Part 56

"I have sent for thee again, Father, to ask a question which thou alone canst answer."

She lifted her troubled eyes to his, deep with her question that seemed the more terrible because her quiet voice still showed no trace of emotion.

"Thou, who knowest the ways of God----"

(He groaned aloud.)

"Hath He stricken me for any sin?"

Then suddenly the passion of her question flamed in her white face--she searched his, as if life or death lay in his answer.

From the hand upon his breast the blood trickled in slow drops, while he laid the other upon her head in benediction:

"No--child--no," he gasped; "God help thee--no!"

"If--if it were for sin of mine," she said slowly, and watching him as if she had not known whether she might trust his words--"might I not leave the world, and take the veil in the Convent of the Holy Cross?"

"Thou?" he cried. "Thou!"

"Am I not fit?" she asked. "Is it not for those who suffer and would leave the world?"

He shook his head. "No; thou art beloved of the Holy Mother. The world is thy cross. It is there that thou shalt do thy penance. The Convent is not for thee."

"Father, I have no tears to offer in penance."

"God asketh not tears if He hath denied them," he answered--his own choking his speech, "but the gift of what He hath given thee--to stand where He hath placed thee and take up thy burden of life."

"Father, I have no strength, nor will."

"They will be sent thee," he answered her.

"God is not angry with me?" she asked again with sudden passion. "Then why--why did He take my child away--my little, little child?--and --thus?"

He looked at her startled. Had the terrible rumor reached her which they were striving to keep from her, that the little, royal, innocent life had been the victim of some intrigue--that the sudden, fatal illness had not been sent by Heaven? The rumor had been sifted, and no clue had been found, while yet it might not be wholly dismissed. Yet was the fear of this horror added to the mother's anguish? Nothing but action would save her from madness.

Then suddenly his weakness left him, because of her need; he felt that he must hold her in her place at all costs. He rose and looked down upon her, steadying her by the magnetic strength in his face,--his eyes wild with the intensity of his belief.

"Whom He loveth, He chasteneth," he said. "It is granted thee to know the depth of the meaning of those holy words. The blessed Christus, with great drops of anguish falling from His sacred brows, cried out, 'Can any sorrow be like my sorrow?' God is not angry with thee, my daughter; but so He fashioneth a soul for His great work. Life is thy cross, my child. Lift it and clasp it--Heaven's peace shall be thine."

"Why not the Convent, Father?" she asked, still irresolute. "I am so weary."

Then his voice took on a note of authority--she shrank before it as the tones rang out like the cry of a prophet:

"It is not for thee; for thy place is here.

"If suffering is sent thee, thou must bear it here.

"If loneliness hath come to thee, thou shalt meet it here.

"If thou art desolate, the children of thy people are thine.

"If thy dream of love is broken, the love of thy people is about thee.

"If thy heart and hands are empty, the duties of thy realm shall fill them.