The Well in the Desert, An Old Legend of the House of Arundel, by EmilySarah Holt. 

________________________________________________________________________The action takes place at the end of the fourteenth century and thestart of the fifteenth. It deals largely with a family connected withArundel in Sussex. They seem to have been rather nasty people, highlymotivated by greed and desire for even higher stations in life. Theywere fairly well-placed by today's standards, being closely related tovarious of the Kings of England of the day. Some of the women in thestory are quite as bad as many of the men. 

When these wicked people had done their wicked deeds there were oftenunfortunate children, dispossessed or forgotten in some attic of thecastle. One of these is the heroine of this story. She had never beentold who or where her mother was. By a series of coincidences shecomes across the name of a person who may know the answers to thesequestions. 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 terriblemess at the time, with numerous sects, and with the members of any onesect 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 contemporaryrecords. When Miss Holt wrote the story it seemed likely that Philippa, the central figure, was accurately represented. Unfortunately, afterthe 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 anapology at the end. 

________________________________________________________________________THE WELL IN THE DESERT, AN OLD LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF ARUNDEL, BY EMILYSARAH HOLT. 

PREFACE. 

It is said that only travellers in the arid lands of the East reallyknow the value of water. To them the Well in the Desert is a treasureand a blessing: unspeakably so, when the water is pure and sweet; yeteven though it be salt and brackish, it may still save life. 

Was it less so, in a figurative sense, to the travellers through thatgreat desert of the Middle Ages, wherein the wells were so few and farbetween? True, the water was brackish; man had denied the streams, andfilled up the wells with stones; yet for all this it was God-given, andto those who came, and dug for the old spring, and drank, it was thewater of eternal life. The cry was still sounding down the ages. 

"If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink. " And no lessblessed are the souls that come now: but for us, the wells are sonumerous and so pure, that we too often pass them by, and go on our waythirsting. Strange blindness!--yet not strange: for until the Angel ofthe Lord shall open the eyes of Hagar, she must needs go mourningthrough the wilderness, not seeing the well. 

"Lord, that we may receive our sight!"--and may come unto Thee, anddrink, 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 hourof a beautiful June morning; and fair was the landscape that met theeyes of the persons who were gathered a few feet from the portcullis ofa grand stately old castle, crowning a wooded height near the Sussexcoast. There were two persons seated on horseback: the one a youth ofsome twenty years, in a page's dress; the other a woman, who sat behindhim on the pillion. Standing about were two men and a woman, the lastholding a child in her arms. The woman on the pillion was closelyveiled, and much muffled in her wrappings, considering the season of theyear and the warmth of the weather; nor did she lift her veil when shespoke. 

"The child, Alina, " she said, in a tone so soft and low that the wordsseemed rather breathed than spoken. 

The woman who stood beside the horse answered the appeal by placing thechild in the arms of the speaker. It was a pretty, engaging little girlof three years old. The lady on the pillion, lifting the childunderneath her veil, strained it to her bosom, and bowed her head lowupon its light soft hair. Meanwhile, the horse stood still as a statue, and the page sat as still before her. In respectful silence the otherthree stood round. They knew, every one of them, that in that embraceto one of the two the bitterness of death was passing; and that when itwas ended she would have nothing left to fear--only because she wouldhave nothing left to hope. At length, suddenly, the lady lifted herhead, and held forth the child to Alina. Turning her head away towardthe sea, from the old castle, from the child, she made her farewell inone 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 theabundant green foliage around. They lingered a minute longer; but onlya minute--for a shrill, harsh voice from the portcullis summoned them toreturn. 

"Ralph, thou lither hilding! Alina, thou jade! Come hither at once, and get you to work. My Lady's bower yet unswept, by the SevenSleepers! and ye lingering yonder as ye had leaden heels! By the holybones of Saint Benedict, our master shall con you light thanks when hecometh!"

"That may be, " said Alina, under her breath. "Get you in, Ralph andJocelyn, or she shall be after again. "

And she turned and walked quickly into the castle, still carrying thechild. 

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 ahundred horsemen in livery, and the line was closed by a crowd ofarchers in Lincoln green, bearing cross-bows. From the litter, assistedby the gentleman, descended a young lady of some three-and-twenty years, upon whose lips hovered a smile of pleasure, and whose fair hair flowedin natural ringlets from beneath a golden fillet. The gentleman was hersenior 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-likeeyes, beneath which the group of servants manifestly quailed. 

"Is the Lady's bower ready?" he asked, addressing the foremost of thewomen--the one who had so roughly insisted on Alina's return. 

"It is so, an't like your noble Lordship, " answered she with a lowreverence; "it shall be found as well appointed as our poor laboursmight compass. "

He made no answer; but, offering his hand to the young lady who hadalighted from the litter, he led her up the stairs from thebanqueting-hall, into a suite of fair, stately apartments, according tothe taste of that period. Rich tapestry decorated the walls, freshgreen rushes were strewn upon the floor, all the painting had beenrenewed, and above the fireplace stood two armorial shields newlychiselled. 

"Lady, " he said, in a soft, courtly tone, "here is the bower. Doth itlike 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 thelovely sea-view was to be seen from it. 

"In good sooth, 'tis a fair spot!" she said half aloud. "And all newswept and garnished!"

There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the wordsmight have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora--"Not onlygarnished, but _swept_!"

My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered hercall. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the littleflaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events ofthe 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-tongueof the English nobles. 

She received an affirmative reply from all. 

"That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gearbrought up hither. --What a pretty child! whose is it?"

Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. "The LadyPhilippa 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 donot want her. _Mistress_ Philippa, for the future. That is mypleasure. "

And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady ofArundel 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, whereshe set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the littleflaxen head. 

"Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!" she cried. "Would to ourdear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, fornone other be like to do it save them and me. "

And suddenly rising, she slipped down on her knees, holding the childbefore her, beside a niche where a lamp made of pottery burned before ablackened 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 tothee 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, whatdoest thou? Have I not offered candles at thy shrine? Have I notdeprived myself of needful things to pay for thy litanies? What could Ihave 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 wasmade. 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 gazingfrom the casement in that turret-chamber--a girl whose face even aflatterer would have praised but little; and Philippa Fitzalan had noflatterers. The pretty child--as pretty children often do--had growninto a very ordinary, commonplace woman. Her hair, indeed, was glossyand luxuriant, and had deepened from its early flaxen into the darkestshade 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, andrather awkward. None had ever cared to amend her awkwardness; itsignified to nobody whether she looked well or ill. In a word, _she_signified to nobody. The tears might burn under her eyelids, oroverflow and fall, --she would never be asked what was the matter; shemight fail under her burdens and faint in the midst of them, --and if itoccurred to any one to prevent material injury to her, that was the veryutmost she could expect. Not that the Lady Alianora was unkind to herstepdaughter: that is, not actively unkind. She simply ignored herexistence. Philippa was provided, as a matter of course, with necessaryclothes, just as the men who served in the hall were provided withlivery; but anything not absolutely necessary had never been given toher in her life. There were no loving words, no looks of pleasure, noaffectionate caresses, lavished upon her. If the Lady Joan lost hertemper (no rare occurrence), or the Lady Alesia her appetite, or theLady Mary her sleep, the whole household was disturbed; but whatPhilippa suffered never disturbed nor concerned any one but herself. Tothese, her half-sisters, she formed a kind of humble companion, asuperior maid-of-all-work. All day long she heard and obeyed thecommands of the three young ladies; all day long she was bidden, "Comehere", "Go there", "Do this", "Fetch that. " And Philippa came, andwent, 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, andwould not, in all probability, return for some hours. 

And what was Philippa doing, as she sat gazing dreamily from thecasement of her turret-chamber--hers, only because nobody else liked theroom? Her eyes were fixed earnestly on one little spot of ground, a fewfeet from the castle gate; and her soul was wandering backward nineteenyears, recalling the one scene which stood out vividly, the earliest ofmemory's pictures--a picture without text to explain it--before which, and after which, came blanks with no recollection to fill them. She sawherself lifted underneath a woman's veil--clasped earnestly in a woman'sarms, --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 agonyand love was written. She never knew who that woman was. Indeed, shesometimes wondered whether it were really a remembrance, or only apicture drawn by her own imagination. But there it was always, deepdown 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 herchildhood, she scarcely recollected at all. And at the very core of theunseen, unknown heart of this quiet, undemonstrative girl, there lay oneintense, earnest, passionate longing for love. If but one of herfather's hawks or hounds would have looked brighter at her coming, shethought it would have satisfied her. For she had learned, long yearsere this, that to her father himself, or to the Lady Alianora, or to herhalf-brothers and sisters, she must never look for any shadow of love. The "mother-want about the world, " which pressed on her so heavily, theywould never fill. The dull, blank uniformity of simple apathy was allshe ever received from any of them. 

Her very place was filled. The Lady Joan was the eldest daughter of thehouse--not Mistress Philippa. For the pleasure of the Countess had beenfulfilled, and Mistress Philippa the girl was called. And when Joan wasmarried and went away from the castle (in a splendid litter hung withcrimson velvet), her sister Alesia stepped into her place as a matter ofcourse. Philippa did not, indeed, see the drawbacks to Joan's lot. They were not apparent on the surface. That the stately young noble whorode on a beautiful Barbary horse beside the litter, actually hated thegirl whom he had been forced to marry, did not enter into hercalculations: but as Joan cared very little for that herself, it was theless necessary that Philippa should do so. And Philippa only missedJoan 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 marriedsix months thence. It did not, however, trouble her that she had heardof this through a servant; she never looked for anything else. Had shebeen addicted (which, fortunately for her, she was not) to that mostprofitless of all manufactures, grievance-making, --she might have weptover this little incident. But except for one reason, the news of hersister's approaching marriage was rather agreeable to Philippa. Shewould have another tyrant the less; though it was true that Alesia hadalways been the least unkind to her of the three, and she would havewelcomed Mary's marriage with far greater satisfaction. But that oneterrible consideration which Blanche had forced on her notice!

"I marvel, indeed, that my gracious Lord hath not thought of yourdisposal, Mistress Philippa, ere this. "

Suppose he should think of it! For to Philippa's apprehension, love wasso far from being synonymous with marriage, that she held the two barelycompatible. Marriage to her would be merely another phase of Egyptianbondage, under a different Pharaoh. And she knew this was her probablelot: that (unless her father's neglect on this subject should continue--which she devoutly hoped it might) she would some day be informed byBlanche--or possibly the Lady Alianora herself might condescend to makethe communication--that on the following Wednesday she was to be marriedto Sir Robert le Poer or Sir John de Mountchenesey; probably a man whomshe had never seen, possibly one whom she just knew by sight. 

Philippa scarcely knew how, from such thoughts as these, her memoryslowly travelled back, and stayed outside the castle gate, at that Junemorning of nineteen years ago. Who was it that had parted with her sounwillingly? It could not, of course, be the mother of whom she hadnever heard so much as the name; she must have died long ago. On herside, so far as Philippa knew, she had no relations; and her aunts onthe father's side, the Lady Latimer, the Lady de l'Estrange, and theLady de Lisle, never took the least notice of her when they visited thecastle. And then came up the thought--"Who am I? How is it that nobodycares to own me? There must be a reason. What is the reason?"

"Mistress Philippa! look you here: the Lady Mary left with me this pieceof arras, and commanded me to give it unto you to be amended, andbeshrew me but I clean forgot. This green is to come forth, and thisblue 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 shecometh 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 dispelledPhilippa's dream, the Lady Alianora sat in her bower, looking over aquantity of jewellery. She put some articles aside to be reset, dismissed others as past amendment, or not worth it, and ordered some tobe restored to the coffer whence they had been taken. The Lady Alesiawas looking on, and Philippa stood behind with the maids. At last onlyone ornament was left. 

"This is worth nothing, " said the Countess, lifting from the table anold bracelet, partly broken. "Put it with the others--or stay: whencecame it?"

"Out of an ancient coffer, an't like your Ladyship, " said Blanche, "thathath been longer in the castle than I. "

"I should think so, " returned the Countess. "It must have belonged tomy Lord's grandmother, or some yet more ancient dame. 'Tis worthnothing. 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 handedto her. Moreover, this was the first present that had ever been made toher. And lastly, a dim notion floated through her mind that it mighthave belonged to her mother; and anything connected with that dead andunknown 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 thanusual to her turret-chamber. Without any distinct reason for doing so, she drew the bolt, and sitting down by the window, proceeded to examineher treasure. 

It was a plain treasure enough. A band of black enamel, set atintervals with seed-pearl and beryls, certainly was not worth much;especially since the snap was gone, one of the beryls and several pearlswere missing, and from the centre ornament, an enamelled rose, aportrait had apparently been torn away. Did the rose open? Philippatried it; for she was anxious to reach the device, if there were one toreach. The rose opened with some effort, and the device lay before her, written in small characters, with faded ink, on a scrap of parchmentfitting 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 anyopportunity of exercising it, yet she had not lost the art. Alina hadbeen a priest's sister, who in teaching her to read had taught her allthat he knew himself; and Alina in her turn had thus given to Philippaall that she had to give. 

