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diff --git a/23122.txt b/23122.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1dd59a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/23122.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4052 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Well in the Desert, by Emily Sarah Holt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Well in the Desert + An Old Legend of the House of Arundel + +Author: Emily Sarah Holt + +Illustrator: M. Irwin + +Release Date: October 20, 2007 [EBook #23122] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL IN THE DESERT *** + + + + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + + + + +The Well in the Desert, An Old Legend of the House of Arundel, by Emily +Sarah Holt. + +________________________________________________________________________ +The action takes place at the end of the fourteenth century and the +start of the fifteenth. It deals largely with a family connected with +Arundel in Sussex. They seem to have been rather nasty people, highly +motivated by greed and desire for even higher stations in life. They +were fairly well-placed by today's standards, being closely related to +various of the Kings of England of the day. Some of the women in the +story are quite as bad as many of the men. + +When these wicked people had done their wicked deeds there were often +unfortunate children, dispossessed or forgotten in some attic of the +castle. One of these is the heroine of this story. She had never been +told who or where her mother was. By a series of coincidences she +comes across the name of a person who may know the answers to these +questions. I will not spoil the story for you by telling you any more. + +Throughout the book there is constant reference to Christ as the Well, +the supplier of the vital Water of Life. Christianity was in a terrible +mess at the time, with numerous sects, and with the members of any one +sect feeling free to execute by any means the members of any other sect. +There's plainly a modern parallel here. + +On the whole the story is based on fact and on valuable contemporary +records. When Miss Holt wrote the story it seemed likely that Philippa, +the central figure, was accurately represented. Unfortunately, after +the book was complete it was found that she could never have existed, +so the poor authoress had to present her book as it stands, with an +apology at the end. + +________________________________________________________________________ +THE WELL IN THE DESERT, AN OLD LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF ARUNDEL, BY EMILY +SARAH HOLT. + + + +PREFACE. + +It is said that only travellers in the arid lands of the East really +know the value of water. To them the Well in the Desert is a treasure +and a blessing: unspeakably so, when the water is pure and sweet; yet +even though it be salt and brackish, it may still save life. + +Was it less so, in a figurative sense, to the travellers through that +great desert of the Middle Ages, wherein the wells were so few and far +between? True, the water was brackish; man had denied the streams, and +filled up the wells with stones; yet for all this it was God-given, and +to those who came, and dug for the old spring, and drank, it was the +water of eternal life. The cry was still sounding down the ages. + +"If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink." And no less +blessed are the souls that come now: but for us, the wells are so +numerous and so pure, that we too often pass them by, and go on our way +thirsting. Strange blindness!--yet not strange: for until the Angel of +the Lord shall open the eyes of Hagar, she must needs go mourning +through the wilderness, not seeing the well. + +"Lord, that we may receive our sight!"--and may come unto Thee, and +drink, and thirst no more. + + + +CHAPTER ONE. + +MY LADY'S BOWER IS SWEPT. + + "I am too low for scorn to lower me, + And all too sorrow-stricken to feel grief." + + Edwin Arnold. + +Soft and balmy was the air, and the sunlight radiant, at an early hour +of a beautiful June morning; and fair was the landscape that met the +eyes of the persons who were gathered a few feet from the portcullis of +a grand stately old castle, crowning a wooded height near the Sussex +coast. There were two persons seated on horseback: the one a youth of +some twenty years, in a page's dress; the other a woman, who sat behind +him on the pillion. Standing about were two men and a woman, the last +holding a child in her arms. The woman on the pillion was closely +veiled, and much muffled in her wrappings, considering the season of the +year and the warmth of the weather; nor did she lift her veil when she +spoke. + +"The child, Alina," she said, in a tone so soft and low that the words +seemed rather breathed than spoken. + +The woman who stood beside the horse answered the appeal by placing the +child in the arms of the speaker. It was a pretty, engaging little girl +of three years old. The lady on the pillion, lifting the child +underneath her veil, strained it to her bosom, and bowed her head low +upon its light soft hair. Meanwhile, the horse stood still as a statue, +and the page sat as still before her. In respectful silence the other +three stood round. They knew, every one of them, that in that embrace +to one of the two the bitterness of death was passing; and that when it +was ended she would have nothing left to fear--only because she would +have nothing left to hope. At length, suddenly, the lady lifted her +head, and held forth the child to Alina. Turning her head away toward +the sea, from the old castle, from the child, she made her farewell in +one word. + +"Depart!" + +The three standing there watched her departure--never lifting her veil, +nor turning her head--until she was hidden from their sight among the +abundant green foliage around. They lingered a minute longer; but only +a minute--for a shrill, harsh voice from the portcullis summoned them to +return. + +"Ralph, thou lither hilding! Alina, thou jade! Come hither at once, +and get you to work. My Lady's bower yet unswept, by the Seven +Sleepers! and ye lingering yonder as ye had leaden heels! By the holy +bones of Saint Benedict, our master shall con you light thanks when he +cometh!" + +"That may be," said Alina, under her breath. "Get you in, Ralph and +Jocelyn, or she shall be after again." + +And she turned and walked quickly into the castle, still carrying the +child. + +Eleven hours later, a very different procession climbed the castle-hill, +and passed in at the portcullis. It was headed by a sumptuous litter, +beside which rode a gentleman magnificently attired. Behind came a +hundred horsemen in livery, and the line was closed by a crowd of +archers in Lincoln green, bearing cross-bows. From the litter, assisted +by the gentleman, descended a young lady of some three-and-twenty years, +upon whose lips hovered a smile of pleasure, and whose fair hair flowed +in natural ringlets from beneath a golden fillet. The gentleman was her +senior by about fifteen years. He was a tall, active, handsome man, +with a dark face, stern, set lips, and a pair of dark, quick, eagle-like +eyes, beneath which the group of servants manifestly quailed. + +"Is the Lady's bower ready?" he asked, addressing the foremost of the +women--the one who had so roughly insisted on Alina's return. + +"It is so, an't like your noble Lordship," answered she with a low +reverence; "it shall be found as well appointed as our poor labours +might compass." + +He made no answer; but, offering his hand to the young lady who had +alighted from the litter, he led her up the stairs from the +banqueting-hall, into a suite of fair, stately apartments, according to +the taste of that period. Rich tapestry decorated the walls, fresh +green rushes were strewn upon the floor, all the painting had been +renewed, and above the fireplace stood two armorial shields newly +chiselled. + +"Lady," he said, in a soft, courtly tone, "here is the bower. Doth it +like the bird?" + +"It is beauteous," answered the lady, with a bright smile. + +"It hath been anew swept and garnished," replied the master, bowing low, +as he took his leave. "Yonder silver bell shall summon your women." + +The lady moved to the casement on his departure. It stood open, and the +lovely sea-view was to be seen from it. + +"In good sooth, 'tis a fair spot!" she said half aloud. "And all new +swept and garnished!" + +There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the words +might have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora--"Not only +garnished, but _swept_!" + +My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered her +call. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the little +flaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events of +the morning. + +"Do you all speak French?" asked the Countess in that language--which, +be it remembered, was in the reign of Edward the Third the mother-tongue +of the English nobles. + +She received an affirmative reply from all. + +"That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gear +brought up hither.--What a pretty child! whose is it?" + +Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. "The Lady +Philippa Fitzalan, my Lord's daughter." + +"My Lord's daughter!" And a visible frown clouded the Countess's brow. +"I knew not he had a daughter--Oh! _that_ child! Take her away--I do +not want her. _Mistress_ Philippa, for the future. That is my +pleasure." + +And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady of +Arundel seated herself at her tiring-glass. Alina caught up the child, +and took her away to a distant chamber in a turret of the castle, where +she set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the little +flaxen head. + +"Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!" she cried. "Would to our +dear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, for +none other be like to do it save them and me." + +And suddenly rising, she slipped down on her knees, holding the child +before her, beside a niche where a lamp made of pottery burned before a +blackened wooden doll. + +"Lady of Pity, hast thou none for this little child? Mother of Mercy, +for thee to deceive me! This whole month have I been on my knees to +thee many times in the day, praying thee to incline the Lady's heart, +when she should come, to show a mother's pity to this motherless one. +And thou hast not heard me--thou hast not heard me. Holy Virgin, what +doest thou? Have I not offered candles at thy shrine? Have I not +deprived myself of needful things to pay for thy litanies? What could I +have done more? Is this thy pity, Lady of Pity?--this thy compassion, +Mother and Maiden?" + +But the passionate appeal was lost on the lifeless image to which it was +made. As of old, so now, "there was neither voice, not any to answer, +nor any that regarded." + +Nineteen years after that summer day, a girl of twenty-two sat gazing +from the casement in that turret-chamber--a girl whose face even a +flatterer would have praised but little; and Philippa Fitzalan had no +flatterers. The pretty child--as pretty children often do--had grown +into a very ordinary, commonplace woman. Her hair, indeed, was glossy +and luxuriant, and had deepened from its early flaxen into the darkest +shade to which it was possible for flaxen to change; her eyes were dark, +with a sad, tired, wistful look in them--a look + + "Of a dumb creature who had been beaten once, + And never since was easy with the world." + +Her face was white and thin, her figure tall, slender, angular, and +rather awkward. None had ever cared to amend her awkwardness; it +signified to nobody whether she looked well or ill. In a word, _she_ +signified to nobody. The tears might burn under her eyelids, or +overflow and fall,--she would never be asked what was the matter; she +might fail under her burdens and faint in the midst of them,--and if it +occurred to any one to prevent material injury to her, that was the very +utmost she could expect. Not that the Lady Alianora was unkind to her +stepdaughter: that is, not actively unkind. She simply ignored her +existence. Philippa was provided, as a matter of course, with necessary +clothes, just as the men who served in the hall were provided with +livery; but anything not absolutely necessary had never been given to +her in her life. There were no loving words, no looks of pleasure, no +affectionate caresses, lavished upon her. If the Lady Joan lost her +temper (no rare occurrence), or the Lady Alesia her appetite, or the +Lady Mary her sleep, the whole household was disturbed; but what +Philippa suffered never disturbed nor concerned any one but herself. To +these, her half-sisters, she formed a kind of humble companion, a +superior maid-of-all-work. All day long she heard and obeyed the +commands of the three young ladies; all day long she was bidden, "Come +here", "Go there", "Do this", "Fetch that." And Philippa came, and +went, and fetched, and did as she was told. Just now she was off duty. +Their Ladyships were gone out hawking with the Earl and Countess, and +would not, in all probability, return for some hours. + +And what was Philippa doing, as she sat gazing dreamily from the +casement of her turret-chamber--hers, only because nobody else liked the +room? Her eyes were fixed earnestly on one little spot of ground, a few +feet from the castle gate; and her soul was wandering backward nineteen +years, recalling the one scene which stood out vividly, the earliest of +memory's pictures--a picture without text to explain it--before which, +and after which, came blanks with no recollection to fill them. She saw +herself lifted underneath a woman's veil--clasped earnestly in a woman's +arms,--gazing in baby wonder up into a woman's face--a wan white face, +with dark, expressive, fervent eyes, in which a whole volume of agony +and love was written. She never knew who that woman was. Indeed, she +sometimes wondered whether it were really a remembrance, or only a +picture drawn by her own imagination. But there it was always, deep +down in the heart's recesses, only waiting to be called on, and to come. +Whoever this mysterious woman were, it was some one who had loved her-- +her, Philippa, whom no one ever loved. For Alina, who had died in her +childhood, she scarcely recollected at all. And at the very core of the +unseen, unknown heart of this quiet, undemonstrative girl, there lay one +intense, earnest, passionate longing for love. If but one of her +father's hawks or hounds would have looked brighter at her coming, she +thought it would have satisfied her. For she had learned, long years +ere this, that to her father himself, or to the Lady Alianora, or to her +half-brothers and sisters, she must never look for any shadow of love. +The "mother-want about the world," which pressed on her so heavily, they +would never fill. The dull, blank uniformity of simple apathy was all +she ever received from any of them. + +Her very place was filled. The Lady Joan was the eldest daughter of the +house--not Mistress Philippa. For the pleasure of the Countess had been +fulfilled, and Mistress Philippa the girl was called. And when Joan was +married and went away from the castle (in a splendid litter hung with +crimson velvet), her sister Alesia stepped into her place as a matter of +course. Philippa did not, indeed, see the drawbacks to Joan's lot. +They were not apparent on the surface. That the stately young noble who +rode on a beautiful Barbary horse beside the litter, actually hated the +girl whom he had been forced to marry, did not enter into her +calculations: but as Joan cared very little for that herself, it was the +less necessary that Philippa should do so. And Philippa only missed +Joan from the house by the fact that her work was so much the lighter, +and her life a trifle less disagreeable than before. + +More considerations than one were troubling Philippa just now. Blanche, +one of the Countess's tire-women, had just visited her turret-chamber, +to inform her that the Lady Alesia was betrothed, and would be married +six months thence. It did not, however, trouble her that she had heard +of this through a servant; she never looked for anything else. Had she +been addicted (which, fortunately for her, she was not) to that most +profitless of all manufactures, grievance-making,--she might have wept +over this little incident. But except for one reason, the news of her +sister's approaching marriage was rather agreeable to Philippa. She +would have another tyrant the less; though it was true that Alesia had +always been the least unkind to her of the three, and she would have +welcomed Mary's marriage with far greater satisfaction. But that one +terrible consideration which Blanche had forced on her notice! + +"I marvel, indeed, that my gracious Lord hath not thought of your +disposal, Mistress Philippa, ere this." + +Suppose he should think of it! For to Philippa's apprehension, love was +so far from being synonymous with marriage, that she held the two barely +compatible. Marriage to her would be merely another phase of Egyptian +bondage, under a different Pharaoh. And she knew this was her probable +lot: that (unless her father's neglect on this subject should continue-- +which she devoutly hoped it might) she would some day be informed by +Blanche--or possibly the Lady Alianora herself might condescend to make +the communication--that on the following Wednesday she was to be married +to Sir Robert le Poer or Sir John de Mountchenesey; probably a man whom +she had never seen, possibly one whom she just knew by sight. + +Philippa scarcely knew how, from such thoughts as these, her memory +slowly travelled back, and stayed outside the castle gate, at that June +morning of nineteen years ago. Who was it that had parted with her so +unwillingly? It could not, of course, be the mother of whom she had +never heard so much as the name; she must have died long ago. On her +side, so far as Philippa knew, she had no relations; and her aunts on +the father's side, the Lady Latimer, the Lady de l'Estrange, and the +Lady de Lisle, never took the least notice of her when they visited the +castle. And then came up the thought--"Who am I? How is it that nobody +cares to own me? There must be a reason. What is the reason?" + +"Mistress Philippa! look you here: the Lady Mary left with me this piece +of arras, and commanded me to give it unto you to be amended, and +beshrew me but I clean forgot. This green is to come forth, and this +blue to be set instead thereof, and clean slea-silk for the yellow. +Haste, for the holy Virgin's love, or I shall be well swinged when she +cometh home!" + + + +CHAPTER TWO. + +HIDDEN TREASURE. + + "Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? + Or who takes note of every flower that dies?" + + Longfellow. + +The morning after Blanche and the arras had thus roughly dispelled +Philippa's dream, the Lady Alianora sat in her bower, looking over a +quantity of jewellery. She put some articles aside to be reset, +dismissed others as past amendment, or not worth it, and ordered some to +be restored to the coffer whence they had been taken. The Lady Alesia +was looking on, and Philippa stood behind with the maids. At last only +one ornament was left. + +"This is worth nothing," said the Countess, lifting from the table an +old bracelet, partly broken. "Put it with the others--or stay: whence +came it?" + +"Out of an ancient coffer, an't like your Ladyship," said Blanche, "that +hath been longer in the castle than I." + +"I should think so," returned the Countess. "It must have belonged to +my Lord's grandmother, or some yet more ancient dame. 