“‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will refresh you.’ (Matthew nine, verse 28.) ‘And God shall dry all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor clamour, nor shall there be any more pain.’ (Revelations twenty-one, verse 4.) ‘Trouble not your heart: believe in God, and believe in Me.’ ‘Peace I bequeath to you, My peace I give to you: not as the world giveth, give I to you. Trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.’ (John fourteen, verses 1, 27.) ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth; and whippeth also every son whom He receiveth.’” (Hebrews twelve, verse 6.)
He read or quoted from memory, as passages occurred to him. When he had reached this point he made a pause. A deep sigh answered him, but no words.
“‘And he looked round about on them which sat about Him, and said, Behold My mother and My brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.’”
“I dare say He kissed His mother!” said the low plaintive voice. She evidently knew of whom the reader spoke. “The world giveth not much peace. ‘Heavy-laden!’ ay, heavy-laden! ‘Thou hast removed from me friend and neighbour.’ I have lost my liberty, and I am losing my life; and now—God have mercy on me!—I have lost my son.”
“Dame, will you take for your son the Lord that died for you? He offers Himself to you. ‘The same is My mother.’ He will give you not love only, but a son’s love, and that warm and undying. ‘With perpetual charity I delighted in thee,’ He saith; ‘wherefore, pitying, I drew thee to Me.’ Oh, my daughter, let Him draw thee!”
“What you will, Father,” was the low answer. “I have no bodily strength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than I can do. Elsewise, what you will. My will is broken; nothing matters any more now. I scarce thought it should have so been—at the end. Howbeit, God’s will be done. It must be done.”
“My daughter, ‘this is the will of God, your sanctification.’ The end and object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined to Christ. ‘For He is our peace,’ and we are ‘in Him complete.’ In Him—not in your penances, nor in yourself. If so were that my Lord Basset had done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not for anything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, and you could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is her dishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her. So is it with the soul that is joined to Christ. If He be exalted, it must be exalted; if it be rejected, He is rejected also. And God cannot reject His own Son.”
The Archbishop was not at all sure that the Countess was listening to him. She kept her face turned away. He rose and wished her good evening. The medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or it might work more harm than good.
He came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more. For three days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesy demanded, he was not answered a word. On the fourth night he found the face turned. A pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart—wan, white, haggard, unutterably pathetic. That night he read the fourteenth chapter of Saint John’s Gospel, and added few words of his own. On leaving her, he said—
“My daughter, God is more pitiful than men, and His love is better than theirs.”