews, infidels, and heretics, only to add to the sufferings they could not cure? She appealed to her father; and Chlum decided in her favor, for he knew now that God was taking from him the desire of his eyes, and he only wished that she might be taken gently and without pain.
‘Do thou make it right with the Jew, dear Hubert,' he said. ‘Give him a handsome guerdon, and tell him we do not doubt his skill, but we like not to change the customs of our house.'
Hubert undertook the task, quite expecting the physician to go away in a rage; for the physicians of that day seem to have had their full share of professional sensitiveness. But the Jew took the rejection of his services with unexpected philosophy. He was a man wise in his generation; and he determined that no slight, real or fancied, should drive him from the safe retreat of Pihel until he was quite sure that the legate had left Bohemia. So he stayed in the castle, using all his tact and cleverness to make himself acceptable to its inmates. By-and-by, as Hubert observed with surprise, the Farina began to talk with him about her simples and decoctions; and he even ventured to offer suggestions for the comfort of the invalid, which she did not disdain to consider. Time and strength were given to the loving mother to speak to the heart' of her boy in words of wise and tender counsel. Nor was Hubert forgotten, nor Lucaz, nor Karel, nor any one. Zedenka was so constantly with her that while she had, and needed, fewer formal conversations than the others, she enjoyed more real communion than any, save one. With the hopes, the fears, the future of each, the Páni’s mind was much occupied. Not sadly; certainly not untrustfully; only like one who has to leave half-read some tale full of interest—he knows the artist may well be trusted to perfect the work as planned,' still he cannot refrain from eager guesses of the how, the when, the where. Moreover, unlike the reader, she could contribute to the conclusions she desired by counsel and by prayer.
One day she said to Zedenka, ‘I know not how it is, my child, but I cannot read God's will for thee as plain as for the rest.'
‘Canst thou not, dear mother? It seems plain enough to me.' She was standing at a small table near the bed, and mixing a draft as she spoke. It is His will now that I should prepare this for thee, and that thou shouldest take it from my hands.'
The invalid obeyed, as she always did, but presently resumed; ‘I was thinking of the days to come, my child. As I lie here and wait, I have many visions of that which will be. I think God sends them. He knows I must go on still caring for those I love. I see Václav and Hubert—for Hubert is a son to me—true knights of God, fighting for His cause.—I am sore afraid the fight will be a hard one. "Every battle of the warrior is with confused noise, and garments rolled in blood." And dark, dark is the cloud that overhangs the land.'
‘Dear mother, how knowest thou? '
‘From many signs and tokens. But chiefly from this: thy father will not now speak to me any more of what is doing in the land.'
‘He was never a man of words,' said Zedenka.
‘He thinks I should look now towards the land I am going to. But I did wrong to say to thee that I am sore afraid; for, though I see conflict, I see victory too—for them. "There shall not a hair of your head perish!" It is for thee I am perplexed, Zedenka.'
‘Is not that true for me too, mother?'
‘Surely, for the end. It is the way that is dark to me. A maiden is not as a youth.'
‘She is the handmaid of the Lord, as he is His servant,' said Zedenka.
The large eyes, bright with fever, looked wistfully into those other eyes, bright with youth and beauty. ‘My child, my daughter, could I only read thy heart! '
Zedenka shrank a little from her gaze. ‘I have my father to live for,' she said.
‘Not forever, child. When the time comes thou must not grudge him to me.'
‘Mother, I think—I know—that Palma Oneshka means me to have, not her books only, but her house also when she is gone. I am, as she is, the daughter of a knight. I can live there, as she has done, and serve God in His poor. Not bound by vows—for with these I hold not; not even as a beguine, but free.'
Never once had Pani Sophia thought of such a life as this for her beautiful and gifted daughter. But to the place where she was now shocks of joy, or sorrow, or surprise came faintly, as did the household noises through the thick tapestry that curtained her around. She lay still, trying to take in the new and surprising thought. At last she said slowly, ‘Good, if God wills it for thee, since all He wills is good. Good, but to my earthly thoughts, not best. My child, I have known great sorrows, but greater joys. I would not live over again; yet can I wish thee no better lot for this world than just such a life as mine.'
Zedenka's cheek, a little pale from watching, flushed suddenly. She was silent for a space; then she took up a silken cushion which lay near her on the bed. ‘Seest thou, dear mother, the cushion the queen worked for thee with her own hands, haw sadly it is torn?’ she said. ‘The feathers are almost falling out. It will be quite spoiled. I must fetch a needle and silk, and mend it at once.'
The Pani turned her face away, with a slight, half-suppressed sigh. Evidently, to the end, the heart of her child was to be to her ‘a fountain sealed.' Probably because that heart did not as yet understand itself. Well, she could trust for her as for all the rest.
Of herself she spoke not much, but accepted thankfully the ministrations of Stasek, took great delight in the Holy Scriptures, and was often in prayer.
One day, when the chair beside her was occupied, and no one else within the screen, she asked wistfully, ‘My knight, thinkest thou there is any such place as purgatory?'
Chlum hesitated; it was hard to meet her look, and refuse the answer he knew she expected. But he that would use faithfully the talent of truth must never trade with borrowed capital; the truth that has not first been made his own will bear no interest when lent to others. He said tenderly, ‘Not for such as thou, my saint; but there may well be those that need it. Master John believed in purgatory.'