'Tis worth +nothing. Philippa, you may have it." + +Not a very gracious manner of presenting a gift, it must be confessed; +but Philippa well knew that nothing of any value was likely to be handed +to her. Moreover, this was the first present that had ever been made to +her. And lastly, a dim notion floated through her mind that it might +have belonged to her mother; and anything connected with that dead and +unknown mother had a sacred charm in her eyes. Her thanks, therefore, +were readily forthcoming. She put the despised bracelet in her pocket; +and as soon as she received her dismissal, ran with a lighter step than +usual to her turret-chamber. Without any distinct reason for doing so, +she drew the bolt, and sitting down by the window, proceeded to examine +her treasure. + +It was a plain treasure enough. A band of black enamel, set at +intervals with seed-pearl and beryls, certainly was not worth much; +especially since the snap was gone, one of the beryls and several pearls +were missing, and from the centre ornament, an enamelled rose, a +portrait had apparently been torn away. Did the rose open? Philippa +tried it; for she was anxious to reach the device, if there were one to +reach. The rose opened with some effort, and the device lay before her, +written in small characters, with faded ink, on a scrap of parchment +fitting into the bracelet. + +Philippa's one accomplishment, which she owed to her old friend Alina, +was the rare power of reading. It was very seldom that she found any +opportunity of exercising it, yet she had not lost the art. Alina had +been a priest's sister, who in teaching her to read had taught her all +that he knew himself; and Alina in her turn had thus given to Philippa +all that she had to give. + +But the characters of the device were so small and faint, that Philippa +consumed half an hour ere she could decipher them. At length she +succeeded in making out a rude rhyme or measure, in the Norman-French +which was to her more familiar than English. + + "Quy de cette eaw boyra + Ancor soyf aura; + Mais quy de cette eaw boyra + Que moy luy donneray, + Jamais soif n'aura + A l'eternite." + +Devices of the mediaeval period were parted into two divisions-- +religious and amatory. Philippa had no difficulty in deciding that this +belonged to the former category; and she guessed in a moment that the +meaning was a moral one; for she was accustomed to such hidden +allegorical allusions. And already she had advanced one step on the +road to that Well; she knew that "whosoever drinketh of this water shall +thirst again." Ay, from her that weary thirst was never absent. But +where was this Well from which it might be quenched? and who was it that +could give her this living water? + +Philippa's memory was a perfect storehouse of legends of the saints, and +above all of the Virgin, who stood foremost in her pantheon of gods. +She searched her repertory over and over, but in vain. No saint, and in +particular not Saint Mary, had ever, in any legend that she knew, spoken +words like these. And what tremendous words they were! "Whosoever +drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst." + +There were long and earnest prayers offered that night in the little +turret-chamber. Misdirected prayers--entreaties to be prayed for, +addressed to ears that could not hear, to hands that could not help. +But perhaps they reached another Ear that could hear, another Hand that +was almighty. The unclosing of the door is promised to them that ask. +Thanks be to God, that while it is not promised, it does sometimes in +His sovereign mercy unclose to them that know not how to ask. + +The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castle +lavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. She +was a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her present +place longer than Philippa could recollect. + +Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages--for a period of many centuries, +closing only about the time of the accession of the House of Hanover-- +laundress was a name of evil repute, and the position was rarely assumed +by any woman who had a character to lose. The daughters of the Lady +Alianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any lavender; but no one +had cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and she was therefore free +to converse with whom she pleased. And a sudden thought had struck her. +She called back the lavender. + +"Agnes!" + +The woman stopped, came to Philippa's door, and louted--the +old-fashioned reverence which preceded the French courtesy. + +"Agnes, how long hast thou been lavender here?" + +"Long ere you were born, Lady." + +"Canst thou remember my mother?" + +Philippa was amazed at the look of abject terror which suddenly took +possession of the lavender's face. + +"Hush, Lady, Lady!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. + +Philippa laid her hand on the woman's arm. + +"Wilt thou suffer aught if thou tarry?" + +Agnes shook her head. + +"Then come in hither." And she pulled her into her own room, and shut +the door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: and +I will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of my +mother?" + +Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hath +been forbidden, Lady." + +"Who forbade it?" + +The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did not +mean to answer that question. + +"Why was it forbidden?" + +The continued silence replied. + +"When died she? Thou mayest surely tell me so much." + +"I dare not, Lady," replied Agnes in a scarcely audible whisper. + +"How died she?" + +"Lady, I dare not answer,--I must not. You weary yourself to no good." + +"But I will know," said Philippa, doggedly. + +"Not from me, Lady," answered the lavender with equal determination. + +"What does it all mean?" moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self. +"Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?" + +"Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poor +lavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfort +us when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel." + +A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa. + +"Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?" + +The lavender's heart was reached, and her tongue loosed. + +"No, no, Lady, no!" she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had not +imagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honey +no sweeter than her soul!" + +"Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of more +bewilderment than ever. + +But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settled +on the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippa +knew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been her +mother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother of +whom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child was +not allowed to know? + +"That is too poor for you, Alesia," said the Lady Alianora. + +"'Tis but thin, in good sooth," observed that young lady. + +"I suppose Philippa must have a gown for the wedding," resumed the +Countess, carelessly. "It will do for her." + +It was cloth of silver. Philippa had never had such a dress in her +life. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she was +intended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage? + +"You may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets," said the Countess +condescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your own +gowns after you are wedded, so you may as well begin now." + +"Will Philippa be wed when I am?" yawned Alesia. + +"The same day," said the Lady Alianora. + +The day was about sixty hours off; and this was the first word that +Philippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed over +after this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakable +goodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; she +had not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty for +her, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decided +between them. + +As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longer +wanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deer +to her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face in +the coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forth +at last. + +"O Mother, Mother, Mother!" + +The door opened, but Philippa did not hear it. + +"Lady, I cry you mercy," said the voice of Agnes in a compassionate +tone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was coming +up the stairs, I thought I heard a scream. I feared you were sick." + +Philippa looked up, with a white, woe-begone face and tearless eyes. + +"I wish I were, Agnes!" she said in a hopeless tone. "I would I were +out of this weary and wicked world." + +"Ah, I have wished that ere now," responded the lavender. "'Tis an ill +wish, Lady. I have heard one say so." + +"One that never felt it, I trow," said Philippa. + +"No did, Lady? Ay, one whose lot was far bitterer than yours." + +"Verily, I would give something to see one whose lot were so," answered +the girl, bitterly enough. "I have no mother, and as good as no father; +and none would care were I out of the world this night. Not a soul +loveth me, nor ever did." + +"She used to say One did love us," said Agnes in a low voice; "even He +that died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it is +long, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet I +do mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mind +what. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. It +was the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what was +coming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he that +drank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither, +whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died on +the rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him." + +"But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?" cried Philippa. + +"She said He could hear, if we asked," replied the lavender. + +"Who said?" + +"She--that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be." + +"My mother?" + +Agnes nodded. "And the water that He should give should bring life and +peace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But there +never was a voice like hers--never." + +Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess what +that bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Ages +than in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usually +a love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this? +Was it broken, too, like the bracelet? + +She read the device to Agnes. + +"It was something like that," said Agnes. "But she read the story +touching it, out of a book." + +"What was she like?" asked Philippa in a low tone. + +"Look in the mirror, Lady," answered Agnes. + +Philippa began to wonder whether this were the mysterious reason for her +bitter lot. + +"Dost thou know I am to be wed?" + +"Ay, Lady." + +So the very lavenders had known it before herself! But finding Agnes, +as she thought, more communicative than before, Philippa returned to her +former subject. + +"What was her name?" + +Agnes shook her head. + +"Thou knowest it?" + +The lavender nodded in answer. + +"Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her at +the font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?" + +Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sank +her voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she just +caught the words. + +"The Lady Isabel." + +Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go. + +"Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it more +bitter?" + +Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where the +tiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in a +small wicker cage. + +"Is his lot sweet, Lady?" + +"I trow not, in good sooth," said Philippa; "but his is like mine." + +"I cry you mercy," answered the lavender, shaking her head. "He hath +known freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot--not +yours, Lady." + +Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor caged wings were beating +vainly against the wicker-work, until he wearily gave up the attempt, +and sat quietly on the perch, drooping his tired head. + +"He is not satisfied," resumed Agnes in a low tone. "He is only weary. +He is not happy--only too worn-out to care for happiness. Ah, holy +Virgin! how many of us women are so! And she was wont to say that there +was happiness in this life, yet not in this world. It lay, she said, in +that other world above, where God sitteth; and if we would ask for Him +that was meant by the better water, it would come and dwell in our +hearts along with Him. Our sweet Lady help us! we seem to have missed +it somehow." + +"I have, at any rate," whispered Philippa, her eyes fixed dreamily on +the weary lark. + + + +CHAPTER THREE. + +GUY OF ASHRIDGE. + + "For merit lives from man to man, + And not from man, O Lord, to Thee." + + Tennyson. + +Not until the evening before her marriage did Philippa learn the name of +her new master. The Earl's choice, she was then informed, had fallen on +Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall, who would receive divers +manors with the hand of the eldest daughter of Arundel. Philippa was, +however, not told that Sir Richard was expected to pay for the grants +and the alliance in extremely hard cash. + +For to the lofty position of eldest daughter of Arundel (for that +morning only) Philippa, to her intense surprise, found herself suddenly +lifted. She was robed in cloth of silver; her hair flowed from beneath +a jewelled golden fillet; her neck was encircled by rubies, and a ruby +and pearl girdle clasped her waist. She felt all the time as though she +were dreaming, especially when the Lady Alianora herself superintended +her arraying, and even condescended to remark that "the Lady Philippa +did not look so very unseemly after all." + +Not least among the points which astonished her was the resumption of +her title. She did not know that this had formed a part of the bargain +with Sir Richard, who had proved impracticable on harder terms. He did +not mind purchasing the eldest daughter of Arundel at the high price set +upon her; but he gave the Earl distinctly to understand that if he were +merely selling a Mistress Philippa, there must be a considerable +discount. + +When the ceremony and the wedding festivities were over, and her palfrey +was standing ready at the door, Philippa timidly entered the +banqueting-hall, to ask--for the first and last time--her father's +blessing. He was conversing with the Earl of Kent, the bridegroom of +Alesia, concerning the merits of certain hawks recently purchased; and +near him, at her embroidery-frame, sat the Countess Alianora. + +Philippa knelt first to her. + +"Farewell, Philippa!" said the Countess, in a rather kinder tone than +usual. "The saints be with thee." + +Then she turned to the only relative she had. + +Earl Richard just permitted his jewelled fingers to touch Philippa's +velvet hood, saying carelessly,--"Our Lady keep thee!--I cry you mercy, +fair son; the lesser tercel is far stronger on the wing." + +As Philippa rose, Sir Richard Sergeaux took her hand and led her away. +So she mounted her palfrey, and rode away from Arundel Castle. There +were only two things she was sorry to leave--Agnes, because she might +have told her more about her mother,--and the grave, in the Priory +churchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora--the little sister who never +grew up to tyrannise over her. + +It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor, and Philippa had +time to make the acquaintance of her new owner. He was about her own +age, and so far as she could at first judge, a reasonably good-tempered +man. The first discovery she made was that he was rather proud of her. +Of Philippa the daughter of Arundel, of course, not of Philippa the +woman: but it was so new to be reckoned anything or anybody--so strange +to think that somebody was proud of her--that Philippa enjoyed the +knowledge. As to his loving her, or her loving him, these were ideas +that never entered the minds of either. + +So at first Philippa found her married life a pleasant change. She was +now at the head, instead of being under the feet of every one else; and +her experience of Sir Richard gave her the impression at the outset that +he would not prove a hard master. Nor did he, strictly speaking; but on +further acquaintance he proved a very trying one. His temper was not of +the stormy kind that reigned at Arundel, which had hitherto been +Philippa's only idea of a bad temper: but he was a perpetual grumbler, +and the slightest temporary discomfort or vexation would overcast her +sky with conjugal clouds for the rest of the day. The least stone in +his path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet as +an unfathomable sea. And gradually--she scarcely knew how or when--the +old weary discomfort crept back over Philippa's heart, the old +unsatisfied longing for the love that no one gave. Her bower at Kilquyt +was no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel. She +found that "On change du ciel--l'on ne change point de soi." The damask +robes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not grudge to her +as her father had done, proved utterly unsatisfying to the misunderstood +cravings of her immortal soul. She did not herself comprehend why she +was not happier. She knew not the nature of the thirst which was upon +her, which she was trying in vain to quench at the broken cisterns +within her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted again; and she +had not yet found the way to the Well of the Living Water. + +About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gate +of her manor. It was a beautiful June morning--just such another as +that one which "had failed her hope" at the gate of Arundel Castle, +thirty years before. Sir Richard had ridden away on his road to London, +whence he was summoned to join his feudal lord, the Earl, and Lady +Sergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, though +half-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the last +waving of his nodding plume through the trees. He had left her a legacy +of discomfort, for his spurs had been regilded, not at all to his mind, +and he had been growling over them ever since the occurrence, "Dame, +have you a draught of cold water to bestow on a weary brother?" + +Philippa started suddenly when the question reached her ear. + +He who asked it was a monk in the habit of the Dominican Order, and very +worn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her women, +and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as was manifest +from the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had given back the +goblet, and the woman was gone, the monk turned towards Philippa, and +uttered words which astonished her no little. + + "`Quy de cette eaw boyra + Ancor soyf aura; + Mays quy de l'eaw boyra + Que moy luy donneray, + Jamays soyf n'aura + A l'eternite.'" + +"You know that, brother?" she said breathlessly. + +"Do you, Lady?" asked the monk--as Philippa felt, with a deeper than the +merely literal meaning. + +"I know the `ancor soyf aura,'" she said, mournfully; "I have not +reached beyond that." + +"Then did you ask, and He did _not_ give?" inquired the stranger. + +"No--I never asked, for--" she was going on to add, "I never knew where +to ask." + +"Then 'tis little marvel you never had, Lady," answered the monk. + +"But how to ask?--whom to ask? There may be the Well, but where is the +way?" + +"How to ask, Lady? As I asked you but now for that lower, poorer water, +whereof whosoever drinketh shall thirst again. Whom to ask? Be there +more Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants. And +where is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred years +ago, when `one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, and +forthwith came thereout blood and water.' Over that stream of blood is +the way to the Well of Living Water." + +"I do not fully understand you," returned Philippa. + +"You look weary, Lady," said the monk, changing his tone. + +"I am weary," she answered; "wearier than you--in one sense." + +"Ay, wearier than I," he replied; "for I have been to the Well, and have +found rest." + +"Are you a priest?" asked Philippa suddenly. + +The monk nodded. + +"Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy you +might tell me what would help me." + +The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour later +he sat in Philippa's bower, and she knelt before him. + +"Father," she said, at the close of her tale, "I have never known rest +nor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is there +any balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?--any healing virtue +in its waters that could comfort me?" + +"Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?" asked the monk +quietly. + +"Never!" she said, almost indignantly. + +"I cannot hold with you there," he replied. + +"Whom have I ever injured?" exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, half +amazed. + +"Listen," said he, "and I will tell you of One whom all your life you +have injured and neglected--God." + +Philippa's protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hear +such words as these. + +"Nay, heed not my words," he pursued gently. "Your own lips shall bring +you in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, and +soul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?" + +Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had not +loved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried to +her, "Unclean!" yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She felt +angry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he "rubbed the sore, +when he should bring the plaster." Comfort she had asked, and +condemnation he was giving her instead. + +"Father!" she said, in mingled sadness and vexation, "you deal me hard +measure." + +"My daughter," answered the monk very gently, "the pitcher must be +voided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vessel +full of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the Living +Water." + +"Is it only for saints, then?" she asked in a disappointed tone. + +"It is only for sinners," answered he: "and according to your own +belief, you are not a sinner. The Living Water is not wasted on +pitchers that have been filled already at other cisterns, `I will give +unto him that is athirst'--but to him only--`of the Fountain of the +Water of Life, freely.'" + +"But tell me, in plain words, what is that Water of Life?" + +"The Holy Spirit of God." + +Philippa's next question was not so wide of the mark as it seemed. + +"Are you a true Dominican?" + +"I am one of the Order of Predicant Friars." + +"From what house?" + +"From Ashridge." + +"Who sent you forth to preach?" + +"God." + +"Ah! yes, but I mean, what bishop or abbot?" + +"Is the seal of the servant worth more than that of the Master?" + +"I would know, Father," urged Philippa. + +The monk smiled. "Archbishop Bradwardine," he said. + +"Then Ashridge is a Dominican house? I know not that vicinage." + +"Men give us another name," responded the monk slowly, "which I see you +would know. Be it so. They call us--Boni-Homines." + +"But I thought," said Philippa, looking bewilderedly into his face, "I +thought those were very evil men. And Archbishop Bradwardine was a very +holy man--almost a saint." + +A faint ironical smile flitted for a moment over the monk's grave lips. +The gravity was again unbroken the next instant. + +"A very holy man," he repeated. "He walked with God; and he is not, for +God took him. Ay, took him away from the evil to come, where he should +vex his righteous soul no more by unlawful deeds--where the alloyed gold +of worldly greatness, which men would needs braid over the pure ermine +of his life, should soil and crush it no more." + +He spoke rather to himself than to Philippa: and his eyes had a far-away +look in them, as he lifted his head and gazed from the window over the +moorland. + +"Then what are the Boni-Homines?" inquired Lady Sergeaux. + +"A few sinners," answered the monk, "whose hearts God hath touched, that +they have sought and found that Well of the Living Water." + +"But, Father, explain it to me!" she cried anxiously, perhaps even a +little querulously. "Put it in plain words, that I can understand it. +What is it to drink this Living Water?" + +"To come to Christ, my daughter," replies the monk. + +"But I cannot understand you," she objected, in the same tone. "How can +I come? What mean you by coming? He is not here in this chamber, that +I can rise and go to Him. Can you not use words more intelligible to +me?" + +"In the first place, my daughter," softly replied the monk, "you are +under a great mistake. Christ is here in this chamber, and hath heard +every word that we have said. And in the second place, I cannot use +words that shall be plainer to you. How can the dead understand the +living? How shall a man born blind be brought to know the difference of +colour between green and blue. Yet the hardship lieth not in the +inaptness of the teacher, but in the inability of the taught." + +"But I am not blind, nor dead!" cried Philippa. + +"Both," answered the monk. "So, by nature, be we all." + +Philippa made no reply; she was too vexed to make any. The monk laid +his hand gently upon her head. + +"Take the best wish that I can make for you:--God show you how blind you +are! God put life within you, that you may awake, and arise from the +dead, and see the light of Christ! May He grant you that thirst which +shall be satisfied with nothing short of the Living Water--which shall +lead you to disregard all the roughnesses of the way, and the storms of +the journey, so that you may win Christ, and be found in Him! God strip +you of your own goodness!