But the characters of the device were so small and faint, that Philippaconsumed half an hour ere she could decipher them. At length shesucceeded in making out a rude rhyme or measure, in the Norman-Frenchwhich 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 thisbelonged to the former category; and she guessed in a moment that themeaning was a moral one; for she was accustomed to such hiddenallegorical allusions. And already she had advanced one step on theroad to that Well; she knew that "whosoever drinketh of this water shallthirst again. " Ay, from her that weary thirst was never absent. Butwhere was this Well from which it might be quenched? and who was it thatcould give her this living water?

Philippa's memory was a perfect storehouse of legends of the saints, andabove 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 inparticular not Saint Mary, had ever, in any legend that she knew, spokenwords like these. And what tremendous words they were! "Whosoeverdrinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst. "

There were long and earnest prayers offered that night in the littleturret-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 thatwas 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 inHis sovereign mercy unclose to them that know not how to ask. 

The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castlelavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. Shewas a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her presentplace 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 assumedby any woman who had a character to lose. The daughters of the LadyAlianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any lavender; but no onehad cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and she was therefore freeto 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--theold-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 tookpossession 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 shutthe door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: andI will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of mymother?"

Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hathbeen forbidden, Lady. "

"Who forbade it?"

The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did notmean 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 poorlavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfortus 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 notimagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honeyno sweeter than her soul!"

"Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of morebewilderment than ever. 

But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settledon the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippaknew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been hermother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother ofwhom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child wasnot 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 theCountess, carelessly. "It will do for her. "

It was cloth of silver. Philippa had never had such a dress in herlife. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she wasintended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage?

"You may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets, " said the Countesscondescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your owngowns 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 thatPhilippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed overafter this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakablegoodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; shehad not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty forher, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decidedbetween them. 

As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longerwanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deerto her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face inthe coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forthat 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 compassionatetone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was comingup 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 wereout of this weary and wicked world. "

"Ah, I have wished that ere now, " responded the lavender. "'Tis an illwish, 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, " answeredthe 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 soulloveth me, nor ever did. "

"She used to say One did love us, " said Agnes in a low voice; "even Hethat died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it islong, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet Ido mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mindwhat. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. Itwas the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what wascoming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he thatdrank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither, whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died onthe 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 andpeace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But therenever was a voice like hers--never. "

Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess whatthat bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Agesthan in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usuallya 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 storytouching 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 herbitter 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 herformer 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 atthe font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?"

Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sankher voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she justcaught 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 morebitter?"

Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where thetiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in asmall 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 hathknown freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot--notyours, Lady. "

Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor caged wings were beatingvainly 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, holyVirgin! how many of us women are so! And she was wont to say that therewas happiness in this life, yet not in this world. It lay, she said, inthat other world above, where God sitteth; and if we would ask for Himthat was meant by the better water, it would come and dwell in ourhearts along with Him. Our sweet Lady help us! we seem to have missedit somehow. "

"I have, at any rate, " whispered Philippa, her eyes fixed dreamily onthe 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 ofher new master. The Earl's choice, she was then informed, had fallen onSir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall, who would receive diversmanors with the hand of the eldest daughter of Arundel. Philippa was, however, not told that Sir Richard was expected to pay for the grantsand the alliance in extremely hard cash. 

For to the lofty position of eldest daughter of Arundel (for thatmorning only) Philippa, to her intense surprise, found herself suddenlylifted. She was robed in cloth of silver; her hair flowed from beneatha jewelled golden fillet; her neck was encircled by rubies, and a rubyand pearl girdle clasped her waist. She felt all the time as though shewere dreaming, especially when the Lady Alianora herself superintendedher arraying, and even condescended to remark that "the Lady Philippadid not look so very unseemly after all. "

Not least among the points which astonished her was the resumption ofher title. She did not know that this had formed a part of the bargainwith Sir Richard, who had proved impracticable on harder terms. He didnot mind purchasing the eldest daughter of Arundel at the high price setupon her; but he gave the Earl distinctly to understand that if he weremerely selling a Mistress Philippa, there must be a considerablediscount. 

When the ceremony and the wedding festivities were over, and her palfreywas standing ready at the door, Philippa timidly entered thebanqueting-hall, to ask--for the first and last time--her father'sblessing. He was conversing with the Earl of Kent, the bridegroom ofAlesia, concerning the merits of certain hawks recently purchased; andnear him, at her embroidery-frame, sat the Countess Alianora. 

Philippa knelt first to her. 

"Farewell, Philippa!" said the Countess, in a rather kinder tone thanusual. "The saints be with thee. "

Then she turned to the only relative she had. 

Earl Richard just permitted his jewelled fingers to touch Philippa'svelvet 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. Therewere only two things she was sorry to leave--Agnes, because she mighthave told her more about her mother, --and the grave, in the Priorychurchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora--the little sister who nevergrew up to tyrannise over her. 

It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor, and Philippa hadtime to make the acquaintance of her new owner. He was about her ownage, and so far as she could at first judge, a reasonably good-temperedman. The first discovery she made was that he was rather proud of her. Of Philippa the daughter of Arundel, of course, not of Philippa thewoman: but it was so new to be reckoned anything or anybody--so strangeto think that somebody was proud of her--that Philippa enjoyed theknowledge. As to his loving her, or her loving him, these were ideasthat never entered the minds of either. 

So at first Philippa found her married life a pleasant change. She wasnow at the head, instead of being under the feet of every one else; andher experience of Sir Richard gave her the impression at the outset thathe would not prove a hard master. Nor did he, strictly speaking; but onfurther acquaintance he proved a very trying one. His temper was not ofthe stormy kind that reigned at Arundel, which had hitherto beenPhilippa's only idea of a bad temper: but he was a perpetual grumbler, and the slightest temporary discomfort or vexation would overcast hersky with conjugal clouds for the rest of the day. The least stone inhis path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet asan unfathomable sea. And gradually--she scarcely knew how or when--theold weary discomfort crept back over Philippa's heart, the oldunsatisfied longing for the love that no one gave. Her bower at Kilquytwas no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel. Shefound that "On change du ciel--l'on ne change point de soi. " The damaskrobes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not grudge to heras her father had done, proved utterly unsatisfying to the misunderstoodcravings of her immortal soul. She did not herself comprehend why shewas not happier. She knew not the nature of the thirst which was uponher, which she was trying in vain to quench at the broken cisternswithin her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted again; and shehad not yet found the way to the Well of the Living Water. 