'Nay, dear heart, not in purgatory. His word while he was yet with us was this: "We may believe of many things, but we should believe in nothing but God—Father, Son, and Spirit." That being so, I believe in the Father who loves, the Son who redeems, the Spirit who makes holy. The rest matters not so much.'
Chlum murmured something about ‘the prayers of the faithful.'
‘Yes, I know you will pray. But do not grieve more than you can help. There will be trouble enough without that. I know more than you think for, Kepka. You do not tell me the tidings that come to you from Prague or elsewhere, or talk of them before me.'
‘That is only because—'
‘Because you think they would trouble me? Always it was so with thee. Fain wouldest thou keep all the trouble for thyself, and share all the joy with me, or give it to me wholly if thou couldest. Kepka, I am not going from thee to less love than thine.'
‘God forbid.'
‘We talk of "infinite" love, but we do not understand it. I thank God for giving me, in that I know, a measure for that which I know not. I have only to think of His love, "It is more." Of what He will do with me I have no fear. Enough, I go to Him. But I think that if He lets us suffer here, it is that we may grow like Him. There "we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is." It is seeing, not suffering, that will do it.'
After this the ebbing tide, which had seemed to come back a little way, again retreated. When weakness increased the mind sometimes wandered—always a sad experience for the watchers. We gaze on the beloved face, our eyes dim with tears, but no answering look comes back to us. We touch the lips, the hand; yet are farther away than if continents divided us. The saddest part is that ‘the things seen ' remain with us, while ‘the things not seen,' in which we delighted, seem to have gone from us.
The Rani, in her wanderings, often spoke of, or to, the beloved pastor, whom previously she seldom named. Chlum and Zedenka were both present one day when her fancies shaped themselves in words like these ‘Dear Master John, I entreat of, you to pray for my children. 'Tis true they are but babes; yet ask God to make them His own, and to keep them from this evil world. Yes, name their names before Him— Zedenka, Jan, Václav. He remembers names—keeps them written in His book and on His heart. Dear Master, I beseech you, pray most of all for my lord, my own true knight. He is kind and brave, but—"if any man love the world, and the things of the world." Pray for him that he may give up all for God, and be content to do it.'
Upon the fevered hand that lay outside the silken coverlet Chlum placed his own. ‘He is content,' he said gently. 'But God help me!’ he cried, a strong man's suppressed anguish struggling through the words. ‘I cannot tell her now.'
‘My father, she knows,' said Zedenka. ‘She says you are nearer God than any of us. That we are to learn of you, and follow you—till we meet again.'
‘Thou hast mistaken her, child. She must have been speaking of Master John's teachings, and of his words.'
‘Not so, my father; she has said it often.'
The days wore on, those days so slow and sad, which, while they are passing, seem interminable; yet, when they are past, seem like a watch in the night. While they last we say in the evening, ‘Would God it were morning!’ in the morning, ‘Would God it were night!’ Yet often in the after-years we would give half our lives to have the worst and darkest of them back again.
At last that day came which is unlike all the rest, that day which for one has no ending, while for others (oftenest, perhaps, for another) it seems the end of all things. It stole on insensibly as such days are apt to do; the long-expected when it comes is the unexpected.
Since the dawning of the day the dying lay for the most part in a kind of stupor. Those she loved watched around her, while she slipped gently and insensibly, like some fair barque, from the deep, broad river of the lesser into the tideless, shoreless ocean of the greater love.
Already she had had those ‘rites of the Church ' which pious Hussites at that time continued to receive. Stasek stood beside her, now and then offering prayers or repeating words from the Holy Scriptures. At intervals she seemed to know the dear faces around, and smiled, or pressed the hand that held hers so constantly, but made no effort to speak.
Towards the going down of the sun a servant, approaching noiselessly, beckoned Hubert from the room. He was absent for some minutes. When he returned, he went up to his lord, who sat all day in his accustomed place. ‘Sir knight,' he said, in the low voice that befitted the time, ‘Ostrodek has come back.'
‘Let him come hither,' said Chlum, without taking his eyes from the white face on the pillow.
Ostrodek entered the chamber of death. His dress was dusty and travel-soiled, but he had flung off his heavy, mud-stained boots, and his step was noiseless as a girl's. The prodigal's confession was in his heart, but the solemn presence in which he was sealed his lips, and he stood in awestruck silence, close by the screen.
But Chlum stretched out his hand, and beckoned him forward. ‘Come hither, Ostrodek,' he said.
‘Ostrodek!' another voice repeated—a voice they had not thought to hear again. The dying eyes opened wide, first with the dawn of returning consciousness, then with full recognition; they sought the face of the wanderer, so anxiously yearned over, so earnestly prayed for. Ostrodek — ‘thank God! Welcome home—home; ' the last word was repeated twice.
The light faded as quickly as it came. Over the white face there stole a subtle change; but there was no sound nor sign of suffering. In, manes teas, Domine, Stasek began. Ere the brief prayer was ended a song of praise had begun in another place.
Bat out of sight, out of hearing! That is the trouble. That is the mystery over which throughout the ages our poor human hearts have been breaking-are breaking still. There is music and rapture; here is only silence.