--for I fear you are over-well satisfied +therewith. And no goodness shall ever have admittance into Heaven save +the goodness which is of God." + +"But surely," exclaimed Philippa, looking up in surprise, "there is +grace of congruity?" + +"Grace of congruity! grace of condignity!" [see Note] cried the monk +fervently. "Grace of sin and gracelessness! It is not all worth so +much as one of these rushes upon your floor. If you carry grace of +congruity to the gates of Heaven, I warn you it shall never bear you one +step beyond. Lay down those miserable rush-staffs, wherein is no pith; +and take God's golden staff held out to you, which is the full and +perfected obedience of the Lord Jesus Christ. That staff shall not fail +you. All the angels at the gate of Paradise know it; and the doors +shall fly wide open to whoso smiteth on them with that staff of God. +Lord, open her eyes, that she may see!" + +The prayer was answered, but not then. + +"What shall I call you?" asked Philippa, when the monk rose to depart. + +"Men call me Guy of Ashridge," he said. + +"I hope to see you again, Father," responded Philippa. + +"So do I, my daughter," answered the monk, "in that other land whereinto +nothing shall enter that defileth. Nothing but Christ and Christ's--the +Head and the body, the Master and the meynie [household servant]. May +the Master make you one of the meynie! Farewell." + +And in five minutes more, Guy of Ashridge was gone. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note. "Condignity implies merit, and of course claims reward on the +score of justice. Congruity pretends only to a sort of imperfect +qualification for the gifts and reception of God's grace."--_Manet's +Church History_, iv. 81. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR. + +MOTHER JOAN. + + "She hears old footsteps wandering slow + Through the lone chambers of her heart." + + Lowell. + +When Guy of Ashridge was fairly gone, Philippa felt at once relieved and +vexed to lose him. She had called in a new physician to prescribe for +her disease; and she was sure that he had administered a harmful +medicine, if he had not also given a wrong diagnosis. Instead of being +better, she felt worse; and she resolved to give herself the next dose, +in the form of a "retreat" into a convent, to pray and fast, and make +her peace with God. Various reasons induced her to select a convent at +a distance from home. After a period of indecision, she fixed upon the +Abbey of Shaftesbury, and obtained the necessary permission to reside +there for a time. + +Lady Sergeaux arrived at Shaftesbury towards the close of August. She +found the Abbess and nuns kindly-disposed towards her; and her stay was +not disagreeable, except for the restless, dissatisfied feelings of her +own heart. But she found that her peace was not made, for all her +fastings, scourgings, vigils, and prayers. Guy's words came back to her +with every rite, "God strip you of your own goodness!" and she could not +wrap herself in its mantle as complacently as before. + +In the Abbey of Shaftesbury was one nun who drew Philippa's attention +more than the others. This was a woman of about sixty years of age, +whom all the convent called Mother Joan. An upright, white-haired +woman, with some remnant of former comeliness; but Mother Joan was +blind. Philippa pitied her affliction, and liked her simple, +straightforward manner. She had many old memories and tales of +forgotten times, which she was ready enough to tell; and these Philippa, +as well as the nuns, always liked to hear. + +"How old were you, Mother Joan, when you became a nun?" she asked her +one day during the recreation-hour. + +"Younger than you, Lady," said Mother Joan. "I was but an hilding [see +Note 1] of twenty." + +"And wherefore was it, Mother?" inquired a giddy young nun, whose name +was Laura. "Wert thou disappointed in love, or--" + +The scorn exhibited on the blind woman's face stopped her. + +"I never was such a fool," said Mother Joan, bluntly. "I became a nun +because my father had decreed it from my cradle, and my mother willed it +also. There were but two of us maids, and--ah, well! she would not have +more than one to suffer." + +"Had thy sister, then, a woeful story?" asked Sister Laura, settling her +wimple, [see note 2], as she thought, becomingly. + +"Never woman woefuller," sadly replied Mother Joan. + +The next opportunity she had, Lady Sergeaux asked one of the more +discreet nuns who Mother Joan was. + +"Eldest daughter of the great house of Le Despenser," replied Sister +Senicula; "of most excellent blood and lineage; daughter unto my noble +Lord of Gloucester that was, and the royal Lady Alianora de Clare, his +wife, the daughter of a daughter of King Edward. By Mary, Mother and +Maiden, she is the noblest nun in all these walls." + +"And what hath been her history?" inquired Philippa. + +"Her history, I think, was but little," replied Senicula; "your Ladyship +heard her say that she had been professed at twenty years. But I have +known her to speak of a sister of hers, who had a very sorrowful story. +I have often wished to know what it were, but she will never tell it." + +The next recreation-time found Philippa, as usual, seated by Mother +Joan. The blind nun passed her hand softly over Philippa's dress. + +"That is a damask," [the figured silk made at Damascus] she said. "I +used to like damask and baudekyn." + +[Note: Baudekyn or baldekyn was the richest silk stuff then known, and +also of oriental manufacture.] + +"I never wear baudekyn," answered Philippa. "I am but a knight's wife." + +"What is the colour?" the blind woman wished to know. + +"Red and black, in stripes," said Philippa. + +"I remember," said Mother Joan, dreamily, "many years ago, seeing mine +aunt, the Lady of Gloucester, at the court of King Edward of Caernarvon, +arrayed in a fair baudekyn of rose colour and silver. It was the +loveliest stuff I ever saw. And I could see then." + +Her voice fell so mournfully that Philippa tried to turn her attention +by asking her,--"Knew you King Edward of Westminster?" [See note 3.] + +"Nay, Lady de Sergeaux, with what years do you credit me?" rejoined the +nun, laughing a little. "Edward of Westminster was dead ere I was born. +But I have heard of him from them that did remember him well. He was a +goodly man, of lofty stature, and royal presence: a wise man, and a +cunning [clever]--saving only that he opposed our holy Father the Pope." + +"Did he so?" responded Philippa. + +"Did he so!" ironically repeated Mother Joan. "Did he not command that +no Bull should ever be brought into England? and hanged he not the Prior +of Saint John of Jerusalem for reading one to his monks? I can tell +you, to brave Edward of Westminster was no laughing matter. He never +cared what his anger cost. His own children had need to think twice ere +they aroused his ire. Why, on the day of his daughter the Lady +Elizabeth's marriage with my noble Lord of Hereford, he, being angered +by some word of the bride, snatched her coronet from off her head, and +flung it behind the fire. Ay, and a jewel or twain was lost therefrom +ere the Lady's Grace had it back." + +"And his son, King Edward of Caernarvon--what like was he?" asked +Philippa, smiling. + +Mother Joan did not answer immediately. At last she said,--"The blessed +Virgin grant that they which have reviled him be no worse than he! He +had some strange notions--so had other men, whom I at least am bound to +hold in honour. God grant all peace!" + +Philippa wondered who the other men were, and whether Mother Joan +alluded to her own ancestors. She knew nothing of the Despensers, +except the remembrance that she had never heard them alluded to at +Arundel but in a tone of bitter scorn and loathing. + +"Maybe," continued the blind woman, in a softer voice, "he was no worse +for his strange opinions. Some were not. 'Tis a marvellous matter, +surely, that there be that can lead lives of angels, and yet hold views +that holy Church condemneth as utterly to be abhorred." + +"Whom mean you, Mother?" + +"I mean, child," replied the nun, speaking slowly and painfully, "one +whom I hope is gone to God. One to whom, and for whom, this world was +an ill place; and, therefore, I trust she hath found her rest in a +better. God knoweth how and when she died--if she be dead. We never +knew." + +Mother Joan made the sign of the cross, and a very mournful expression +came over her face. + +"Ah, holy Virgin!" she said, lifting her sightless eyes, "why is it that +such things are permitted? The wicked dwell in peace, and increase +their goods; the holy dwell hardly and die poor. Couldst not thou +change the lots? There is at this moment one man in the world, clad in +cloth of gold, dwelling gloriously, than whom the foul fiend himself is +scarcely worse; and there was one woman, like the angels, whose Queen +thou art, and only God and thou know what became of her. Blessed Mary +must such things always be? I cannot understand it. I suppose thou +canst." + +It was the old perplexity--as old as Asaph; but he understood it when he +went into the sanctuary of God, and Mother Joan had never followed him +there. + +"Lady de Sergeaux," resumed the blind nun, "there is at times a tone in +your voice, which mindeth me strangely of hers--hers, of whom I spake +but now. If I offend not in asking it, I pray you tell me who were your +elders?" + +Philippa gave her such information as she had to give. "I am a daughter +of my Lord of Arundel." + +"Which Lord?" exclaimed Mother Joan, in a voice as of deep interest +suddenly awakened. + +"They call him," answered Philippa, "Earl Richard the Copped-Hat." [See +Note 4.] + +"Ah!" answered Mother Joan, in that deep bass tone which sounds almost +like an execration. "That was the man. Like Dives, clad in purple and +fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day; and his portion shall be +with Dives at the last. Your pardon, Dame; I forgat for the nonce that +I spake to his daughter. Yet I said but truth." + +"That may be," responded Philippa under her breath. + +"Then you have not found him a saint?" replied the blind nun, with a +bitter little laugh. "Well, I might have guessed that. And you, then, +are a daughter of that proud jade Alianora of Lancaster, for whose +indwelling the fiend swept the Castle of Arundel clean of God's angels? +I do not think she made up for it." + +Philippa's own interest was painfully aroused now. Surely Mother Joan +knows something of that mysterious history which hitherto she had failed +so sadly to discover. + +"I cry you mercy, Mother," she said. "But I am not the daughter of the +Lady Alianora." + +"Whose, then? Quick!" cried Mother Joan, in accents of passionate +earnestness. + +"Who was my mother," answered Philippa, "I cannot tell you, for I was +never told myself. All that I know of her I had but from a poor +lavender, that spake well of her, and she called her the Lady Isabel." + +"Isabel! Isabel!" + +Philippa was deeply touched; for the name, twice repeated, broke in a +wail of tender, mournful love, from the lips of the blind nun. + +"Mother," she pleaded, "if you know anything of her, for the holy +Virgin's love tell it to me, her child. I have missed her and longed +for her all my life. Surely I have a right to know her story who gave +me that life!" + +"Thou shalt know," responded Mother Joan in a choked voice. "But, +child, name me Mother Joan no longer. Call me what I am to thee--Aunt. +Thy mother was my sister." + +And then Philippa knew that she stood upon the threshold of all her +long-nursed hopes. + +"But tell me first," pursued the nun, "how that upstart treated thee-- +Alianora." + +"She was not unkind to me," answered Philippa hesitatingly. "She did +not give me precedence over her daughters, but then she is of the blood +royal, and I am not. But--" + +"Not royal!" exclaimed Mother Joan in extremely treble tones. "Have +they brought thee up so ignorantly as that? Not of the blood royal, +quotha! Child, by our Lady's hosen, thou art fifty-three steps nearer +the throne than she! We were daughters of Alianora, whose mother was +Joan of Acon, [Acre, where Joan was born], daughter of King Edward of +Westminster; and she is but the daughter of Henry, the son of Edmund, +son of Henry of Winchester." [Henry the Third.] + +Philippa was silent from astonishment. + +"Go on," said the nun. "What did she to thee?" + +"She did little," said Philippa in a low voice. "She only left undone." + +"Ah!" replied Mother Joan. "The one half of the _Confiteor_. The other +commonly marcheth apace behind." + +"Then," said Philippa, "my mother was--" + +"Isabel La Despenser, younger daughter of the Lord Hugh Le Despenser the +younger, Earl of Gloucester, and grand-daughter of Hugh the elder, Earl +of Winchester. Thou knowest their names well, if not hers." + +"I know nothing about them," replied Philippa, shaking her head. "None +ever told me. I only remember to have heard them named at Arundel as +very wicked persons, and rebels against the King." + +"Holy Virgin!" cried Mother Joan. "Rebels!--against which King?" + +"I do not know," answered Philippa. + +"But I do!" exclaimed the blind woman, bitterly. "Rebels against a +rebel! Traitors to a traitress! God reward Isabelle of France for all +the shame and ruin that she brought on England! Was the crown that she +carried with her worth the price which she cost that carried it? Well, +she is dead now--gone before God to answer all that long and black +account of hers. Methinks it took some answering. Child, my father did +some ill things, and my grandfather did more; but did either ever +anything to merit the shame and agony of those two gibbets at Hereford +and Bristol? Gibbets for them, that had sat in the King's council, and +aided him to rule the realm,--and one of them a white-haired man over +sixty years! [See Note 5.] And what had they done save to anger the +tigress? God help us all! We be all poor sinners; but there be some, +at the least in men's eyes, a deal blacker than others. But thou +wouldst know her story, not theirs: yet theirs is the half of hers, and +the tale were unfinished if I told it not." + +"What was she like?" asked Philippa. + +Mother Joan passed her hand slowly over the features of her niece. + +"Like, and not like," she said. "Thy features are sharper cut than +hers; and though in thy voice there is a sound of hers, it is less soft +and low. Hers was like the wind among the strings of an harp hanging on +the wall. Thy colouring I cannot see. But if thou be like her, thine +hair is glossy, and of chestnut hue; and thine eyes are dark and +mournful." + +"Tell me about her, Aunt, I pray you," said Philippa. + +Joan La Despenser smoothed down her monastic habit, and leaned her head +back against the wall. There was evidently some picture of memory's +bringing before her sightless eyes, and her voice itself had a lower and +softer tone as she spoke of the dead sister. But her first words were +not of her. + +"Holy Virgin!" she said, "when thou didst create the world, wherefore +didst thou make women? For women have but two fates: either they are +black-souled, like the tigress Isabelle, and then they prosper and +thrive, as she did; or else they are white snowdrops, like our dead +darling, and then they are martyrs. A few die in the cradle--those whom +thou lovest best; and what fools are we to weep for them! Ah me! things +be mostly crooked in this world. Is there another, me wondereth, where +they grow straight?--where the black-souled die on the gibbets, and the +white-souled wear the crowns? I would like to die, and change to that +Golden Land, if there be. Methinks it is far off." + +It was a Land "very far off." And over the eyes of Joan La Despenser +the blinding film of earth remained; for she had not drunk of the Living +Water. + +"The founder of our house,"--thus Mother Joan began her narrative,--"was +my grandfather's father, slain, above an hundred years ago, at the +battle of Evesham. He left an infant son, not four years old when he +died. This was my grandfather, Hugh Le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, +who at the age of twenty-five advanced the fortunes of his house by +wedding a daughter of Warwick, Isabel, the young widow of the Lord de +Chaworth, and the mother's mother of Alianora of Lancaster. Thou and +thy father's wife, therefore, are near akin. This Isabel (after whom +thy mother was named) was a famed beauty, and brought moreover a very +rich dower. My grandfather and she had many children, but I need only +speak of one--my hapless father. + +"King Edward of Caernarvon loved my father dearly. In truth, so did +Edward of Westminster, who bestowed on him, ere he was fully ten years +old, the hand of his grand-daughter, my mother, Alianora de Clare, who +brought him in dower the mighty earldom of Gloucester. The eldest of us +was Hugh my brother; then came I; next followed my other brothers, +Edward, Gilbert, and Philip; and last of all, eight years after me, came +Isabel thy mother. + +"From her birth this child was mine especial care. I was alway a +thoughtful, quiet maiden, more meet for cloister than court; and I well +remember, though 'tis fifty years ago, the morrow when my baby-sister +was put into mine arms, and I was bidden to have a care of her. Have a +care of her! Had she never passed into any worse care than mine-- +well-a-day! Yet, could I have looked forward into the future, and have +read Isabel's coming history, I might have thought that the wisest and +kindest course I could take would be to smother her in her cradle. + +"Before she was three years old, she passed from me. My Lord of +Arundel--Earl Edmund that then was--was very friendly with my father; +and he desired that their families should be drawn closer together by +the marriage of Richard Fitzalan, his son and heir--a boy of twelve +years--with one of my father's daughters. My father, thus appealed +unto, gave him our snowdrop. + +"`Not Joan,' said he; `Joan is God's. She shall be the spouse of Christ +in Shaftesbury Abbey.' + +"So it came that ere my darling was three years old, they twined the +bride-wreath for her hair, and let it all down flowing, soft and +shining, from beneath her golden fillet. Ah holy Virgin! had it been +thy pleasure to give me that cup of gall they mixed that day for her, +and to her the draught of pure fresh water thou hast held to me! +Perchance I could have drunk it with less pain than she did; and at +least it would have saved the pain to her. + +"That was in the fourteenth year of Edward of Caernarvon. [1320.] So +long as Earl Edmund of Arundel lived, there was little to fear. He, as +I said, loved my father, and was a father to Isabel. The Lady of +Arundel likewise was then living, and was careful over her as a mother. +Knowest thou that the Lady Griselda, of such fame for her patient +endurance, was an ancestress of thy father? It should have been of thy +mother. Hers was a like story; only that to her came no reward, no +happy close. + +"But ere I proceed, I must speak of one woeful matter, which I do +believe to have been the ruin of my father. He was never loved by the +people--partly, I think, because he gave counsel to the King to rule, as +they thought, with too stern a hand; partly because my grandfather loved +money too well, nor was he over careful how he came thereby; partly +because the Queen hated him, and she was popular; but far above all +these for another reason, which was the occasion of his fall, and the +ruin of all who loved him. + +"Hast thou ever heard of the Boni-Homines? They have other names-- +Albigenses, Waldenses, Cathari, Men of the Valleys. They are a sect of +heretics, dwelling originally in the dominions of the Marquis of +Monferrato, toward the borders betwixt France, Italy, and Spain: men +condemned by the Church, and