About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gateof her manor. It was a beautiful June morning--just such another asthat 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 LadySergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, thoughhalf-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the lastwaving of his nodding plume through the trees. He had left her a legacyof 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 veryworn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her women, and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as was manifestfrom the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had given back thegoblet, and the woman was gone, the monk turned towards Philippa, anduttered 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 themerely literal meaning. 

"I know the `ancor soyf aura, '" she said, mournfully; "I have notreached 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 whereto 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 theway?"

"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 theremore Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants. Andwhere is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred yearsago, when `one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, andforthwith came thereout blood and water. ' Over that stream of blood isthe 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 havefound 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 youmight tell me what would help me. "

The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour laterhe sat in Philippa's bower, and she knelt before him. 

"Father, " she said, at the close of her tale, "I have never known restnor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is thereany balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?--any healing virtuein its waters that could comfort me?"

"Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?" asked the monkquietly. 

"Never!" she said, almost indignantly. 

"I cannot hold with you there, " he replied. 

"Whom have I ever injured?" exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, halfamazed. 

"Listen, " said he, "and I will tell you of One whom all your life youhave injured and neglected--God. "

Philippa's protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hearsuch words as these. 

"Nay, heed not my words, " he pursued gently. "Your own lips shall bringyou in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, andsoul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?"

Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had notloved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried toher, "Unclean!" yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She feltangry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he "rubbed the sore, when he should bring the plaster. " Comfort she had asked, andcondemnation he was giving her instead. 

"Father!" she said, in mingled sadness and vexation, "you deal me hardmeasure. "

"My daughter, " answered the monk very gently, "the pitcher must bevoided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vesselfull of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the LivingWater. "

"Is it only for saints, then?" she asked in a disappointed tone. 

"It is only for sinners, " answered he: "and according to your ownbelief, you are not a sinner. The Living Water is not wasted onpitchers that have been filled already at other cisterns, `I will giveunto him that is athirst'--but to him only--`of the Fountain of theWater 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 youwould know. Be it so. They call us--Boni-Homines. "

"But I thought, " said Philippa, looking bewilderedly into his face, "Ithought those were very evil men. And Archbishop Bradwardine was a veryholy 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, forGod took him. Ay, took him away from the evil to come, where he shouldvex his righteous soul no more by unlawful deeds--where the alloyed goldof worldly greatness, which men would needs braid over the pure ermineof his life, should soil and crush it no more. "

He spoke rather to himself than to Philippa: and his eyes had a far-awaylook in them, as he lifted his head and gazed from the window over themoorland. 

"Then what are the Boni-Homines?" inquired Lady Sergeaux. 

"A few sinners, " answered the monk, "whose hearts God hath touched, thatthey have sought and found that Well of the Living Water. "

"But, Father, explain it to me!" she cried anxiously, perhaps even alittle 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 canI come? What mean you by coming? He is not here in this chamber, thatI can rise and go to Him. Can you not use words more intelligible tome?"

"In the first place, my daughter, " softly replied the monk, "you areunder a great mistake. Christ is here in this chamber, and hath heardevery word that we have said. And in the second place, I cannot usewords that shall be plainer to you. How can the dead understand theliving? How shall a man born blind be brought to know the difference ofcolour between green and blue. Yet the hardship lieth not in theinaptness 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 laidhis hand gently upon her head. 

"Take the best wish that I can make for you:--God show you how blind youare! God put life within you, that you may awake, and arise from thedead, and see the light of Christ! May He grant you that thirst whichshall be satisfied with nothing short of the Living Water--which shalllead you to disregard all the roughnesses of the way, and the storms ofthe journey, so that you may win Christ, and be found in Him! God stripyou of your own goodness!--for I fear you are over-well satisfiedtherewith. And no goodness shall ever have admittance into Heaven savethe goodness which is of God. "

"But surely, " exclaimed Philippa, looking up in surprise, "there isgrace of congruity?"

"Grace of congruity! grace of condignity!" [see Note] cried the monkfervently. "Grace of sin and gracelessness! It is not all worth somuch as one of these rushes upon your floor. If you carry grace ofcongruity to the gates of Heaven, I warn you it shall never bear you onestep 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 andperfected obedience of the Lord Jesus Christ. That staff shall not failyou. All the angels at the gate of Paradise know it; and the doorsshall 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 whereintonothing shall enter that defileth. Nothing but Christ and Christ's--theHead and the body, the Master and the meynie [household servant]. Maythe Master make you one of the meynie! Farewell. "

And in five minutes more, Guy of Ashridge was gone. 

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Note. "Condignity implies merit, and of course claims reward on thescore of justice. Congruity pretends only to a sort of imperfectqualification for the gifts and reception of God's grace. "--_Manet'sChurch 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 andvexed to lose him. She had called in a new physician to prescribe forher disease; and she was sure that he had administered a harmfulmedicine, if he had not also given a wrong diagnosis. Instead of beingbetter, 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 makeher peace with God. Various reasons induced her to select a convent ata distance from home. After a period of indecision, she fixed upon theAbbey of Shaftesbury, and obtained the necessary permission to residethere for a time. 

Lady Sergeaux arrived at Shaftesbury towards the close of August. Shefound the Abbess and nuns kindly-disposed towards her; and her stay wasnot disagreeable, except for the restless, dissatisfied feelings of herown heart. But she found that her peace was not made, for all herfastings, scourgings, vigils, and prayers. Guy's words came back to herwith every rite, "God strip you of your own goodness!" and she could notwrap herself in its mantle as complacently as before. 

In the Abbey of Shaftesbury was one nun who drew Philippa's attentionmore than the others. This was a woman of about sixty years of age, whom all the convent called Mother Joan. An upright, white-hairedwoman, with some remnant of former comeliness; but Mother Joan wasblind. Philippa pitied her affliction, and liked her simple, straightforward manner. She had many old memories and tales offorgotten 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 herone day during the recreation-hour. 

"Younger than you, Lady, " said Mother Joan. "I was but an hilding [seeNote 1] of twenty. "

"And wherefore was it, Mother?" inquired a giddy young nun, whose namewas 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 nunbecause my father had decreed it from my cradle, and my mother willed italso. There were but two of us maids, and--ah, well! she would not havemore than one to suffer. "

"Had thy sister, then, a woeful story?" asked Sister Laura, settling herwimple, [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 morediscreet nuns who Mother Joan was. 

"Eldest daughter of the great house of Le Despenser, " replied SisterSenicula; "of most excellent blood and lineage; daughter unto my nobleLord of Gloucester that was, and the royal Lady Alianora de Clare, hiswife, the daughter of a daughter of King Edward. By Mary, Mother andMaiden, 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 Ladyshipheard her say that she had been professed at twenty years. But I haveknown 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 MotherJoan. The blind nun passed her hand softly over Philippa's dress. 

"That is a damask, " [the figured silk made at Damascus] she said. "Iused to like damask and baudekyn. "

[Note: Baudekyn or baldekyn was the richest silk stuff then known, andalso 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 mineaunt, the Lady of Gloucester, at the court of King Edward of Caernarvon, arrayed in a fair baudekyn of rose colour and silver. It was theloveliest stuff I ever saw. And I could see then. "

Her voice fell so mournfully that Philippa tried to turn her attentionby asking her, --"Knew you King Edward of Westminster?" [See note 3. ]

"Nay, Lady de Sergeaux, with what years do you credit me?" rejoined thenun, 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 agoodly man, of lofty stature, and royal presence: a wise man, and acunning [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 thatno Bull should ever be brought into England? and hanged he not the Priorof Saint John of Jerusalem for reading one to his monks? I can tellyou, to brave Edward of Westminster was no laughing matter. He nevercared what his anger cost. His own children had need to think twice erethey aroused his ire. Why, on the day of his daughter the LadyElizabeth's marriage with my noble Lord of Hereford, he, being angeredby some word of the bride, snatched her coronet from off her head, andflung it behind the fire. Ay, and a jewel or twain was lost therefromere the Lady's Grace had it back. "

"And his son, King Edward of Caernarvon--what like was he?" askedPhilippa, smiling. 

Mother Joan did not answer immediately. At last she said, --"The blessedVirgin grant that they which have reviled him be no worse than he! Hehad some strange notions--so had other men, whom I at least am bound tohold in honour. God grant all peace!"

Philippa wondered who the other men were, and whether Mother Joanalluded to her own ancestors. She knew nothing of the Despensers, except the remembrance that she had never heard them alluded to atArundel but in a tone of bitter scorn and loathing. 

"Maybe, " continued the blind woman, in a softer voice, "he was no worsefor his strange opinions. Some were not. 'Tis a marvellous matter, surely, that there be that can lead lives of angels, and yet hold viewsthat holy Church condemneth as utterly to be abhorred. "

"Whom mean you, Mother?"

"I mean, child, " replied the nun, speaking slowly and painfully, "onewhom I hope is gone to God. One to whom, and for whom, this world wasan ill place; and, therefore, I trust she hath found her rest in abetter. God knoweth how and when she died--if she be dead. We neverknew. "

Mother Joan made the sign of the cross, and a very mournful expressioncame over her face. 

"Ah, holy Virgin!" she said, lifting her sightless eyes, "why is it thatsuch things are permitted? The wicked dwell in peace, and increasetheir goods; the holy dwell hardly and die poor. Couldst not thouchange the lots? There is at this moment one man in the world, clad incloth of gold, dwelling gloriously, than whom the foul fiend himself isscarcely worse; and there was one woman, like the angels, whose Queenthou art, and only God and thou know what became of her. Blessed Marymust such things always be? I cannot understand it. I suppose thoucanst. "

It was the old perplexity--as old as Asaph; but he understood it when hewent into the sanctuary of God, and Mother Joan had never followed himthere. 

"Lady de Sergeaux, " resumed the blind nun, "there is at times a tone inyour voice, which mindeth me strangely of hers--hers, of whom I spakebut now. If I offend not in asking it, I pray you tell me who were yourelders?"

Philippa gave her such information as she had to give. "I am a daughterof my Lord of Arundel. "

"Which Lord?" exclaimed Mother Joan, in a voice as of deep interestsuddenly awakened. 

"They call him, " answered Philippa, "Earl Richard the Copped-Hat. " [SeeNote 4. ]

"Ah!" answered Mother Joan, in that deep bass tone which sounds almostlike an execration. "That was the man. Like Dives, clad in purple andfine linen, and faring sumptuously every day; and his portion shall bewith Dives at the last. Your pardon, Dame; I forgat for the nonce thatI 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 abitter little laugh. "Well, I might have guessed that. And you, then, are a daughter of that proud jade Alianora of Lancaster, for whoseindwelling 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 Joanknows something of that mysterious history which hitherto she had failedso sadly to discover. 

"I cry you mercy, Mother, " she said. "But I am not the daughter of theLady Alianora. "

"Whose, then? Quick!" cried Mother Joan, in accents of passionateearnestness. 

"Who was my mother, " answered Philippa, "I cannot tell you, for I wasnever told myself. All that I know of her I had but from a poorlavender, 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 awail of tender, mournful love, from the lips of the blind nun. 

"Mother, " she pleaded, "if you know anything of her, for the holyVirgin's love tell it to me, her child. I have missed her and longedfor her all my life. Surely I have a right to know her story who gaveme 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 herlong-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 didnot give me precedence over her daughters, but then she is of the bloodroyal, and I am not. But--"

"Not royal!" exclaimed Mother Joan in extremely treble tones. "Havethey brought thee up so ignorantly as that? Not of the blood royal, quotha! Child, by our Lady's hosen, thou art fifty-three steps nearerthe throne than she! We were daughters of Alianora, whose mother wasJoan of Acon, [Acre, where Joan was born], daughter of King Edward ofWestminster; 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 othercommonly marcheth apace behind. "

"Then, " said Philippa, "my mother was--"

"Isabel La Despenser, younger daughter of the Lord Hugh Le Despenser theyounger, Earl of Gloucester, and grand-daughter of Hugh the elder, Earlof Winchester. Thou knowest their names well, if not hers. "

"I know nothing about them, " replied Philippa, shaking her head. "Noneever told me. I only remember to have heard them named at Arundel asvery 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 arebel! Traitors to a traitress! God reward Isabelle of France for allthe shame and ruin that she brought on England! Was the crown that shecarried 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 blackaccount of hers. Methinks it took some answering. Child, my father didsome ill things, and my grandfather did more; but did either everanything to merit the shame and agony of those two gibbets at Herefordand Bristol? Gibbets for them, that had sat in the King's council, andaided him to rule the realm, --and one of them a white-haired man oversixty years! [See Note 5. ] And what had they done save to anger thetigress? 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 thouwouldst know her story, not theirs: yet theirs is the half of hers, andthe 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 thanhers; and though in thy voice there is a sound of hers, it is less softand low. Hers was like the wind among the strings of an harp hanging onthe wall. Thy colouring I cannot see. But if thou be like her, thinehair is glossy, and of chestnut hue; and thine eyes are dark andmournful. "

"Tell me about her, Aunt, I pray you, " said Philippa. 