holding certain evil opinions touching the +holy doctrine of grace of condignity, and free-will, and the like. Yet +some of them, I must confess, lead not unholy lives." + +Philippa merely answered that she had heard of these heretics. + +"Well," resumed the blind woman, "my father became entangled with these +men. How or wherefore I know not. He might have known that their +doctrines had been condemned by the holy Council of Lumbars two hundred +years back. But when the Friars Predicants were first set up by the +blessed Dominic, under leave of our holy Father the Pope, many of these +sectaries crept in among them. A company went forth from Ashridge, and +another from Edingdon--the two houses of this brood of serpents. And +one of them, named Giles de Edingdon, fell in with my father, and taught +him the evil doctrines of these wretches, whom Earl Edmund of Cornwall +(of the blood royal), that wedded a daughter of our house, had in his +unwisdom brought into this land; for he was a wicked man and an ill +liver. [See Note 6.] King Edward of Caernarvon likewise listened to +these men, and did but too often according to their counsels. + +"Against my grandfather and others, but especially against these men of +Edingdon and Ashridge, Dame Isabelle the Queen set herself up. King +Edward had himself sent her away on a certain mission touching the +homage due to the King of France for Guienne; for he might not adventure +to leave the realm at that time. But now this wicked woman gathered +together an army, and with Prince Edward, and the King's brother the +Earl of Kent, who were deluded by her enchantments, she came back and +landed at Orewell, and thence marched with flying colours to Bristol, +men gathering everywhere to her standard as she came. + +"We were in Bristol on that awful day. My mother, the King had left in +charge of the Tower of London; but in Bristol, with the King, were my +grandfather and father my Lord and Lady of Arundel, their son Richard, +and Isabel, and myself. I was then a maiden of sixteen years. When +Dame Isabelle's banners floated over the gates of the city, and her +trumpets summoned the citizens to surrender, King Edward, who was a +timid man, flung himself into the castle for safety, and with him all of +us, saving my grandfather, and my Lord of Arundel, who remained without, +directing the defence. + +"The citizens of Bristol, thus besieged (for she had surrounded the +town), sent to ask Dame Isabelle her will, offering to surrender the +city on condition that she would spare their lives and property. But +she answered by her trumpeter, that she would agree to nothing unless +they would first surrender the Earls of Winchester and Arundel; `for,' +saith she, `I am come purposely to destroy them.' Then the citizens +consulted together, and determined to save their lives and property by +the sacrifice of the noblest blood in England, and (as it was shown +afterwards) of the blood royal. They opened their gates, and yielded up +my grandfather and thine to her will." + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. Hilding: a word derived from the Anglo-Saxon, and used +indiscriminately to denote a young person of either sex. + +Note 2. Wimple: the covering for the neck, worn by secular women as +well as nuns, and either with or without a veil or hood. It had been in +fashion for two centuries or thereabouts, but was now beginning to be +generally discarded. + +Note 3. In accordance with the custom of the time, by which persons +were commonly named from their birth-places, Edward the First, the +Second, and the Third are respectively designated Edward of Westminster, +of Caernarvon, and of Windsor. + +Note 4. The copped-hat was the high-crowned brimless hat then +fashionable, the parent of the modern one. An instance of it will be +found in the figure of Bolingbroke, plate xvi. of the illustrations to +Cretan's History of Richard the Second, Archaeologia, vol. xx. + +Note 5. One historian after another has copied Froissart's assertion +that Hugh Le Despenser the elder at his death was an old man of ninety, +and none ever took the trouble to verify the statement; yet the +_post-mortem_ inquisition of his father is extant, certifying that he +was born in the first week in March 1261; so that on October 8, 1326, +the day of his execution, he was only sixty-five. + +Note 6. It will be understood that this was the light in which the +monks regarded Earl Edmund. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE. + +THE STORY OF ISABEL. + + "O dumb, dumb lips! O crushed, crushed heart! + O grief, past pride, past shame!" + + Miss Muloch. + +Mother Joan had arrived at the point closing the last chapter, when the +sharp ringing of the Abbess' little bell announced the end of the +recreation-time; and convent laws being quite as rigid as those of the +Medes and Persians, Philippa was obliged to defer the further +gratification of her curiosity. When the next recreation-time came, the +blind nun resumed her narrative. + +"When Dame Isabelle was lodged at her ease, for she saw first to that, +she ordered her prisoners to be brought before the Prince her son. She +had the decency not to sit as judge herself; but, in outrage of all +womanliness, she sat herself in the court, near the Prince's seat. She +would have sat in the seat rather than have missed her end. The Prince +was wholly governed by his mother; he knew not her true character; and +he was but a lad of fourteen years. So, when the prisoners were brought +forth, the tigress rose up in her place, and spake openly to the +assembled barons (a shameful thing for a woman to do!) that she and her +son would see that law and justice were rendered to them, according to +their deeds. She! That was the barons' place, not hers. She should +have kept to her distaff. + +"Then said my grandfather, bowing his white head, `Ah, Dame! God grant +us an upright judge, and a just sentence; and that if we cannot have it +in this world, we may find it in another.' + +"The charges laid against them were then read by the Marshal; and the +barons gave sentence--of course as Dame Isabelle wished. The Lord of +Arundel and Surrey, the premier Earl of England, [see Note 1], and the +aged white-haired Earl of Winchester, [see Note 2], were doomed to the +death of traitors. + +"Saint Denis' Day--child, it gives me a shudder to name it! We were +within the castle, and they set up the gibbet before our eyes. Before +the eyes of the son of the one man, the wife and son of the other! I +remember catching up Isabel, and running with her into an inner +chamber--any whither to be out of sight of that awful thing. I +remember, too, that the Lady of Arundel, having seen all she could bear, +fainted away on the rushes, and I laid her gently down, and nursed her +back into life. But when she came to herself, she cried--`Is it all +over? O cruel Joan, to have made me live! I might have died with my +lord.' At last it was all over: over--for that time. And God had taken +no notice. He had not opened the heavens and thundered down His great +ire. I suppose that must have been on account of some high festival +they had in Heaven in honour of Saint Denis, and God was too busy, +listening to the angels, to have any time for us. + +"But that night, ere the dawn, my father softly entered the chamber +where we maidens slept. He had been closeted half the night with the +King, taking counsel how to escape the cruel jaws of the tigress; and +now he roused us, and bade us farewell. He and the King would set forth +in a little boat, and endeavour to reach Wales. They thought us, +however, safer in the castle. We watched them embark in the grey dawn, +ere men were well astir; and they rowed off toward Wales. Would God +they had stayed where they were!--but God had not ended the festival of +Saint Denis. + +"Twelve days that little boat rode the silver Severn; beaten back, +beaten back at every tide, the waves rough, and the wind contrary. And +at length Sir Henry Beaumont, the devil whispering to him who were in +the boat, set forth in pursuit. [See Note 3.] + +"We saw them taken. The Monday after Saint Luke, Edward of Caernarvon, +sometime King of England, and Hugh Le Despenser, sometime Earl of +Gloucester, were led captives into Bristol, and delivered to the +tigress. But we were not to see them die. Perhaps Saint Luke had +interceded for us, as it was in his octave. The King was sent to +Berkeley Castle. My father they set on the smallest and poorest horse +they could find in the army, clad in an emblazoned surcoat such as he +was used to wear. From the moment that he was taken, he would touch no +food. And when they reached Hereford, he was so weak and ill, that Dame +Isabelle began to fear he would escape her hands by a more merciful +death than she designed for him. So she stayed her course at Hereford +for the Feast of All Saints, and the morrow after she had him brought +forth for trial. They had need to bear him into her presence, he was so +nearly insensible. Finding that they could not wake him into life by +speaking to him and calling him, they twined a crown of nettles and set +it on his head. But he was even then too near death to rouse himself. +So, lest he should die on the spot, they hurried him forth to execution. +He died the death of a traitor; but maybe God was more merciful than +they, and snatched his soul away ere he had suffered all they meant he +should. I suppose He allowed him to suffer previously, in punishment +for his allying himself with the wicked men of Edingdon: but I trust his +suffering purified his soul, and that God received him. + +"Her vengeance thus satiated, Dame Isabelle set out for London. The +Castle of Arundel was forfeited, and the Lady and her son Richard were +left homeless. [See Note 4.] We set forth with them, a journey of many +weary days, to join my mother. But when we reached London, we found all +changed. Dame Isabelle, on her first coming, had summoned my mother to +surrender the Tower; and she, being affrighted, had resigned her charge, +and was committed to the custody of the Lord de la Zouche. So we +homeless ones bent our steps to Sempringham, where were two of my +father's sisters, Joan and Alianora; and we prayed the holy nuns there +to grant us shelter in their abode of peace. The Lord of Hereford gave +an asylum for young Richard. + +"Those were peaceful, quiet days we passed at Sempringham; and they were +the last Isabel was to know. Meanwhile, the Friars Predicants, and in +especial the men of Edingdon and Ashridge, were spreading themselves +throughout the land, working well to bring back the King. Working too +well; for Dame Isabelle took alarm, and on Saint Maurice's Day, twelve +months after her landing, the King died at Berkeley Castle. God knew +how: and I think she knew who had sat by his side on the throne, and who +was the mother of his children. We only heard at Sempringham, that on +that night shrieks of agony rang through the vale of the Severn, and men +woke throughout the valley, and whispered a requiem for the hapless soul +which was departing in such horrible torment. + +"But that opened the eyes of the young King (for the Prince of Wales had +been made King; ay, and all the hour of his crowning, Dame Isabelle +stood by, and made believe to weep for her lord): he began to see what a +serpent was his mother; and I daresay Brother John de Gaytenby, the +Friar Predicant who was his confessor, let not the matter sleep. And no +sooner did Edward of Windsor gain his full power, than he shut up the +wicked Jezebel his mother in the Castle of Rising. She lived there +twenty years: she died there, fourteen years ago. + +"So the tide turned. The friends of Dame Isabelle died on the scaffold, +four years later, even as _he_ had died; and we heard it at Sempringham, +and knew that God and the saints and angels had taken up our cause at +last. Child, God's mill grindeth slowly, but it grindeth very small. + +"Ere this, Hugh, my brother, had been granted his life by the King, but +not our father's earldom [see Note 5]; and when my father had been dead +only two years, leaving such awful memories--our mother wedded again. +Ah, well! she was our mother. But, child, I have seen a caterpillar, +shaken rudely from the fragrant petals of a rose, crawl to the next weed +that grew. She was fair and well-dowered; and against the King's will, +she wedded the Lord de la Zouche, in whose custody she was. + +"And now for the end of my woeful tale, which is the story of Isabel +herself. For, one year later, the Castle of Arundel was given back to +Richard Fitzalan; and two years thereafter the Lady of Arundel died. +Listen a little longer with patience: for the saddest part of the story +is that yet to come. + +"When Richard and Isabel went back to the Castle of Arundel, I was a +young novice, just admitted. And considering the second marriage of our +mother, and the death of the Lady of Arundel, and the extreme youth of +Isabel (who was not yet fourteen), I was permitted to reside very much +with her. A woeful residence it was; for now began the fourteen +terrible years of my darling's passion. + +"For no sooner was his mother's gentle hand removed, than, even on the +very day of her burial, Earl Richard threw off the mask. + +"Before that time, I had wonderingly doubted if he loved her. I knew +then that he hated her. And I found one other thing, sadder yet--that +she loved him. I confess unto thee, by the blessed ankle-bones of Saint +Denis, that I never could make out why. I never saw in him anything to +love; and had I so done, methinks he had soon had that folly out of me. +At first I scarcely understood all. I used to see livid blue bruises on +her neck and arms, and ask her wherefore they were there; and she would +only flush faintly, and say,--`It is nothing--I struck myself against +something.' I never knew for months against what she struck. But she +never complained--not even to me. She was patient as an angel of God. + +"Now and then I used to notice that there came to the castle an aged +man, in the garb of the Friars Predicants; unto whom--and to him only-- +Isabel used to confess. So changed was he from his old self, that I +never knew till long after that this was our father's old confessor, +Giles de Edingdon. She only said to me that he taught her good things. +If he taught her her saintly endurance, it was good. But I fear he +taught her other things as well: to hold in light esteem that blessed +doctrine of grace of condignity, whereby man can and doth merit the +favour of God. And what he gave her instead thereof I know not. She +used to tell me, but I forget now. Only once, in an awful hour, she +said unto me, that but for the knowledge he had given her, she could not +have borne her life. + +"What was that hour?--Ah! it was the hour, when for the first time he +threw aside all care, even before me, and struck her senseless on the +rushes at my feet. And I never forgave him. She forgave him, poor +innocent!--nay, rather, I think she loved him too well to think of +forgiveness. I never saw love like hers; it would have borne death +itself, and have kissed the murderer's hand in dying. Some women do +love so. I never did, nor could. + +"But when this awful hour came, and she fell at my feet, as if dead, by +a blow from his hand in anger,--the spirit of my fathers came upon me, +and like a prophetess of woe, child, I stood forth and cursed him! I +think God spake by me, for words seemed to come from me without my will; +and I said that for two generations the heir of his house should die by +violence in the flower of his age [See Note 6]. Thou mayest see if it +be so; but I never shall. + +"And what said he?--He said, bowing his head low,--`Sister Joan La +Despenser is a great flatterer. Pray, accept my thanks. Henceforward, +she may perhaps find the calm glades of Shaftesbury more pleasant than +the bowers of Arundel. At least, I venture to beg that she will make +the trial.' And he went forth, calling to his hounds. + +"Ay, went forth, without another word, and left her lying there at my +feet--her, to save whom one pang of pain I would have laid down my life. +And the portcullis was shut upon me. I was powerless to save her from +that man: I was to see her again no more. I did see her again no more +for ever. I waited till her sense came back, when she said she was not +hurt, and fell to excusing him. I felt as though I could have torn him +limb from limb. But that would have pained her. + +"And then, when she was restored, I went forth from the Castle of +Arundel. I had been dismissed by the master; and dearly as I loved her, +I was too proud to be dismissed twice. So we took our farewell. Her +soft cheek pressed to mine--for the last time; her dear eyes looking +into mine--for the last time; her sweet, low voice blessing me--for the +last time. + +"And what were her last words, saidst thou? I cannot repeat them +tearlessly, even now. + +"`God grant thee the Living Water.' + +"Those were they. She had spoken to me oft--though I had not much cared +to listen, except to her sweet voice--of something whereof this Giles +had told her; some kind of fairy tale, regarding this life as a desert, +and of some Well of pure, fresh water, deep down therein. I know not +what. I cared for all that came from her, but I cared nought for what +came only through her from Giles de Edingdon. But she said God had +given her a draught of that Living Water, and she was at rest. I know +nothing about it. But I am glad if anything gave her rest from that +anguish--even a fairy tale. + +"Well, after that I saw her no more again. But now and then, when mine +hunger for her could no longer be appeased, I used to come to the +Convent of Arundel, and send word to Alina, thy nurse, to come to me +thither. And so, from time to time, I had word of her. + +"The years passed on, and with them he grew harder and harder. He had +hated her, first, I think, from the fancy that my father had been after +some manner the cause of his father's violent end; and after that he +hated her for herself. And as time passed, and she had no child, he +hated her worse than ever. But at last, after many years, God gave her +one--thyself. I thought, perchance, if anything would soften him, thy +smiles and babyish ways might do it. But--soften him! It had been +easier to soften a rock of stone. When he knew that it was only a girl +that was born, he hated her worse than ever. Three years more; then the +last blow fell. Earl Henry of Lancaster bade him to his castle. As +they talked, quoth the Earl,--`I would you had not been a wedded man, my +Lord of Arundel; I had gladly given you one of my daughters.'--`Pure +foy!' quoth he, `but that need be no hindrance, nor shall long.' Nor +was it. He sent to our holy Father the Pope--with some lie, I trow--and +received a divorce, and a dispensation to wed Alianora, his cousin, the +young widow of the Lord de Beaumont, son of that Sir Henry that captured +the King and my father. All the while he told Isabel nothing. The +meanest of her scullions knew of the coming woe before she knew it. The +night ere Earl Richard should be re-wedded, he thought proper to dismiss +his discarded wife. + +"`Dame,' said he to her, as he rose from the supper-table, `I pray you, +give good ear for a moment to what my chaplain is about to read.' + +"He was always cruelly courteous before men. + +"She stayed and listened. Then she grew faint and white--then she +grasped the seat to support her--then she lost hold and sense, and fell +down as if dead before him. Poor, miserably-crushed heart! She loved +this monster so well! + +"He waited till she came to herself. Then he gave the last stroke. + +"`I depart now,' said he, `to fetch home my bride. May I beg that the +Lady Isabel La Despenser will quit the castle before she comes. It +would be very unpleasant to her otherwise.' + +"Unpleasant--to Alianora! And to Isabel, what would it be? Little he +recked of that. She had received her dismissal. He had said to her, in +effect,--`You are my wife, and Lady of Arundel, no more.' + +"She lifted herself up a little, and looked into his face. She knew she +was looking upon him for the last time. And once more the fervent, +unvalued, long-outraged love broke forth,--once more, for the last time. + +"`My lord! my lord!' she wailed. `Leave me not so, Richard! Give me +one kiss for farewell!' + +"He did not lift her from the ground; he did not kiss her; but he was +not quite silent to that last bitter cry. He held forth his hand--the +hand which had been uplifted to strike her so often. She clasped it in +hers, and kissed it many times. And that was his farewell. + +"When he had drawn his hand from her, and was gone forth, she sat a +season like a statue, listening. She hearkened till she heard him ride +away--on his way to Alianora. Then, as if some prop that had held her +up were suddenly withdrawn, she fell forward, and lay with her face to +the rushes. All that awful night she lay there. Alina came to her, and +strove to lift her, to give her food, to yield her comfort: but she took +no heed of anything. When the dawn came, she arose, and wrapped herself +in her mantle. She took no money, no jewels--not an ouche nor a grain +of gold. Only she wrapped in silk two locks of hair--his and thine. I +should have left the first behind. Then, when she was seated on the +horse to depart, the page told her who mounted afore, that his Lord had +given him command to take her to a certain place, which was not to be +told beforehand. + +"Alina said she shivered a little at this; but she only answered, `Do my +lord's will.' Then she asked for thee. Alina lifted thee up to her, +and she clasped thee close underneath her veil, and kissed thee +tenderly. And that was thy last mother's kiss." + +"Then that is what I remember!" broke in Philippa suddenly. + +"It is impossible, child!" answered Joan. "Thou wert but a babe of +three years old." + +"But I do--I am sure I do!" she repeated. + +"Have thy way," said Joan. "If thou so thinkest, I will not gainsay +thee. Well, she gave thee back in a few minutes; and then she rode +away--never pausing to look back--no man knew whither." + +"But what became of her?" + +"God wotteth. Sometimes I hope he murdered her. One sin more or less +would matter little to the black list of sins on his guilty soul; and +the little pain of dying by violence would have saved Isabel the greater +pain of living through the desolate woe of the future. But I never +knew, as I told thee. Nor shall I ever know, till that last day come +when the Great Doom shall be, and he and she shall stand together before +the bar of God. There shall be an end to her torment then. It is +something to think that there shall be no end to his." + +So, in a tone of bitter, passionate vindictiveness, Joan La Despenser +closed her story. + +Philippa sat silent, wondering many things. If Guy of Ashridge knew any +thing of this, if Giles de Edingdon were yet living, if Agnes the +lavender had ever found out what became of her revered mistress. And +when she knelt down to tell her beads that night, a very strange and +terrible prayer lingered on her lips the last and most earnestly of all. +It was, that she might never again see her father's face. She felt +that had she done so, the spirit of the prophetess might have seized +upon her as upon Joan; that, terrified as she had always been of him, +she should now have stood up before him and have cursed him to his face. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. Edmund Fitzalan was premier Earl as Earl of Surrey, which title +he acquired by his marriage with Alesia, sister and heir of John de +Warrenne, last Earl of Surrey of the original male line. + +Note 2. Probably owing to the great mortality among the nobles caused +by the French war, a man who survived fifty was regarded as very old in +the reign of Edward the Third. + +Note 3. This is Froissart's account of the events, and his dates have +been mainly followed. Many writers give a varying narrative, stating +that the King and Earl did reach Wales, and were taken there in a wood. +Their dates are also about a month later. The inquisitions of the +Despensers, as is usual in the case of attainted persons, do not give +the date of death. + +Note 4. The castle was granted to Edmund Earl of Kent, brother of +Edward the Second; and there, on his attainder and execution, four years +later, his widow and children were arrested. + +Note 5. The earldom did not return to the Despenser family until 1397, +when it was conferred on the great-grandson of the attainted Earl. + +Note 6. Earl Richard, his son, was beheaded in London, in the spring of +1397; Earl Thomas, his grandson, fell at Agincourt, October 13, 1415. + + + +CHAPTER SIX. + +ELAINE. + + "No has visto un nino, que viene + A dar un doblon que tiene, + Porque le den una flor?" + + Lope de Vega. + +Philippa determined to return home by way of Sempringham. She could not +have given any very cogent reason, except that she wished to see the +place where the only peaceful days of her mother's life had been passed. +Perhaps peace might there come to her also; and she was far enough from +it now. It would have been strange indeed if peace had dwelt in a heart +where was neither "glory to God" nor "good-will to men." And while her +veneration for her mother's memory was heightened by her aunt's +narrative, her feeling towards her father, originally a shrinking +timidity, had changed now into active hatred. Had she at that moment +been summoned to his deathbed, she would either have refused to go near +him at all, or have gone with positive pleasure. + +But beside all this, Philippa could not avoid the conclusion that her +salvation was as far from being accomplished as it had been when she +reached Shaftesbury. She felt further off it than ever; it appeared to +recede from her at every approach. Very uneasily she remembered Guy's +farewell words,--"God strip you of your own goodness!" The Living Water +seemed as distant as before; but the thirst grew more intense. And yet, +like Hagar in the wilderness, the Well was beside her all the time; but +until the Angel of the Lord should open her eyes, she could not see it. + +She reached Sempringham, and took up her abode for the night in the +convent, uncertain how long she would remain there. An apparently +trivial incident decided that question for her. + +As Philippa stood at the convent gate, in a mild winter morning, she +heard a soft, sweet voice singing, and set herself to discover whence +the sound proceeded. The vocalist was readily found,--a little girl of +ten years old, who was sitting on a bank a few yards from the gate, with +a quantity of snowdrops in her lap, which she was trying with partial +success to weave into a wreath. Philippa--weary of idleness, Books of +Hours, and embroidery--drew near to talk with her. + +"What is thy name?" she asked, by way of opening negotiations. + +"Elaine," said the child, lifting a pair of timid blue eyes to her +questioner's face. + +"And where dwellest thou?" + +"Down yonder glade, Lady: my father is Wilfred the convent woodcutter." + +"And who taught thee to speak French?" + +"The holy sisters, Lady." + +"What wert thou singing a minute since?" + +The child drooped her head shyly. + +"Do not be afraid," said Philippa gently. "I like to hear singing. +Wilt thou sing it again to me?" + +Elaine hesitated a moment; but another glance at Philippa's smiling face +seemed to reassure her, and she sang, in a low voice, to a sweet, weird +tune:-- + + "`Quy de cette eaw boyra + Ancor soyf aura; + Mays quy de l'eaw boyra + Que moy luy donneray, + Jamays soyf n'aura + A l'eternite.'" + +"This must be very widely known," thought Philippa.--"Who taught thee +that--the holy sisters?" she asked of the child. + +"No," answered Elaine, shaking her head. "The Grey Lady." + +"And who is the Grey Lady?" + +The look with which Elaine replied, showed Philippa that not to know the +Grey Lady was to augur herself unknown, at least in the Vale of +Sempringham. + +"Know you not the Grey Lady? All in the Vale know her." + +"Where dwelleth she?" + +"Up yonder"--but to Philippa's eyes, Elaine merely pointed to a cluster +of leafless trees on the hill-side. + +"And is she one of the holy sisters?" + +On this point Elaine was evidently doubtful. The Grey Lady did not +dwell in the convent, nor in any convent; she lived all alone, therefore +it was plain that she was not a sister. But she was always habited in +grey wherefore men called her the Grey Lady. No--she had no other name. + +"A recluse, manifestly," said Philippa to herself; "the child does not +understand. But is she an anchoritess or an eremitess?--Does she ever +leave her cell?" [See Note 1.] + +"Lady, she tendeth all the sick hereabout. She is a friend of every +woman in the Vale. My mother saith, an' it like you, that where there +is any wound to heal, or heart to comfort, there is the Grey Lady. And +she saith she hath a wonderful power of healing, as well for mind as +body. When Edeline our neighbour lost all her four children by fever +between the two Saint Agneses, [see Note 2], nobody could comfort her +till the Grey Lady came. And when Ida my playmate lay dying, and very +fearful of death, she said even the holy priest did her not so much good +as the Grey Lady. I think," ended Elaine softly, "she must be an angel +in disguise." + +The child evidently spoke her thought literally. + +"I will wait and see this Grey Lady," thought Philippa. "Let me see if +she can teach and comfort me. Ever since Guy of Ashridge visited +Kilquyt, I seem to have been going further from comfort every day.-- +Canst thou lead me to the Grey Lady's cell?" + +"I could; but she is not now there, Lady." + +"When will she be there?" + +"To-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen," replied Elaine, who +was evidently well acquainted with the Grey Lady's proceedings. + +"Then to-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen, thou shalt come +to the convent gate, and I will meet with thee. Will thy mother give +thee leave?" + +"Ay. She alway giveth me leave to visit the Grey Lady." + +The appointment was made, and Philippa turned back to the convent. + +"I was searching you, Lady de Sergeaux," said the portress, when +Philippa re-entered the gate. "During your absence, there came to the +priory close by a messenger from Arundel on his road toward Hereford; +and hearing that the Lady de Sergeaux was with us, he sent word through +a lay-brother that he would gladly have speech of you." + +"A messenger from Arundel! What can he want with me?" + +Philippa felt that all messengers from Arundel would be very unwelcome +to her. She added, rather ungraciously, that "perhaps she had better +see him." She passed into the guest-chamber, whither in a few minutes +the messenger came to her. He was a page, habited in deep mourning; and +Philippa recognised him at once as the personal "varlet" attendant on +the Countess. The thought rose to her mind that the Earl might have +fallen in Gascony. + +"God keep thee, good Hubert!" she said. "Be thy tidings evil?" + +"As evil as they might be, Lady," answered the page sadly. "Two days +before the feast of Saint Hilary, our Lady the Countess Alianora was +commanded to God." + +A tumult of conflicting feelings went surging through Philippa's heart +and brain. + +"Was thy Lord at home?" + +She inwardly hoped that he was not. It was only fitting, said the +vindictive hatred which had usurped the place of her conscience, that +Alianora of Lancaster should feel something of that to which she had +helped to doom Isabel La Despenser. + +"Lady, no. Our Lord abideth in Gascony, with the Duke of Lancaster." + +Philippa was not sorry to hear it; for her heart was full of "envy, +hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness." + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +When the shadow began to lengthen on the following day, Philippa wrapped +her mantle around her, and called to her damsel to follow. Her varlet +followed also, at a little distance behind. She found Elaine and a +younger child waiting for her outside the gate. Elaine introduced her +companion as her sister Annora. Annora proved much less shy than +Elaine, and far more ready with her communications. But she was not +asked many questions; for as they turned away from the convent gate, +they were met by a monk in the Dominican habit, and Philippa knew +directly the face of Guy of Ashridge. + +"Christ save you, Father," said she. + +"And you, daughter," he answered. "Are you yet seeking comfort, or have +you found it?" + +"I am further from it than ever," she replied, rather petulantly. + +"No wonder," said Guy. "For comfort hath another name, which is-- +Christ. Who is a stranger to the One shall needs be a stranger to the +other." + +"I have tried hard to make my salvation," responded Philippa more sadly; +"but as yet I cannot do it." + +"Nor will you, though you could try a thousand years," answered Guy. +"That is a manufacture beyond saints and angels, and how then shall you +do it?" + +"Who then can do it?" + +"God," said Guy, solemnly. + +"God hates me," replied Philippa, under her breath. "He hateth all mine +house. For nigh fifty years, He hath sent us sorrow upon sorrow, and +hath crushed us down into the dust of death." + +"Poor blindling! is that a proof that He hateth you?" answered Guy more +gently. "Well, it is true at times, when the father sendeth a varlet in +haste to save the child from falling over a precipice, the child--whose +heart is set on some fair flower on the rock below--doth think it cruel. +You are that child; and your trouble is the varlet God hath sent after +you." + +"He hath sent His whole meynie, then," said Philippa bitterly. + +"Then the child will not come to the Father?" said Guy, softly. + +Philippa was silent. + +"Is the flower so fair, that you will risk life for it?" pursued the +monk. "Nay, not risk--that is a word implying doubt, and here is none. +So fair, then, that you will throw life away for it? And is the Father +not fair and precious in your eyes, that you are in so little haste to +come to Him? Daughter, what shall it profit you, if you gain the whole +world--and lose your own soul?" + +"Father, you are too hard upon me!" cried Philippa in a pained tone, and +resisting with some difficulty a strong inclination to shed tears. "I +would come to God, but I know not how, nor do you tell me. God is afar +off, and hath no leisure nor will to think on me; nor can I presume to +approach Him without the holy saints to intercede for me. I have sought +their intercession hundreds of times. It is not I that am unwilling to +be saved; and you speak to me as if you thought it so. It is God that +will not save me. I have done all I can." + +"O fool, and slow of heart to believe!" earnestly answered Guy. "Can it +be God, when He cared so much for you that He sent His blessed Son down +from Heaven to die for your salvation? Beware how you accuse the Lord. +I tell you again, it is not His will that opposeth itself to your +happiness, but your own. You have built up a wall of your own +excellencies that you cannot see God; and then you cry, `He hath hidden +Himself from me.' Pull down your miserable mud walls, and let the light +of Heaven shine in upon you. Christ will save you with no half nor +quarter salvation. He will not let you lay the foundation whereon He +shall build. He will not tear His fair shining robe of righteousness to +patch your worthless rags. With Him, either not at all, or all in all." + +"But what would you have me do?" said Philippa, in a vexed tone. + +"Believe," replied Guy. + +"Believe what?" said she. + +"`Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'" + +"The easiest thing in the world," answered Philippa, a little +contemptuously. + +"Is it so?" responded the monk, with a pitying smile. "It seems to me +that you have found it since last June the hardest thing in the world. +Whither go you now?" he asked, suddenly changing his tone. + +"I go," she rejoined, "with this child, to the cell of an eremitess of +whom she hath told me, `that hath,' quoth she, `great power of +comforting the sorrowful.' All about here seem to know her. They call +her the Grey Lady." + +Guy looked on her long and earnestly, an expression creeping over his +face which Philippa could not understand. + +"Be it so," he said at last. "`I will lead the blind by a way that they +know not.' Let my voice be silent when He speaketh. Verily"--and his +voice fell to a softer tone--"I never passed through the deep waters +wherein she has waded; nor, perchance, where you have. Let God speak to +you through her. Go your way." + +"But who is she--this Grey Lady?" + +Philippa asked in vain. Guy either did not hear her, or would not +answer. He walked rapidly down the hill, with only "Farewell!" as he +passed her; and she went her way, to meet her fate--rather, to meet +God's providence--in the cell of the Grey Lady. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. Anchorites never left their cells, though they received +visitors within them, and sometimes taught children; hermits wandered +about freely. + +Note 2. Saint Agnes' Day is January 21; but the 28th, instead of the +octave of Saint Agnes, was commonly called Saint Agnes the second. + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN. + +IN THE CELL OF THE GREY LADY. + + "Blood must be my body's balmer,-- + While my soule, like peaceful palmer, + Travelleth toward the Land of Heaven, + Other balm will not be given." + + Sir Walter Raleigh. + +Elaine tapped softly on the weatherbeaten door of the cell. It was +merely hollowed out in the rock, and built up in front, with a low door +and a very little window. + +"Who is it?" asked a soft voice from within. + +"Elaine and Annora," replied the little girl. + +"Come in, my children." + +Motioning Philippa to wait for her an instant, Elaine lifted the latch +and entered, half closing the door behind her. Some low-toned +conversation followed within the cell; and then Elaine opened the door, +and asked Philippa to enter. The Grey Lady stood before her. + +What she saw was a tall, slender, delicate figure, attired in dark grey. +The figure alone was visible, for over the face the veil was drawn +down. But Philippa's own knowledge of aristocratic life told her in an +instant that the reverence with which she was received was that of a +high-born lady. It was plain that the eremitess was no peasant. + +Elaine seemed to know that she was no longer wanted, and she drew Annora +away. The children went dancing through the wood, and Philippa, +desiring Lena and Oliver to await her pleasure, shut the door of the +cell. + +"Mother," she began--for recluses were addressed as professed nuns, and +were indeed regarded as the holiest of all celibates--"I desire your +help." + +"For body or soul?" was the reply. + +"For the soul--for the life," said Philippa. + +"Ay," replied the eremitess; "the soul is the life." + +"Know you Guy of Ashridge?" asked Philippa. + +The Grey Lady bowed her head. + +"I have confessed to him, and he hath dealt hardly with me. He saith I +will not be saved; and I wish to be saved. He tells me to come to +Christ, and I know not how to come, and he saith he cannot make me +understand how. He saith God loveth me, because He hath given me a very +desolate and unhappy life; and I think He hateth me by that token. In +short, Father Guy tells me to do what I cannot do, and then he saith I +will not do it. Will you teach me, and comfort me, if you can? The +monk only makes me more unhappy. And I do not want to be unhappy. I +want comfort--I want rest--I want peace. Tell me how to obtain it!" + +"No one wishes to be unhappy," said the eremitess, in her gentle +accents; "but sometimes we mistake the medicine we need. Before I can +give you medicine, I must know your disease." + +"My disease is weariness and sorrow," answered Philippa. "I love none, +and none loveth me. None hath ever loved me. I hate all men." + +"And God?" + +"I do not know God," she said, her voice sinking. "He is afar off, and +will come no nearer." + +"Or you are afar off, and will go no nearer? Which is it?" + +"I think it is the first," she answered; "Guy of Ashridge will have it +to be the second. I cannot get at God--that is all I know. And it is +not for want of praying. I have begged the intercession of my patron, +the holy Apostle Saint Philip, hundreds of times." + +"Do you know why you cannot get at God?" + +"No. If you can guess, tell me why it is." + +"Because you have gone the wrong way. You have not found the door. You +are trying to break through over the wall. And `he that entereth not by +the door into the sheep-fold, but climbeth up some other way, the same +is a thief and a robber.'" + +"Explain to me what you mean, Mother, an' it like you." + +"You know how Adam sinned in Paradise?" asked the Grey Lady. + +"When he and Eva disobeyed God, and ate of the fruit of the forbidden +tree? Yes, I have heard that." + +"He built up a terrible wall between him and God. Every man, as born +into this world, is on the hither side of that wall. He knoweth not +God, he loveth not God, he careth not for God." + +"But that is not the case with me," objected Philippa; "for I do wish +for Him. I want some one to love me; and I should not mind if it were +God. Even He were better than none." + +The Grey Lady's veil trembled a little, as Philippa thought; but she sat +meditating for an instant. + +"Before I answer your last remark," she said, "will you tell me a little +of your life? I might know better how to reply. You are a married +woman, of course, for your dress is not that of a nun, nor of a widow. +Have you children? Are your parents living?" + +"I have no child," said Philippa: and the Grey Lady's penetration must +have been obtuse if she were unable to detect a tone of deep sadness +underlying the words. "And parents--living--did you ask me? By Mary, +Mother and Maiden, I have but one living, and I hate--I hate him!" The +passionate energy with which the last words were spoken told its own +tale. + +"Then it is no marvel," answered the Grey Lady, in a very different tone +from Philippa's, "that you come to me with a tale of sorrow. Where +there is hatred there can be no peace; and without peace there can be no +hope." + +"Hope!" exclaimed Philippa, bitterly. "What is there for me to hope? +Who ever cared for me? Who ever asked me if I were happy? Nobody loves +me--why should I love anybody?" + +"`God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, +Christ died for us.'" + +The words fell like cooling water on the hot fire of Philippa's +bitterness; but she made no answer. + +"Had God waited for us to love Him," resumed the eremitess, "where had +we been now? `We love Him, because He first loved us.'" + +"He never loved me," answered Philippa, mournfully. + +"He loved me so much," said the Grey Lady, softly, "that He made the way +rough, that He might help me over it; He made the waters deep, that He +might carry me through them; He caused the rain to fall heavily, that I +might run to Him for shelter; He made `mine earthly house of this +tabernacle' dreary and cold, that I might find the rest, and light, and +warmth of His home above so much the sweeter. Yea, He made me +friendless, that I might seek and find in Jesu Christ the one Friend who +would never forsake me, the one love that would never weary nor wax +cold." + +Philippa shook her head. She had never looked at her troubles in this +light "But if the way be thus rough, and yet you will walk in it alone, +though your feet be bleeding; if the waters be deep, and yet you will +strive to ford them unaided; if the house be drear and lonely, and yet +you will not rise up and go home--is it any wonder that you are +sorrowful, or that you do not know Him whose love you put thus away from +you? And you tell me that God's love were better to you than none! +Better than none!