Joan La Despenser smoothed down her monastic habit, and leaned her headback against the wall. There was evidently some picture of memory'sbringing before her sightless eyes, and her voice itself had a lower andsofter tone as she spoke of the dead sister. But her first words werenot of her. 

"Holy Virgin!" she said, "when thou didst create the world, whereforedidst thou make women? For women have but two fates: either they areblack-souled, like the tigress Isabelle, and then they prosper andthrive, as she did; or else they are white snowdrops, like our deaddarling, and then they are martyrs. A few die in the cradle--those whomthou lovest best; and what fools are we to weep for them! Ah me! thingsbe mostly crooked in this world. Is there another, me wondereth, wherethey grow straight?--where the black-souled die on the gibbets, and thewhite-souled wear the crowns? I would like to die, and change to thatGolden Land, if there be. Methinks it is far off. "

It was a Land "very far off. " And over the eyes of Joan La Despenserthe blinding film of earth remained; for she had not drunk of the LivingWater. 

"The founder of our house, "--thus Mother Joan began her narrative, --"wasmy grandfather's father, slain, above an hundred years ago, at thebattle of Evesham. He left an infant son, not four years old when hedied. This was my grandfather, Hugh Le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, who at the age of twenty-five advanced the fortunes of his house bywedding a daughter of Warwick, Isabel, the young widow of the Lord deChaworth, and the mother's mother of Alianora of Lancaster. Thou andthy father's wife, therefore, are near akin. This Isabel (after whomthy mother was named) was a famed beauty, and brought moreover a veryrich dower. My grandfather and she had many children, but I need onlyspeak of one--my hapless father. 

"King Edward of Caernarvon loved my father dearly. In truth, so didEdward of Westminster, who bestowed on him, ere he was fully ten yearsold, the hand of his grand-daughter, my mother, Alianora de Clare, whobrought him in dower the mighty earldom of Gloucester. The eldest of uswas Hugh my brother; then came I; next followed my other brothers, Edward, Gilbert, and Philip; and last of all, eight years after me, cameIsabel thy mother. 

"From her birth this child was mine especial care. I was alway athoughtful, quiet maiden, more meet for cloister than court; and I wellremember, though 'tis fifty years ago, the morrow when my baby-sisterwas put into mine arms, and I was bidden to have a care of her. Have acare 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 haveread Isabel's coming history, I might have thought that the wisest andkindest course I could take would be to smother her in her cradle. 

"Before she was three years old, she passed from me. My Lord ofArundel--Earl Edmund that then was--was very friendly with my father;and he desired that their families should be drawn closer together bythe marriage of Richard Fitzalan, his son and heir--a boy of twelveyears--with one of my father's daughters. My father, thus appealedunto, gave him our snowdrop. 

"`Not Joan, ' said he; `Joan is God's. She shall be the spouse of Christin Shaftesbury Abbey. '

"So it came that ere my darling was three years old, they twined thebride-wreath for her hair, and let it all down flowing, soft andshining, from beneath her golden fillet. Ah holy Virgin! had it beenthy 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 atleast it would have saved the pain to her. 

"That was in the fourteenth year of Edward of Caernarvon. [1320. ] Solong as Earl Edmund of Arundel lived, there was little to fear. He, asI said, loved my father, and was a father to Isabel. The Lady ofArundel likewise was then living, and was careful over her as a mother. Knowest thou that the Lady Griselda, of such fame for her patientendurance, was an ancestress of thy father? It should have been of thymother. Hers was a like story; only that to her came no reward, nohappy close. 

"But ere I proceed, I must speak of one woeful matter, which I dobelieve to have been the ruin of my father. He was never loved by thepeople--partly, I think, because he gave counsel to the King to rule, asthey thought, with too stern a hand; partly because my grandfather lovedmoney too well, nor was he over careful how he came thereby; partlybecause the Queen hated him, and she was popular; but far above allthese for another reason, which was the occasion of his fall, and theruin 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 ofheretics, dwelling originally in the dominions of the Marquis ofMonferrato, toward the borders betwixt France, Italy, and Spain: mencondemned by the Church, and holding certain evil opinions touching theholy doctrine of grace of condignity, and free-will, and the like. Yetsome 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 thesemen. How or wherefore I know not. He might have known that theirdoctrines had been condemned by the holy Council of Lumbars two hundredyears back. But when the Friars Predicants were first set up by theblessed Dominic, under leave of our holy Father the Pope, many of thesesectaries crept in among them. A company went forth from Ashridge, andanother from Edingdon--the two houses of this brood of serpents. Andone of them, named Giles de Edingdon, fell in with my father, and taughthim the evil doctrines of these wretches, whom Earl Edmund of Cornwall(of the blood royal), that wedded a daughter of our house, had in hisunwisdom brought into this land; for he was a wicked man and an illliver. [See Note 6. ] King Edward of Caernarvon likewise listened tothese men, and did but too often according to their counsels. 

"Against my grandfather and others, but especially against these men ofEdingdon and Ashridge, Dame Isabelle the Queen set herself up. KingEdward had himself sent her away on a certain mission touching thehomage due to the King of France for Guienne; for he might not adventureto leave the realm at that time. But now this wicked woman gatheredtogether an army, and with Prince Edward, and the King's brother theEarl of Kent, who were deluded by her enchantments, she came back andlanded 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 incharge of the Tower of London; but in Bristol, with the King, were mygrandfather and father my Lord and Lady of Arundel, their son Richard, and Isabel, and myself. I was then a maiden of sixteen years. WhenDame Isabelle's banners floated over the gates of the city, and hertrumpets summoned the citizens to surrender, King Edward, who was atimid man, flung himself into the castle for safety, and with him all ofus, saving my grandfather, and my Lord of Arundel, who remained without, directing the defence. 

"The citizens of Bristol, thus besieged (for she had surrounded thetown), sent to ask Dame Isabelle her will, offering to surrender thecity on condition that she would spare their lives and property. Butshe answered by her trumpeter, that she would agree to nothing unlessthey would first surrender the Earls of Winchester and Arundel; `for, 'saith she, `I am come purposely to destroy them. ' Then the citizensconsulted together, and determined to save their lives and property bythe sacrifice of the noblest blood in England, and (as it was shownafterwards) of the blood royal. They opened their gates, and yielded upmy grandfather and thine to her will. "

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Note 1. Hilding: a word derived from the Anglo-Saxon, and usedindiscriminately to denote a young person of either sex. 

Note 2. Wimple: the covering for the neck, worn by secular women aswell as nuns, and either with or without a veil or hood. It had been infashion for two centuries or thereabouts, but was now beginning to begenerally discarded. 

Note 3. In accordance with the custom of the time, by which personswere commonly named from their birth-places, Edward the First, theSecond, 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 thenfashionable, the parent of the modern one. An instance of it will befound in the figure of Bolingbroke, plate xvi. Of the illustrations toCretan's History of Richard the Second, Archaeologia, vol. Xx. 

Note 5. One historian after another has copied Froissart's assertionthat 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 hewas 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 themonks 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 thesharp ringing of the Abbess' little bell announced the end of therecreation-time; and convent laws being quite as rigid as those of theMedes and Persians, Philippa was obliged to defer the furthergratification of her curiosity. When the next recreation-time came, theblind 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. Shehad the decency not to sit as judge herself; but, in outrage of allwomanliness, she sat herself in the court, near the Prince's seat. Shewould have sat in the seat rather than have missed her end. The Princewas wholly governed by his mother; he knew not her true character; andhe was but a lad of fourteen years. So, when the prisoners were broughtforth, the tigress rose up in her place, and spake openly to theassembled barons (a shameful thing for a woman to do!) that she and herson would see that law and justice were rendered to them, according totheir deeds. She! That was the barons' place, not hers. She shouldhave kept to her distaff. 

"Then said my grandfather, bowing his white head, `Ah, Dame! God grantus an upright judge, and a just sentence; and that if we cannot have itin this world, we may find it in another. '

"The charges laid against them were then read by the Marshal; and thebarons gave sentence--of course as Dame Isabelle wished. The Lord ofArundel and Surrey, the premier Earl of England, [see Note 1], and theaged white-haired Earl of Winchester, [see Note 2], were doomed to thedeath of traitors. 

"Saint Denis' Day--child, it gives me a shudder to name it! We werewithin the castle, and they set up the gibbet before our eyes. Beforethe eyes of the son of the one man, the wife and son of the other! Iremember catching up Isabel, and running with her into an innerchamber--any whither to be out of sight of that awful thing. Iremember, 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 herback into life. But when she came to herself, she cried--`Is it allover? O cruel Joan, to have made me live! I might have died with mylord. ' At last it was all over: over--for that time. And God had takenno notice. He had not opened the heavens and thundered down His greatire. I suppose that must have been on account of some high festivalthey 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 chamberwhere we maidens slept. He had been closeted half the night with theKing, taking counsel how to escape the cruel jaws of the tigress; andnow he roused us, and bade us farewell. He and the King would set forthin 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 Godthey had stayed where they were!--but God had not ended the festival ofSaint Denis. 

"Twelve days that little boat rode the silver Severn; beaten back, beaten back at every tide, the waves rough, and the wind contrary. Andat length Sir Henry Beaumont, the devil whispering to him who were inthe 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 ofGloucester, were led captives into Bristol, and delivered to thetigress. But we were not to see them die. Perhaps Saint Luke hadinterceded for us, as it was in his octave. The King was sent toBerkeley Castle. My father they set on the smallest and poorest horsethey could find in the army, clad in an emblazoned surcoat such as hewas used to wear. From the moment that he was taken, he would touch nofood. And when they reached Hereford, he was so weak and ill, that DameIsabelle began to fear he would escape her hands by a more mercifuldeath than she designed for him. So she stayed her course at Herefordfor the Feast of All Saints, and the morrow after she had him broughtforth for trial. They had need to bear him into her presence, he was sonearly insensible. Finding that they could not wake him into life byspeaking to him and calling him, they twined a crown of nettles and setit 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 thanthey, and snatched his soul away ere he had suffered all they meant heshould. I suppose He allowed him to suffer previously, in punishmentfor his allying himself with the wicked men of Edingdon: but I trust hissuffering purified his soul, and that God received him. 

"Her vengeance thus satiated, Dame Isabelle set out for London. TheCastle of Arundel was forfeited, and the Lady and her son Richard wereleft homeless. [See Note 4. ] We set forth with them, a journey of manyweary days, to join my mother. But when we reached London, we found allchanged. Dame Isabelle, on her first coming, had summoned my mother tosurrender the Tower; and she, being affrighted, had resigned her charge, and was committed to the custody of the Lord de la Zouche. So wehomeless ones bent our steps to Sempringham, where were two of myfather's sisters, Joan and Alianora; and we prayed the holy nuns thereto grant us shelter in their abode of peace. The Lord of Hereford gavean asylum for young Richard. 

"Those were peaceful, quiet days we passed at Sempringham; and they werethe last Isabel was to know. Meanwhile, the Friars Predicants, and inespecial the men of Edingdon and Ashridge, were spreading themselvesthroughout the land, working well to bring back the King. Working toowell; for Dame Isabelle took alarm, and on Saint Maurice's Day, twelvemonths after her landing, the King died at Berkeley Castle. God knewhow: and I think she knew who had sat by his side on the throne, and whowas the mother of his children. We only heard at Sempringham, that onthat night shrieks of agony rang through the vale of the Severn, and menwoke throughout the valley, and whispered a requiem for the hapless soulwhich was departing in such horrible torment. 

"But that opened the eyes of the young King (for the Prince of Wales hadbeen made King; ay, and all the hour of his crowning, Dame Isabellestood by, and made believe to weep for her lord): he began to see what aserpent was his mother; and I daresay Brother John de Gaytenby, theFriar Predicant who was his confessor, let not the matter sleep. And nosooner did Edward of Windsor gain his full power, than he shut up thewicked Jezebel his mother in the Castle of Rising. She lived theretwenty 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 atlast. Child, God's mill grindeth slowly, but it grindeth very small. 

"Ere this, Hugh, my brother, had been granted his life by the King, butnot our father's earldom [see Note 5]; and when my father had been deadonly 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 weedthat 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 Isabelherself. For, one year later, the Castle of Arundel was given back toRichard Fitzalan; and two years thereafter the Lady of Arundel died. Listen a little longer with patience: for the saddest part of the storyis that yet to come. 

"When Richard and Isabel went back to the Castle of Arundel, I was ayoung novice, just admitted. And considering the second marriage of ourmother, and the death of the Lady of Arundel, and the extreme youth ofIsabel (who was not yet fourteen), I was permitted to reside very muchwith her. A woeful residence it was; for now began the fourteenterrible years of my darling's passion. 

"For no sooner was his mother's gentle hand removed, than, even on thevery day of her burial, Earl Richard threw off the mask. 