--better than any, better than all! Man's love can +save from some afflictions, I grant: but from how many it can not! Can +human love keep you from sickness?--from sorrow?--from poverty?--from +death? Yet the love of Christ can take the sting from all these,--can +keep you calm and peaceful through them all. They will remain, and you +will feel them; but the sting will be gone. There will be an underlying +calm; the wind may ruffle the surface, but it cannot reach beneath. The +lamb is safe in the arms of the Shepherd, but it does not hold itself +there. He who shed His blood for us on the rood keepeth us safe, and +none shall be able to pluck us out of His hand. O Lady, if `thou +knewest the gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He would +have given thee Living Water.'" + +"They tell me of that Living Water, one and all; and I would fain drink +thereof; but I am in the desert, and the Well is afar off, and I know +not where to find it." Philippa spoke not angrily now, but very +sorrowfully. + +"And `thou hast nothing to draw with, and the Well is deep.'" + +"That is just what I feel," said Philippa, earnestly. + +"Yet it is close beside you," answered the Grey Lady. "The water is +drawn, and ready. All that is needed is your outstretched hand to take +it. Christ giveth the Living Water; Christ is the Door by which, if any +man enter in, he shall be saved; Christ is our peace with God. You have +not to make peace; for them that take Christ's salvation, peace is made. +You can never make peace: it took Christ to make it. Your salvation-- +if you be saved at all--was finished thirteen hundred years ago. God +hath provided this salvation for you, and all your life He hath been +holding it forth to you--hath been calling you by all these your sorrows +to come and take it. So many years as you have lived in this world, so +many years you have grieved Him by turning a deaf ear and a cold heart +towards His great heart and open hand held forth to you--towards His +loving voice bidding you come to Him. Oh grieve Him no longer! Let +your own works, your own goodness, your own sufferings, drop from you as +the cast-off rags of a beggar, and wrap yourself in the fair white robe +of righteousness which the King giveth you--which He hath wrought +Himself on purpose for you,--for which He asks no price from you, for He +paid the price Himself in His own blood. He came not to live, and work, +and suffer, for Himself, but for you. You complain that none loveth +you: all these years there hath been love unutterable waiting for you, +and you will not take it." + +It seemed to Philippa a very fair picture. Never before had the Garden +of God looked so beautiful, to her who stood waiting without the gate. +But there appeared to be barriers between it and her, which she could +not pass: and in especial one loomed up before her, dark and +insuperable. + +"But--must I forgive my father?" + +"You must come to Christ ere you do any thing. After that--when He hath +given you His forgiving Spirit, and His strength to forgive--certainly +you must forgive your father." + +"Whatever he hath done?" + +"Whatever he hath done." + +"I can never do that," replied Philippa, yet rather regretfully than +angrily. "What he did to me I might; but--" + +"I know," said the Grey Lady quietly, when Philippa paused. "It _is_ +easier to forgive one's own wrongs than those of others. I think your +heart is not quite so loveless as you would persuade yourself." + +"To the dead--no," said Philippa huskily. "But to any who could love me +in return--" and she paused again, leaving her sentence unended as +before. "No, I never could forgive him." + +"Never, of yourself," was the answer. "But whoso taketh Christ for his +Priest to atone, taketh Christ also for his King to govern. In him God +worketh, bringing forth from his soul graces which He Himself hath first +put there--graces which the natural heart never can bring forth. Faith +is the first of these; then love; and then obedience. And both love and +obedience teach forgiveness. `If ye forgive not men their trespasses, +how then shall your Father which is in Heaven forgive your trespasses?'" + +"Then," said Philippa, after a minute's silence, during which she was +deeply meditating, "what we give to God is these graces of which you +speak?--we give Him faith, and love, and obedience?" + +"Assuredly--when He hath first implanted all within us." + +"But what do we give of ourselves?" asked Philippa in a puzzled tone. + +"We give _ourselves_." + +"This giving of ourselves, then," pursued Philippa slowly, "maketh the +grace of condignity?" + +"We give to God," replied the low voice of the eremitess, "ourselves, +and our sins. The last He purgeth away, and casteth them into the +depths of the sea. Is there grace of condignity in them? And for us, +when our sins are forgiven, and our souls cleansed, we are for ever +committing further sin, for ever needing fresh cleansing and renewed +pardon. Is there grace of condignity, then, in us?" + +"But where do you allow the grace of condignity?" + +"I allow it not at all." + +Philippa shrank back a little. In her eyes, this was heresy. + +"You love not that," said the Grey Lady gently. "But can you find any +other way of salvation that will stand with the dignity of God? If man +save himself, then is Christ no Saviour; if man take the first step +towards God, then is Christ no Author, but only the Finisher of faith." + +"It seems to me," answered Philippa rather coldly, "that such a view as +yours detracts from the dignity of man." + +She could not see the smile that crossed the lips of the eremitess. + +"Most certainly it does," said she. + +"And God made man," objected Philippa. "To injure the dignity of man, +therefore, is to affront the dignity of God." + +"Dignity fell with Adam," said the Grey Lady. "Satan fatally injured +the dignity of man, when he crept into Eden. Man hath none left now, +but only as he returneth unto God. And do you think there be any grace +of condignity in a beggar, when he holdeth forth his hand to receive a +garment in the convent dole? Is it such a condescension in him to +accept the coat given to him, that he thereby earneth it of merit? Yet +this, and less than this, is all that man can do toward God." + +"Are you one of the Boni-Homines?" asked Philippa suddenly. + +She was beginning to recognise their doctrines now. + +"The family of God are one," answered the Grey Lady, rather evasively. +"He teacheth not different things to divers of His people, though He +lead them by varying ways to the knowledge of the one truth." + +"But are you one of the Boni-Homines?" Philippa repeated. + +"By birth--no." + +"No," echoed Philippa, "I should think not, by birth. Your accent and +your manners show you high-born; and they are low-born varlets--common +people." + +"The common people," answered the Grey Lady, "are usually those who hear +Christ the most gladly. `Not many noble are called;' yet, thank God, a +few. But do you, then, count Archbishop Bradwardine, or Bishop +Grosteste, or William de Edingdon, Bishop of Winchester and Chancellor +of England,--among the common people?" + +"They were not among _them_?" exclaimed Philippa in contemptuous +surprise. + +"Trust me, but they were,--two of them at least; and the third preached +their doctrines, though he went not out from them." + +"I could not have believed it!" + +"`The wind bloweth where it listeth,'" said the Grey Lady, softly: but +she hardly spoke to her visitor. + +Philippa rose. "I thank you for your counsel," she said. + +"And you mean, _not_ to follow it?" was the gentle response. + +"I do not know what I mean to do," she said honestly. "I want to do +right; but I cannot believe it right to deny the grace of condignity. +It is so blessed a doctrine! How else shall men merit the favour of +God? And I do not perceive, by your view, how men approach God at all." + +"By God approaching them," said the eremitess. "`Whosoever will, let +him take the Water of Life freely.' But God provideth the water; man +only receiveth it; and the will to receive it is of God, not of man's +own deed and effort. `It is God that worketh in us.' Salvation is `not +of works, lest any man should boast.'" + +"That is not the doctrine of holy Church," answered Philippa, somewhat +offended. + +"It is the doctrine of Saint Paul," was the quiet rejoinder, "for the +words I have just spoken are not mine, but his." + +"Are you certain of that, Mother?" + +"Quite certain." + +"Who told you them?" + +The Grey Lady turned, and took from a rough shelf or ledge, scooped out +in the rocky wall of the little cavern, a small brown-covered volume. + +"I know not if you can read," she said, offering the book to Lady +Sergeaux; "but there are the words." + +The little volume was no continuous Book of Scripture, but consisted of +passages extracted almost at random, of varying lengths, apparently just +as certain paragraphs had attracted her when she heard or read them. + +"Yes, I can read. My nurse taught me," said Philippa, taking the little +book from her hand. + +But her eyes lighted, the first thing, upon a passage which enchained +them; and she read no further. + +"Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoever +drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst." + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT. + +THE VEIL UPLIFTED. + + "Household names, that used to flutter + Through your laughter unawares,-- + God's Divine Name ye can utter + With less trembling, in your prayers." + + Elizabeth B. Browning. + +Philippa sat down again with the book in her hand. Her mood had changed +suddenly at the sight of the text, which she instantly guessed to be the +original of her well-remembered device. + +"I need not go yet," she said, "unless I weary you, Mother." + +"I am never wearied of the Master's work," answered the low voice. + +Lady Sergeaux opened the door of the cell. + +"Lena and Oliver," she called, "you can return to the convent, and come +hither for me again ere the dusk falleth. I shall abide a season with +this holy Mother." + +"But your Ladyship will ere that be faint for hunger," objected Lena. + +"No,--I will take care of that," replied the Grey Lady, ere Philippa +could answer. + +Lena louted, and departed with Oliver, and her mistress again closed the +door of the cell. The Grey Lady set bread before her, and honey, with a +cup of milk, bidding her eat. + +"Thank you, Mother, but I am not hungry yet," said Philippa. + +"You ought to be. You had better eat," was the quiet answer. + +And quiet as the voice was, it had a tone of authority which Philippa +involuntarily and unconsciously obeyed. And while she ate, her hostess +in her turn became the questioner. + +"Are you a knight's wife?" + +"I am the wife of Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall," said +Philippa. "My lord is away in Gascony, in the train of the Earl of +Arundel, who accompanies the Duke of Lancaster, at present Governor of +those parts. While he is absent, I hope to be able to make my salvation +in retreat, and to quiet my conscience." + +The Grey Lady made no reply. Philippa almost expected her to ask if her +conscience were quiet, or how much of her salvation she had made. Guy +of Ashridge, she thought, would have preached a sermon on that text. +But no answer came from the veiled figure, only her head drooped upon +her hand as if she were tired. + +"Now I am wearying you," said Philippa reproachfully. "I ought to have +gone when I first thought thereof." + +"No," said the Grey Lady. + +Her voice, if possible, was even softer than before, but Philippa could +not avoid detecting in it a cadence of pain so intense that she began to +wonder if she were ill, or what portion of her speech could possibly +have caused it. + +"Are you ill, Mother?" she asked compassionately. + +The eremitess lifted her head; and her voice was again calm. + +"I thank you,--no. Let us not speak of ourselves, but of God." + +"Mother, I wish to ask you something," said Philippa rather doubtfully, +for she did not wish to pain her again, yet she deemed her coming +question necessary. + +"Ask what you will, Lady de Sergeaux." + +There was no sad cadence now in the gentle voice. + +"I desire to know--for so only can you really help me--if you know +yourself what it is to be unloved." + +Once more Philippa saw the grey veil tremble. + +"I know it--well." But the words were uttered scarcely above a whisper. + +"I meant to ask you that at first, and we name upon another subject. +But I am satisfied if you know it. And now tell me, how may any be +content under such a trial? How may a weary, thirsting heart, come to +drink of that water which he that drinketh shall thirst no more? +Mother, all my life I have been drinking of many wells, but I never yet +came to this Well. `Ancor soyf j'ay:' tell me how I must labour, where +I must go, to find that Well whereof the drinker + + "`Jamays soyf n'aura + A l'eternite'?" + +"Who taught you those lines?" asked the eremitess quickly. + +"I found them in the device of a jewel," replied Philippa. + +"Strange!" said the recluse; but she did not explain why she thought it +so. "Lady, the Living Water is the gift of God; or rather, it is God. +And the heart of man was never meant to be satisfied with anything +beneath God." + +"But the heart of woman, at least," said Philippa, "for I am not a man-- +is often satisfied with things beneath God." + +"It often rests in them," said the Grey Lady; "but I doubt whether it is +satisfied. That is a strong word. Are you?" + +"I am most unsatisfied," answered Philippa; "otherwise I had not come to +you. I want rest." + +"And yet Christ hath been saying all your life, to you, as to +others,--`Come unto Me, all ye that travail and are weary laden, and I +will give you rest.'" + +"He never gave it me." + +"Because you never came for it." + +"I wonder if He can give it," said Philippa, sighing. + +"Trust me that He can. I never knew it till I came to Him." + +"But are you at rest? You scarcely looked so just now." + +"At rest," said the Grey Lady, "except when a breeze of earth stirs the +soul which should be soaring above earth--when the dreams of earth come +like a thick curtain between that soul and the hope of that Heaven--as +it was just now." + +"Then you are not exempt from that?" + +"In coming to Christ for rest, we do not leave our human hearts and our +human infirmities behind us--assuredly not." + +"Then do you think it wrong to desire to beloved?" + +"Not wrong to desire Christ's love." + +"But to desire the love of some human being, or of any human being?" + +The eremitess paused an instant before she answered. + +"I should condemn myself if I said so," she replied in a low tone, the +sad cadence returning to her voice. "I must leave that with God. He +hath undertaken to purge me from sin, and He knows what is sin. If that +be so, He will purge me from it. I have put myself in His hands, to be +dealt with as pleaseth Him; and my Physician will give me the medicines +which He seeth me to need. Let me counsel you to do the same." + +"Yet what pleaseth Him might not please me." + +"It would be strange if it did." + +"Why?" said Philippa. + +"Because it is your nature to love sin, and it is His nature to love +holiness. And what we love, we become. He that loveth sin must needs +be a sinner." + +"I do not think I love sin," rejoined Philippa, rather offended. + +"That is because you cannot see yourself." + +Just what Guy of Ashridge had told her; but not more palatable now than +it had been then. + +"What is sin?" asked the Grey Lady. + +Philippa was ready with a list--of sins which she felt certain she had +not committed. + +"Give me leave to add one," said the eremitess. "Pride is sin; nay, it +is the abominable sin which God hateth. And is there no pride in you, +Lady de Sergeaux? You tell me you cannot forgive your own father. Now +I know nothing of you, nor of him; but if you could see yourself as you +stand in God's sight--whatever it be that he hath done--you would know +yourself to be as black a sinner as he. Where, then, is your +superiority? You have as much need to be forgiven." + +"But I have _not_!" cried Philippa, in no dulcet tones, her annoyance +getting the better of her civility. "I never was a murderer! I never +turned coldly away from one that loved me--for none ever did love me. I +never crushed a loving, faithful heart down into the dust. I never +brought a child up like a stranger. I never--stay, I will go no further +into the catalogue. But I know I am not such a sinner as he--nay, I am +not to be compared to him." + +"And have you," asked the Grey Lady, very gently, "turned no cold ear to +the loving voice of Christ? Have you not kept far away from the +heavenly Father? Have you not grieved the Holy Spirit of God? May it +not be said to you, as our Lord said to the Jews of old time,--`Ye will +not come to Me, that ye might have life'?" + +It was only what Guy of Ashridge had said before. But this time there +seemed to be a power with the words which had not gone with his. +Philippa was silent. She had no answer to make. + +"You are right," she said after a long pause. "I have done all this; +but I never saw it before. Mother, the next time you are at the holy +mass, will you pray for me?" + +"Why wait till then?" was the rejoinder. "Let us tell Him so now." + +And, surprised as she was at the proposal, Philippa knelt down. + +"Thank you, and the holy saints bless you," she said, as she rose. "Now +I must go; and I hear Lena's voice without. But ere I depart, may I ask +you one thing?" + +"Anything." + +"What could I possibly have said that pained you? For that something +did pain you I am sure. I am sorry for it, whatever it may have been." + +The soft voice resumed its troubled tone. + +"It was only," said the Grey Lady, "that you uttered a name which has +not been named in mine hearing for twenty-seven years: you told me +where, and doing what, was one of whom and of whose doings I had thought +never to hear any more. One, of whom I try never to think, save when I +am praying for him, or in the night when I am alone with God, and can +ask Him to pardon me if I sin." + +"But whom did I name?" said Philippa, in an astonished tone. "Have I +spoken of any but of my husband? Do you know him?" + +"I have never heard of him before to-day, nor of you." + +"I think I did mention the Duke of Lancaster." + +A shake of the head negatived this suggestion. + +"Well, I named none else," pursued Philippa, "saving the Earl of +Arundel; and you cannot know him." + +Even then she felt an intense repugnance to saying, "My father." But, +much to her surprise, the Grey Lady slowly bowed her head. + +"And in what manner," began Philippa, "can you know--" + +But before she uttered another word, a suspicion which almost terrified +her began to steal over her. She threw herself on her knees at the feet +of the Grey Lady, and grasped her arm tightly. + +"All the holy saints have mercy upon us!--are you Isabel La Despenser?" + +It seemed an hour to Philippa ere the answer came. And it came in a +tone so low and quivering that she only just heard it. + +"I was." + +And then a great cry of mingled joy and anguish rang through the lonely +cell. + +"Mother! mine own mother! I am Philippa Fitzalan!" + +There was no cry from Isabel. She only held out her arms; and in an +embrace as close and tender as that with which they had parted, the +long-separated mother and daughter met. + + + +CHAPTER NINE. + +TOGETHER. + + "Woe to the eye that sheds no tears - + No tears for God to wipe away!" + + "G.E.M." + +"And is it so hard to forgive?" asked the soft voice of Isabel. + +"I will try, but it seems impossible," responded Philippa. "How can any +forgive injuries that reach down to the very root of the heart and +life?" + +"My child," said Isabel, "he that injureth followeth after Satan; but he +that forgiveth followeth after God. It is because our great debt to God +is too mighty for our bounded sight, and we cannot reach to the ends +thereof, that we are so ready to require of our fellow-debtors the small +and sorry sum owed to ourselves. `He that loveth not his brother whom +he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' And can any +love and yet not forgive?" + +"It is sometimes easier to love one ere he be seen than after," said +Philippa, sarcastically. + +Isabel smiled rather sadly, for the latent thought in her daughter's +mind was only too apparent to her. Had Philippa known as little of her +father as of her mother, her feeling towards him would have been far +less bitter. But there was no other answer. Even though twenty-seven +years lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quitted +Arundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan. +She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to see +whether it had healed. + +"Mother," said Philippa suddenly, "thou wilt come with me to Kilquyt?" + +"For a time," answered Isabel, "if thine husband assent thereto." + +"I shall not ask him," said Philippa, with a slight pout. + +"Then I shall not go," replied Isabel quietly. "I will not enter his +house without his permission." + +Philippa's surprise and disappointment were legible in her face. + +"But, mother, thou knowest not my lord," she interposed. "There is not +in all the world a man more wearisome to dwell withal. Every thing I +do, he dislikes; and every thing I wish to do, he forbids. I am +thankful for his absence, for when he is at home, from dawn to dusk he +doth nought save to find fault with me." + +But, notwithstanding her remonstrance, Philippa had fathomed her +mother's motive in thus answering. Sir Richard possessed little of his +own; he was almost wholly dependent on the Earl her father; and had it +pleased that gentleman to revoke his grant of manors to herself and her +husband, they would have been almost ruined. And Philippa knew quite +enough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings would +be so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel's +presence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from saying +more. + +"Hush, my daughter!" said the low voice. "Repay not thou by finding +fault in return. `What glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for your +faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well and suffer +for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God.'" + +"I am not so patient as you, mother," answered Philippa, shaking her +head. "Perhaps it were better for me if I were. But dost thou mean +that I must really ask my lord's leave ere thou wilt come with me?" + +"I do mean it." + +"And thou sayest, `for a time'--wilt thou not dwell with me?" + +"The vows of the Lord are upon me," replied Isabel, gravely. "I cannot +forsake the place wherein He hath set me, the work which He hath given +me to do. I will visit thee, and my sister also; but that done, I must +return hither." + +"But dost thou mean to live and die in yonder cell?" + +It was in the recreation-room of the Convent that they were conversing. + +"Even so, my daughter." [See Note 1.] + +Philippa's countenance fell. It seemed very hard to part again when +they had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must be +difficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed than +surprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past. + +"My child," said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, "if I err in +thus speaking, I pray God to pardon me. I can but follow what I see +right; and `to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it is +unclean.' How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for help +throughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst always +come, or send for me." + +This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, because +she felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescended +to make it. + +The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippa +was unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen had +formed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabel +had been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, under +the superintendence of the King's Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also a +Predicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random,--to +"Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster's following, at +Bordeaux, or wherever he may be found." Fortunately for Philippa, the +Prior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer to +London on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter to +the Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatches +sent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written, +requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she and +Isabel meant to proceed at once. + +The spring was in its full beauty when they reached Shaftesbury. +Philippa had not found an opportunity to let the Abbess know of her +coming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame. +The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and at +Philippa's desire the Abbess sent for Mother Joan to the guest-chamber. +Sister Senicula led her in. + +"How is it with you, Aunt?" said Philippa affectionately. "I have +returned hither, as you may hear." + +"Ah! Is it thou, child?" said the blind nun in answer. "I fare +reasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hither +again." + +It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister from +whom she had parted in such painful circumstances, thirty-seven years +before. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippa +waited for her. At last Isabel said in a choked voice--"Sister Joan!" + +"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the blind woman; "who called me that?" + +"One that thou knewest once," answered Isabel's quivering voice. + +"From Heaven?" cried Joan almost wildly. "Can the dead come back +again?" And she stretched forth her hands in the direction from which +the sound of her sister's voice had come. + +"No, but the living may," said Isabel, kneeling down by her, and +clasping her arms around her. + +"Isabel!" And Joan's trembling hands were passed over her face, as if +to assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. "It can be no +voice but thine. Holy Virgin, I thank thee!" + +The Abbess broke in, in a manner which, though well-meant, was +exceedingly ill-timed and in bad taste. She was kindly-disposed, but +had not the faintest trace of that delicate perception of others' +feelings, and consideration for them, which constitutes the real +difference between Nature's ladies and such as are not ladies. + +"Verily, to think that this holy Mother and our Mother Joan be sisters!" +cried she, "I remember somewhat of your history, my holy Sister: are you +not she that was sometime Countess of Arundel?" + +Philippa saw how Isabel trembled from head to foot; but she knew not +what to say. Joan La Despenser was equal to the emergency. + +"Holy Mother," she said quietly, "would it please you, of your great +goodness, to permit me to remain here during the recreation-hour with my +sister? I am assured we shall have much to say each to other, if we may +have your blessed allowance to speak freely after this manner." + +"Be it so, Sister," said the Abbess, smiling genially; "I will see to +our sisters in the recreation-chamber." + +A long conversation followed the departure of the Abbess. Joan took up +the history where she had parted from Isabel, and told what had been her +own lot since then; and Isabel in her turn recounted her story--neither +a long nor an eventful one; for it told only how she had been taken to +Sempringham by the page, and had there settled herself, in the hermit's +cell which happened to be vacant. + +When Philippa was lying awake that night, her thoughts were troublous +ones. Not only did she very much doubt Sir Richard's consent to her +mother's visit to Kilquyt; but another question was puzzling her +exceedingly. How far was it desirable to inform Isabel of the death of +Alianora? She had noticed how the unfortunate remark of the Abbess had +agitated her mother; and she also observed that when Joan came to speak +to Isabel herself, she was totally silent concerning Earl Richard. The +uncomplimentary adjectives which she had not spared in speaking to +Philippa were utterly discarded now. Would it not do at least as much +harm as good to revive the old memories of pain by telling her this? +Philippa decided to remain silent. + +The summer was passing away, and the autumn hues were slowly creeping +over the forest, when Sir Richard's answer arrived at Shaftesbury. It +was not a pleasing missive; but it would have cost Philippa more tears +if it had made her less angry. That gentleman had not written in a good +temper; but he was not without excuse, for he had suffered something +himself. He had not dared to reply to Philippa's entreaty, without +seeking in his turn the permission of the Earl of Arundel, in whose +hands his fortune lay to make or mar. And, by one of those +uncomfortable coincidences which have led to the proverb that +"Misfortunes never come single," it so happened that the news of the +Countess's death had reached the Earl on the very morning whereon Sir +Richard laid Philippa's letter before him. The result was that there +broke on the devoted head of Sir Richard a tempest of ungovernable rage, +so extremely unpleasant in character that he might be excused for his +anxiety to avoid provoking a second edition of it. The Earl was +grieved--so far as a nature like his could entertain grief--to lose his +second wife; but to find that the first wife had been discovered, and by +her daughter, possessed the additional character of insult. That the +occurrence was accidental did not alter matters. Words would not +content the aggrieved mourner: his hand sought the hilt of his sword, +and Sir Richard, thinking discretion the better part of valour, made his +way, as quickly as the laws of matter and space allowed him, out of the +terrible presence whereinto he had rashly ventured. Feeling himself +wholly innocent of any provocation, it was not surprising that he should +proceed to dictate a letter to his wife, scarcely calculated to gratify +her feelings. Thus ran the offending document:-- + + "Dame,--Your epistle hath reached mine hands, [see Note 2] wherein it + hath pleased you to give me to know of your finding of the Lady Isabel + La Despenser, your fair mother, [see Note 3] and likewise of your + desire that she should visit you at my Manor of Kilquyt. Know + therefore, that I can in no wise assent to the same. For I am assured + that it should provoke, and that in no small degree, the wrath of your + fair father, my gracious Lord of Arundel: and I hereby charge you, on + your obedience, so soon as you shall receive this my letter, that you + return home, and tarry no longer at Shaftesbury nor Sempringham. Know + that I fare reasonably well, and Eustace my squire; and your fair + father likewise, saving that he hath showed much anger towards you and + me. And thus, praying God and our blessed Lady, and Saint Peter and + Saint Paul, to keep you. I rest. + + "R. Sergeaux." + +The entire epistle was written by a scribe, for Sir Richard was as +innocent of the art of calligraphy as Philippa herself; and the +appending of his seal was the only part of the letter achieved by his +own hand. + +Philippa read the note three times before she communicated its contents +to any one. The first time, it was with feelings of bitter anger +towards both her father and her husband; the second, her view of her +father's conduct remained unchanged, but she began to see that Sir +Richard, from his own point of view, was not without reasonable excuse +for his refusal, and that considering the annoyance he had himself +suffered, his letter was moderate and even tolerably kind,--kind, that +is, for him. After the third perusal, Philippa carried the letter to +Joan, and read it to her--not in Isabel's presence. + +"What a fool wert thou, child," said Joan, with her usual bluntness, "to +send to thy lord concerning this matter! Well, what is done, is done. +I had looked for no better had I known of it." + +Philippa did not read the letter to her mother. She merely told her the +substance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her at +Kilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lip +quivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled. + +"I am not surprised, my child," she said. "Take heed, and obey." It +was hard work to obey. Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leave +Isabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the as +lonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night in +the recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat by +themselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of her +daughter. + +"But how do you account for all the sorrow that is in the world?" +Philippa had been saying. "Take my life, for instance, or your own, +mother. God could have given us very pleasant lives, if it had pleased +Him; why did He not do so? How can it augur love, to take out of our +way all things loved or loving?" + +"My daughter," answered Isabel, "I am assured--and the longer I live the +more assured I am--that the way which God marketh out for each one of +His chosen is the right way, the best way, and for that one the only +way. Every pang given to us, if we be Christ's, is a pang that could +not be spared. `As He was, so are we in this world;' and with us, as +with Him, `thus it _must_ be.' All our Lord's followers wear His crown +of thorns; but theirs, under His loving hand, bud and flower; which His +never did, till He could cry upon the rood, `It is finished.'" + +"But could not God," said Philippa, a little timidly, "have given us +more grace to avoid sinning, rather than have needed thus to burn our +sins out of us with hot irons?" + +"Thou art soaring up into the seventh Heaven of God's purposes, my +child," answered Isabel with a smile; "I have no wings to follow thee so +far." + +"Thou thinkest, then, mother," replied Philippa with a sigh, "that we +cannot understand the matter at all." + +"We can understand only what is revealed to us," replied Isabel; "and +that, I grant, is but little; yet it is enough. `As many as I love, I +rebuke and chasten.' `What son is he whom the father chasteneth not?' +How could it be otherwise? He were no wise father nor loving, who +should teach his son nothing, or should forbear to rebuke him for such +folly as might hereafter be his ruin." + +Isabel was silent, and Philippa's memory went back to those old loveless +days at Arundel, when for her there had been no chastening, no rebuke, +only cold, lifeless apathy. That was not love. And she thought also of +her half-sister Alesia, whom she had visited once since her marriage, +and who brought up her children on the principle of no contradiction and +unlimited indulgence; and remembering how discontented and hard to +please this discipline had made them, she began to see that was not love +either. + +"Thou hast wrought arras, my daughter," said Isabel again. "Thou +knowest, therefore, that to turn the arras the backward way showeth not +the pattern. The colours are all mixed out of proportion, as the +fastenings run in and out. So our life is in this world. The arras +shall only be turned the right way above, when the angels of God shall +see it, and marvel at the fair proportions and beauteous colours of that +which looked so rough and misshapen here below. + +"Moreover, we are thus tried, methinks, not only for our own good. We +are sent into this world to serve: to serve God first, and after to +serve man for God's sake. And every blow of the chisel on the stone +doth but dress it for its place. God's chisel never falleth on the +wrong place, and never giveth a stroke too much. Every pang fitteth us +for more service; and I think thou shouldst find, in most instances, +that the higher and greater the service to which the varlet is called, +the deeper the previous suffering which fitteth him therefor. And God's +greatnesses are not ours. In His eyes, a poor serving-maiden may have a +loftier and more difficult task than a lord of the King's Council, or a +Marshal of the army. + +"And after all, every sorrow and perplexity, be it large or small, doth +but give God's child an errand to his Father. Nothing is too little to +bear to His ear, if it be not too little to distress and perplex His +servant. To Him all things pertaining to this life are small--the cloth +of estate no less than the blade of grass; and all things pertaining to +that other and better life in His blessed Home, are great and mighty. +Yet we think the first great, and the last little. And therefore things +become great that belong to the first life, just in proportion as they +bear upon the second. Nothing is small that becomes to thee an occasion +of sin; nothing, that can be made an incentive to holiness." + +"O mother, mother!" said Philippa, with a sudden sharp shoot of pain, +"to-morrow I shall be far away from you, and none will teach me any +more!" + +"God will teach thee Himself, my child," said Isabel tenderly. "He can +teach far better than I. Only be thou not weary of His lessons; nor +refuse to learn them. Maybe thou canst not see the use of many of them +till they are learned; but `thou shalt know hereafter.' Thou shalt find +many a thorn in the way; but remember, it is not set there in anger, if +thou be Christ's; and many a flower shall spring up under thy feet, when +thou art not looking for it. Only do thou never loose thine hold on +Him, who has promised never to loose His on thee. Not that thou +shouldst be lost in so doing; He will have a care of that: but thou +mightest find thyself in the dark, and so far as thou couldst see, +alone. It is sin that hides God from man; but nothing can hide man from +God." + +And Philippa, drawing closer to her, whispered,--"Mother, pray for me." + +A very loving smile broke over Isabel's lips, as she pressed them fondly +upon Philippa's cheek. + +"Mine own Philippa," she said, in the softest accent of her soft voice, +"dost thou think I have waited thirty years for that?" + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. I am aware that this resolution will appear inconsistent with +Isabel's character; yet any other would have been inconsistent with her +times. The vows of recluses were held very sacred; and the opinions of +the Boni-Homines on the monastic question were little in advance of +those of the Church of Rome. + +Note 2. Had Sir Richard been a peer, he would have said "_our_ hands." +This style, now exclusively royal, was in 1372 employed by all the +nobles. + +Note 3. This adjective also was peculiar to the peerage and the Royal +Family. It was given to every relation except between husband and wife: +and the French _beau-pirt_ for _father-in-law_ is doubtless derived from +it. Nay, it was conferred on the Deity; and "Fair Father Jesu Christ" +was by no means an uncommon title used in prayer. In like manner, Saint +Louis, when he prayed, said, "_Sire Dieu_," the title of knighthood. +Quaint and almost profane as this usage sounds to modern ears, I think +their instinct was right: they addressed God in the highest and most +reverential terms they knew. + + + +CHAPTER TEN. + +FOUR YEARS LATER. + + "When the shore is won at last, + Who will count the billows past?" + + Keble. + +It was winter again; and the winds blew harshly and wailingly around the +Castle of Arundel. In the stateliest chamber of that Castle, where the +hangings were of cramoisie paned with cloth of gold, the evening tapers +were burning low, and a black-robed priest knelt beside the bed where an +old man lay dying. + +"I can think of nothing more, Father," faintly whispered the penitent. +"I have confessed every sin that I have ever sinned, so far as my memory +serveth: and many men have been worse sinners than I. I never robbed a +church in all my wars. I have bequeathed rents and lands to the Priory +of God and Saint Pancras at Lewes, for two monks to celebrate day by day +masses of our Lady and of the Holy Ghost,--two hundred pounds; and for +matins and requiem masses in my chapel here, a thousand marks; and four +hundred marks to purchase rent lands for the poor; and all my debts I +have had a care to pay. Can I perform any other good work? Will that +do, Father?" + +"Thou canst do nought else, my son," answered the priest. "Thou hast +right nobly purchased the favour of God, and thine own salvation. Thy +soul shall pass, white and pure, through the flames of Purgatory, to be +triumphantly acquitted at the bar of God." + +And lifting his hands in blessing, he pronounced the unholy +incantation,--"_Absolvo te_!" + +"Thank the saints, and our dear Lady!" feebly responded the dying man. +"I am clean and sinless." + +Before the morrow dawned on the Conversion of Saint Paul, that old man +knew, as he had never known on earth, whether he stood clean and sinless +before God or not. There were no bands in that death. The river did +not look dark to him; it did not feel cold as his feet touched it. But +on the other side what angels met him? and what entrance was accorded, +to that sin-defiled and uncleansed soul, into that Land wherein there +shall in no wise enter anything that defileth? + +And so Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel, passed away. + +Two months later,--by a scribe's letter, written in the name of her +half-brother, the young, brave, joyous man upon whose head the old +coronet had descended,--the news of the Earl's death reached Philippa +Sergeaux at Kilquyt. Very differently it affected her from the manner +in which she would have received it four years before. And very +differently from the manner in which it was received by the daughters of +Alianora, to whom (though they did not put it into audible words) the +real thought of the heart was--"Is the old man really gone at last? +Well, it was time he should. Now I shall receive the coronet he left to +me, and the two, or three, thousand marks." For thus he had remembered +Joan and Alesia; and thus they remembered him. To Mary he left nothing; +a sure sign of offence, but how incurred history remains silent. But to +the eldest daughter, whose name was equally unnamed with hers--whose +ears heard the news so far away--whose head had never known the fall of +his hand in blessing--whose cheek had never been touched by loving lips +of his--to Philippa Sergeaux the black serge for which she exchanged her +damask robes was real mourning. + +She did not say now, "I can never forgive my father." It is not when we +are lying low in the dust before the feet of the Great King, oppressed +with the intolerable burden of our ten thousand talents, that we feel +disposed to rise and take our fellow-servant by the throat, with the +pitiless, "Pay me that thou owest." The offensive "Stand by,--I am +holier than thou!" falls only from unholy lips. When the woman that was +a sinner went out, washed and forgiven, from that sinless Presence, with +the shards of the broken alabaster box in her hand, she was less likely +than at any previous time in her life to reproach the fellow-sinners +whom she met on her journey home. So, when Philippa Sergeaux's eyes +were opened, and she came to see how much God had forgiven her, the +little that she had to forgive her father seemed less than nothing in +comparison. She could distinguish now, as previously she could not--but +as God does always--between the sin and the sinner; she was able to keep +her hatred and loathing for the first, and to regard the second with the +deepest pity. And when she thought of the sleep into which she could +have little doubt that his soul had been lulled,--of the black awakening +"on the brink of the pit,"--there was no room in her heart for any +feeling but that of unutterable anguish. + +They had not sent for her to Arundel. Until she heard that the end was +reached, she never knew he was near the end at all. + +It is not Christianity, but Pharisaism, which would shut up the kingdom +of heaven against all but itself. To those who have tasted that the +Lord is gracious, it is something more than mere privilege to summon him +that is athirst to come. "Necessity is upon them--yea, woe is unto them +if they preach not the gospel!" Though no Christian is a priest, every +Christian must be a preacher. Ay, and that whether he will or not. He +may impose silence upon his lips, but his life must be eloquent in spite +of himself. And what a terrible thought is this, when we look on our +poor, unworthy, miserable lives rendered unto the Lord, for all His +benefits toward us! When the world sees us vacillating between right +and wrong--questioning how near we may go to the edge of the precipice +and yet be safe--can it realise that we believe that right and wrong to +be a matter of life and death? Or when it hears us murmuring +continually over trifling vexations, can it believe that we honestly +think ourselves those to whom it is promised that all shall work for +good--that all things are ours--that we are heirs of God, and +joint-heirs with Christ? + +O Lord, pardon the iniquities of our holy things! Verily, without Thee +we can do nothing. + +On the morning that this news reached Kilquyt, an old man in the garb of +the Dominican Order was slowly mounting the ascent which led from the +Vale of Sempringham. The valley was just waking into spring life. In +the trees above his head the thrushes and chaffinches were singing; and +just before him, diminished to a mere speck in the boundless blue, a +lark poured forth his "flood of delirious music." The Dominican paused +and rested on his staff while he listened. + +"Sing, happy birds!" he said, when at length the lark's song was over, +and the bird had come down to earth again. "For you there are no vain +regrets over yesterday, no woeful anticipations of to-morrow. But what +kind of song can _she_ sing when she hath heard the news I bring her?" + +"Father Guy!" said a voice beside him. + +It was a child of ten years old who stood in his path--a copy of Elaine +four years before. + +"Ah, maid, art thou there?" answered Guy. "Run on, Annora, and say to +the Grey Lady that I will be at her cell in less than an hour. Thy feet +are swifter than mine." + +Annora ran blithely forward. Guy of Ashridge pursued his weary road, +for he was manifestly very weary. At length he rather suddenly halted, +and sat down on a bank where primroses grew by the way-side. + +"I can go no further without resting," said he. "Ten is one thing, and +threescore and ten is another. If I could turn back and go no +further!--Is the child here again already?" + +"Father Guy," said Annora, running up and throwing herself down on the +primrose bank, "I have been to the cell, but I have not given your +message." + +"Is the Lady not there?" asked Guy, a sudden feeling of relief coming +over him. + +"Oh yes, she is there," replied the child; "but she was kneeling at +prayer, and I thought you would not have me disturb her." + +"Right," answered the monk. "But lest she should leave the cell ere I +reach it, go back, Annora, and keep watch. Tell her, if she come forth, +that I must speak with her to-day." + +Once more away fled the light-footed Annora, and Guy, rising, resumed +his journey. + +"If it must be, it may as well be now," he said to himself, with a sigh. + +So, plodding and resting by turns, he at length arrived at the door of +the cell. The door was closed, and the child sat on the step before it, +singing softly to herself, and playing with a lapful of wild flowers-- +just as her sister had been doing when Philippa Sergeaux first made her +acquaintance. + +"Is she come forth yet?" asked Guy. + +Annora shook her flaxen curls. Guy went to the little window, and +glanced within. The grey figure was plainly visible, kneeling in +prayer, with the head bent low, and resting against a ledge of the rock +which formed the walls of the little dwelling. The monk sat down on a +piece of rock outside the cell, and soon so completely lost himself in +thought that Annora grew weary of her amusement before he spoke again. +She did not, however, leave him; but when she had thrown away her +flowers, and had spent some minutes in a vain search for a four-leaved +clover, fairly tired out, she came and stood before him. + +"The shadow is nearly straight, Father Guy. Will she be much longer, do +you think?" + +Guy started suddenly when Annora spoke. + +"There is something amiss," he replied, in a tone of apprehension. "I +never knew her so long before. Has she heard my news already?" + +He looked in again. The grey veiled figure had not changed its +position. After a moment's irresolution, Guy laid his hand upon the +latch. The monk and the child entered together,--Guy with a face of +resolute endurance, as though something which would cost him much pain +must nevertheless be done; Annora with one of innocent wonder, not +unmixed with awe. + +Guy took one step forward, and stopped suddenly. + +"O Father Guy!" said Annora in a whisper, "the Grey Lady is not +praying,--she is asleep." + +"Yes, she is asleep," replied Guy in a constrained voice. "`So He +giveth His beloved sleep.' He knew how terribly the news would pain +her; and He would let none tell it to her but Himself. `I thank Thee, O +Father, Lord of Heaven and earth!'" + +"But how strangely she sleeps!" cried Annora, still under her breath. +"How white she is! and she looks so cold! Father Guy, won't you awake +her? She is not having nice dreams, I am afraid." + +"The angels must awake her," said Guy, solemnly. "Sweeter dreams than +hers could no man have; for far above, in the Holy Land, she seeth the +King's face. Child, this is not sleep--it is death." + +Ay, in the attitude of prayer, her head pillowed in its last sleep on +that ledge of the rock, knelt all that was mortal of Isabel La +Despenser. With her had been no priest to absolve--save the High +Priest; no hand had smoothed her pathway to the grave but the Lord's own +hand, who had carried her so tenderly through the valley of the shadow +of death. Painlessly the dark river was forded, silently the +pearl-gates were thrown open; and now she stood within the veil, in the +innermost sanctuary of the Temple of God. The arras of her life, +wrought with such hard labour and bitter tears, was complete now. All +the strange chequerings of the pattern were made plain, the fair +proportions no longer hidden: the perfected work shone out in its +finished beauty, and she grudged neither the labour nor the tears now. + +Guy of Ashridge could see this; but to Annora it was incomprehensible. +She had been told by her mother that the Grey Lady had passed a life of +much suffering before she came to Sempringham; for silent as she was +concerning the details of that life, Isabel had never tried to conceal +the fact that it had been one of suffering. And the child's childish +idea was the old notion of poetical justice--of the good being rewarded, +and the evil punished, openly and unmistakably, in this world; a state +of affairs frequently to be found in novels, but only now and then in +reality. Had some splendid litter been borne to the door of the little +cell, and had noblemen decked in velvet robes, shining with jewels, and +riding on richly caparisoned horses, told her that they were come to +make the Grey Lady a queen, Annora would have been fully satisfied. But +here the heavenly chariot was invisible, and had come noiselessly; the +white and glistering raiment of the angels had shone with no perceptible +lustre, had swept by with no audible sound. The child wept bitterly. + +"What troubleth thee, Annora?" said Guy of Ashridge, laying his hand +gently upon her head. + +"Oh!" sobbed Annora, "God hath given her nothing after all!" + +"Hath He given her nothing?" responded Guy. "I would thou couldst ask +her, and see what she would answer." + +"But I thought," said the child, vainly endeavouring to stop crying, "I +thought He had such beautiful things to give to people He loved. She +used to say so. But He gave her nothing beautiful--only this cell and +those grey garments. I thought He would have clad her in golden +baudekyn [see Note 1], and set gems in her hair, and given her a horse +to ride,--like the Lady de Chartreux had when she came to the Convent +last year to visit her daughter, Sister Egidia. Her fingers were all +sparkling with rings, and her gown had beautiful strings of pearl down +the front, with perry-work [see Note 2] at the wrists. Why did not God +give the Grey Lady such fair things as these? Was she not quite as good +as the Lady de Chartreux?" + +"Because He loved her too well," said Guy softly. "He had better and +fairer things than such poor gauds for her. The Lady de Chartreux must +die one day, and leave all her pearls and perry-work behind her. But to +the Lady Isabel that here lieth dead, He gave length of days for ever +and ever; He gave her to drink of the Living Water, after which she +never thirsted any more." + +"Oh, but I wish He would have given her something that I could see!" +sobbed Annora again. + +"Little maid," said Guy, his hand again falling lightly on the little +flaxen head, "God grant that when thy few and evil days of this lower +life be over, thou mayest both see and share what He hath given her!" + +And slowly he turned back to "her who lay so silent." + +"Farewell, Isabel, Countess of Arundel!" he said almost tenderly. "For +the corruptible coronet whereof man deprived thee, God hath given thee +an incorruptible crown. For the golden baudekyn that was too mean to to +clothe thee,--the robes that are washed white, the pure bright stone +[see Note 3] whereof the angels' robes are fashioned. For the stately +barbs which were not worthy to bear thee,--a chariot and horses of fire. +And for the delicate cates of royal tables, which were not sweet enough +for thee,--the Bread of Life, which whosoever eateth shall never hunger, +the Water of Life, which whosoever drinketh shall never thirst. + + "`_O retributio! stat brevis actio, vita perennis; + O retributio! caelica mansio stat lue plenis._'" + + See Note 4 for a translation. + +"How blessed an exchange, how grand a reward! I trust God, but thou +seest Him. I believe He hath done well, with thee, as with me, but thou +knowest it." + + "`Jamais soyf n'auras + A l'eternite!'" + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Note 1. Baudekyn, the richest variety of this rich silk, in which +threads of gold were probably intermingled. + +Note 2. Perry-work: goldsmiths' work, often set with precious stones. + +Note 3. In Revelations xv. 6, the most ancient MSS., instead of "pure +and white linen," read "a pure bright stone." + +Note 4: + + "`O happy retribution! + Short toil, eternal rest; + For mortals and for sinners + A mansion with the blest!'" + + Neals's _Translation_. + + + +APPENDIX. + +Some readers of this tale may desire to know on what historical +foundation it rests, and in what points the fiction departs from truth. + +The Order of Predicant Friars was instituted by Dominic in 1215, with +the avowed object of maintaining Roman doctrine and supremacy, and of +opposing and superseding the wandering preachers sent out by the +Waldensian Church into all parts of Europe, and known chiefly as +_Boni-Homines_, or _Poor Men of Lyons_. But the Waldensian Church was +acute enough to take advantage of this movement; and no sooner had the +Order been founded than an army of "Gospellers" (as even thus early they +were called), issued forth under its shelter. It appears probable that +at an early period of their preaching, a very large percentage of the +Predicant Friars were Gospellers. It is, moreover, an historical fact, +that during the struggle between Edward the Second and his wretched +Queen, the Predicant Friars ranged themselves on the side of the King, +who had always been their friend, and whose own confessor, Luke de +Wodeford, was of their Order. (_Rot. Ex., Pasc_, 2 Ed. III.) That the +Despensers also patronised them is rather an inference founded upon +fact, yet on such facts as very decidedly point to this conclusion. It +should not be forgotten, that all accounts of the reign and character of +Edward the Second which have come down to us were written by monks, or +by persons educated in the opinions of the monks; and the Church of Rome +has never, at any period of her history, hesitated to accuse of the +vilest crimes any who endeavoured to escape from her toils into the pure +light of the Gospel of Christ. + +That Hugh Le Despenser the Elder was an unprincipled and avaricious man, +there can be little question. With him, if he embraced the principles +of the _Boni-Homines_ at all, it was evidently a mere matter of +intellectual opinion. Much less evidence can be found against his son, +whose chief crime seems to have been that he aroused the hatred of the +"she-wolf of France." Joan La Despenser (the ladies of the family are +always distinguished as _La_ Despenser in contemporary records) lived to +a good age, for she was probably born about 1310, and she died in her +nunnery of Shaftesbury, November 8, 1384 (I.P.M. 8 Ric. II., 14). + +Richard Earl of Arundel, surnamed _Copped-Hat_, the elder of the two +sons of Earl Edmund and Alesia, heiress of Surrey, was born about 1308, +and died January 24, 1376. (Arundel MS. 51, fol. 18.) His father was +beheaded with Hugh Le Despenser the Elder, October 8 or 27, 1326; his +mother died before May 23, 1338. (Froissart's Chronicles, Book I., +chapter xi.; _Rot. Pat_. 12 Ed. III., Part 2.) His first marriage was +before February 2, 1321 (_Ib_. 14 Ed. II., Pt. 2); and his baby Countess +was probably not more than three years old at that time. Her divorce +immediately preceded the second marriage, and it was apparently just +before June 24, 1345. On that day, "Isabel La Despenser, and Alianora +daughter of Henry Earl of Lancaster," are returned among the tenants of +Richard Earl of Arundel (_Ib_., 19 Ed. III., Pt. 1): the designation +showing that on that day neither was Countess of Arundel, but that the +marriage-settlements of Alianora were already executed. After this date +all trace of Isabel disappears, until we meet with the name of "Dame +Isabel, daughter of Sir Hugh Spencer," among the persons buried in the + + +Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. (Harl. MS. 544, fol. 78.) The +Countess Alianora, at the time of her marriage, was the widow of John +Lord Beaumont, and the mother of two infant children; she had only just +returned from a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella. +(_Rot. Pat_. 18 Ed. III., Pt 1.) She died January 11, 1372 and was +buried at Lewes. (Reg. Lewes, fol. 108.) Her second family consisted +of three sons and three daughters--Richard, John, Thomas, Joan, Alesia, +and Alianora. The last-named died in childhood; all the rest survived +their parents.--Richard, a well-meaning and brave, but passionate and +narrow-minded man, was governed by his stronger-minded brother Thomas, +and under his evil influence entered upon a treasonable conspiracy, for +which he paid the penalty on Tower Hill in the spring of 1397.--John is +chiefly remarkable for having married the heiress of Maltravers, and +becoming eventually the root of the family.--Thomas became Bishop of Ely +and Archbishop of Canterbury--the persecuting Archbishop Arundel who +will perhaps be remembered by the readers of "Mistress Margery"--and +after suffering for his treasonable practices a richly-deserved +banishment, was at once recalled and restored by his friend and +fellow-conspirator, Henry the Fourth. He died in 1413. That the House +of Arundel had no "Gospel" sympathies is shown by more evidences than +one; though the Archbishop himself had at one time pretended friendship +towards the Lollards. It did not last long; he would scarcely have been +a true Arundel had it done so.--Joan Fitzalan was a woman of intense +energy and terrible passions. She did not live happily with her +husband, Humphrey Earl of Hereford, as appears from a curious and unique +entry on the Patent Rolls (33 Ed. III., Pt. 3), providing that Humphrey +should not divorce Joan on any pretence of precontract. The Earl, +however, died at the early age of thirty-one, and Joan, whose two +daughters were married to Princes (Alianora to Thomas Duke of +Gloucester, Mary to Henry the Fourth), became a very powerful and +wealthy widow. One anecdote will show what her character was better +than volumes of description. She presided in person at the execution of +John Duke of Exeter (brother of her sister Alesia's husband), he being +loyal to his half-brother, King Richard, while Joan was a vehement +partisan of her son-in-law, Henry the Fourth. When no one came forward, +in answer to her appeal, as the Duke's executioner, Joan exclaimed, +"Cursed be you villains! are none of you bold enough to kill a man?" A +squire volunteered to officiate, but when he had seen and heard the man +whom he was to slay, he shrank from the terrible task. "Madam," was his +remonstrance to the Countess, "for all the gold in the world, I cannot +kill such a Lord!" "Thou shalt do what thou hast promised," said Joan, +"or I will cut thy head off." And, probably knowing that she was likely +to "do what she had promised," the squire preferred the fall of the +Duke's head to his own. (_Lystoire de la Traison et Mort du Roy +Richart_, pp. 98-9.) This strong-minded woman died April 7, 1419, and +was buried at Walden, having previously been admitted a sister of the +Grey Friars in her brother's Cathedral of Canterbury. (I.P.M. 7 H.V., +59:--Arundel MS. 51, fol. 18:--_ib_. 68, fol. 51, b.) Of Alesia, +Countess of Kent, little personal is known. She left no mark on her +time, though the members of her numerous family were very prominent +characters. She died March 17, 1416 (I.P.M. 4 H.V., 51). + +By all genealogists who have hitherto written on the Arundel family, two +more daughters are ascribed to Earl Richard the Copped-Hat. These are +Philippa Sergeaux, the heroine of the tale; and Mary L'Estrange. At the +time when this story was written, I was misled to follow this +supposition, though I had already seen that in that case, Isabel, and +not Alianora, must have been the mother of Philippa. Some months after +the story was first published, I began to suspect that this was also the +case with regard to Mary L'Estrange. But I was not prepared for the +discovery, made only last May, that Philippa Sergeaux was not the +daughter of Earl Richard at all! In two charters recorded on a Close +Roll for 20 Ric. II., she distinctly styles herself "daughter of Sir +Edmund of Arundel, Knight," This was a younger brother of Earl Richard; +and his wife was Sybil Montacute, a daughter of the Lollard House of +Salisbury. It is probable, though no certainty has yet been found, that +Mary L'Estrange was also a daughter of Sir Edmund, since dates +conclusively show that she cannot have been the daughter of Alianora of +Lancaster. She died August 29, 1396, leaving an only child, Ankaretta +Talbot. (I.P.M. 20 R. II., 48). + +As early, therefore, as I have the opportunity of doing it, I make the +_amende honorable_ to my readers for having unwittingly misled them on +this point. It is scarcely a discredit not to have known a fact which +was known to none. The tale must therefore be regarded as pure fiction, +so far as Philippa is concerned; for Isabel La Despenser apparently had +no child. The facts remain the same as regards other persons, where +their history is not affected by the discovery. + +Philippa Sergeaux is represented in the opening of the story as a child +of three years old. It is more than probable that she was about ten +years younger. The date of her marriage is not on record. She was +eventually the mother of five children, though all were born subsequent +to the period at which my story closes. They were--Richard, born +December 21, 1376, and died issueless, June 24, 1396; Elizabeth, born +1379, wife of Sir William Marny; Philippa, born 1381, wife of Robert +Passele; Alice, born at Kilquyt, September 1, 1384, wife of Guy de Saint +Albino; Joan, born 1393, died February 21, 1400. Philippa became a +widow, September 30, 1393, and died September 13, 1399. (I.P.M., 17 +Ric. II., 53; 21 Ric. II., 50; 1 H. IV., 14, 23, 24.) + +Some of the Christian names may strike the reader as having a very +modern sound. I may therefore note that not one name occurs in the +story which is not authenticated by its appearance in the state papers +of the time. + +It only remains to be added, that the fictitious characters of the tale +are Giles de Edingdon and Guy of Ashridge, the nurse Alina, Agnes the +lavender, the nuns Laura and Senicula, and the woodcutter's children +Elaine and Annora. The details given of Earl Richard's will are true; +but the presence of the Earl and Sir Richard Sergeaux in the train of +John of Gaunt in Guienne, has been assumed for the purposes of the +story. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Well in the Desert, by Emily Sarah Holt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL IN THE DESERT *** + +***** This file should be named 23122.txt or 23122.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/1/2/23122/ + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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