"Before that time, I had wonderingly doubted if he loved her. I knewthen that he hated her. And I found one other thing, sadder yet--thatshe loved him. I confess unto thee, by the blessed ankle-bones of SaintDenis, that I never could make out why. I never saw in him anything tolove; 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 onher neck and arms, and ask her wherefore they were there; and she wouldonly flush faintly, and say, --`It is nothing--I struck myself againstsomething. ' I never knew for months against what she struck. But shenever 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 agedman, 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 Inever 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 hetaught her other things as well: to hold in light esteem that blesseddoctrine of grace of condignity, whereby man can and doth merit thefavour of God. And what he gave her instead thereof I know not. Sheused to tell me, but I forget now. Only once, in an awful hour, shesaid unto me, that but for the knowledge he had given her, she could nothave borne her life. 

"What was that hour?--Ah! it was the hour, when for the first time hethrew aside all care, even before me, and struck her senseless on therushes at my feet. And I never forgave him. She forgave him, poorinnocent!--nay, rather, I think she loved him too well to think offorgiveness. I never saw love like hers; it would have borne deathitself, and have kissed the murderer's hand in dying. Some women dolove so. I never did, nor could. 

"But when this awful hour came, and she fell at my feet, as if dead, bya 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! Ithink 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 byviolence in the flower of his age [See Note 6]. Thou mayest see if itbe so; but I never shall. 

"And what said he?--He said, bowing his head low, --`Sister Joan LaDespenser is a great flatterer. Pray, accept my thanks. Henceforward, she may perhaps find the calm glades of Shaftesbury more pleasant thanthe bowers of Arundel. At least, I venture to beg that she will makethe trial. ' And he went forth, calling to his hounds. 

"Ay, went forth, without another word, and left her lying there at myfeet--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 fromthat man: I was to see her again no more. I did see her again no morefor ever. I waited till her sense came back, when she said she was nothurt, and fell to excusing him. I felt as though I could have torn himlimb from limb. But that would have pained her. 

"And then, when she was restored, I went forth from the Castle ofArundel. 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. Hersoft cheek pressed to mine--for the last time; her dear eyes lookinginto mine--for the last time; her sweet, low voice blessing me--for thelast time. 

"And what were her last words, saidst thou? I cannot repeat themtearlessly, even now. 

"`God grant thee the Living Water. '

"Those were they. She had spoken to me oft--though I had not much caredto listen, except to her sweet voice--of something whereof this Gileshad 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 notwhat. I cared for all that came from her, but I cared nought for whatcame only through her from Giles de Edingdon. But she said God hadgiven her a draught of that Living Water, and she was at rest. I knownothing about it. But I am glad if anything gave her rest from thatanguish--even a fairy tale. 

"Well, after that I saw her no more again. But now and then, when minehunger for her could no longer be appeased, I used to come to theConvent of Arundel, and send word to Alina, thy nurse, to come to methither. And so, from time to time, I had word of her. 

"The years passed on, and with them he grew harder and harder. He hadhated her, first, I think, from the fancy that my father had been aftersome manner the cause of his father's violent end; and after that hehated her for herself. And as time passed, and she had no child, hehated her worse than ever. But at last, after many years, God gave herone--thyself. I thought, perchance, if anything would soften him, thysmiles and babyish ways might do it. But--soften him! It had beeneasier to soften a rock of stone. When he knew that it was only a girlthat was born, he hated her worse than ever. Three years more; then thelast blow fell. Earl Henry of Lancaster bade him to his castle. Asthey talked, quoth the Earl, --`I would you had not been a wedded man, myLord of Arundel; I had gladly given you one of my daughters. '--`Purefoy!' quoth he, `but that need be no hindrance, nor shall long. ' Norwas it. He sent to our holy Father the Pope--with some lie, I trow--andreceived a divorce, and a dispensation to wed Alianora, his cousin, theyoung widow of the Lord de Beaumont, son of that Sir Henry that capturedthe King and my father. All the while he told Isabel nothing. Themeanest of her scullions knew of the coming woe before she knew it. Thenight ere Earl Richard should be re-wedded, he thought proper to dismisshis 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 shegrasped the seat to support her--then she lost hold and sense, and felldown as if dead before him. Poor, miserably-crushed heart! She lovedthis 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 theLady Isabel La Despenser will quit the castle before she comes. Itwould be very unpleasant to her otherwise. '

"Unpleasant--to Alianora! And to Isabel, what would it be? Little herecked of that. She had received her dismissal. He had said to her, ineffect, --`You are my wife, and Lady of Arundel, no more. '

"She lifted herself up a little, and looked into his face. She knew shewas 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 meone kiss for farewell!'

"He did not lift her from the ground; he did not kiss her; but he wasnot quite silent to that last bitter cry. He held forth his hand--thehand which had been uplifted to strike her so often. She clasped it inhers, and kissed it many times. And that was his farewell. 

"When he had drawn his hand from her, and was gone forth, she sat aseason like a statue, listening. She hearkened till she heard him rideaway--on his way to Alianora. Then, as if some prop that had held herup were suddenly withdrawn, she fell forward, and lay with her face tothe rushes. All that awful night she lay there. Alina came to her, andstrove to lift her, to give her food, to yield her comfort: but she tookno heed of anything. When the dawn came, she arose, and wrapped herselfin her mantle. She took no money, no jewels--not an ouche nor a grainof gold. Only she wrapped in silk two locks of hair--his and thine. Ishould have left the first behind. Then, when she was seated on thehorse to depart, the page told her who mounted afore, that his Lord hadgiven him command to take her to a certain place, which was not to betold beforehand. 

"Alina said she shivered a little at this; but she only answered, `Do mylord's will. ' Then she asked for thee. Alina lifted thee up to her, and she clasped thee close underneath her veil, and kissed theetenderly. 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 ofthree years old. "

"But I do--I am sure I do!" she repeated. 

"Have thy way, " said Joan. "If thou so thinkest, I will not gainsaythee. Well, she gave thee back in a few minutes; and then she rodeaway--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 lesswould matter little to the black list of sins on his guilty soul; andthe little pain of dying by violence would have saved Isabel the greaterpain of living through the desolate woe of the future. But I neverknew, as I told thee. Nor shall I ever know, till that last day comewhen the Great Doom shall be, and he and she shall stand together beforethe bar of God. There shall be an end to her torment then. It issomething to think that there shall be no end to his. "

So, in a tone of bitter, passionate vindictiveness, Joan La Despenserclosed her story. 

Philippa sat silent, wondering many things. If Guy of Ashridge knew anything of this, if Giles de Edingdon were yet living, if Agnes thelavender had ever found out what became of her revered mistress. Andwhen she knelt down to tell her beads that night, a very strange andterrible 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 feltthat had she done so, the spirit of the prophetess might have seizedupon 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. 

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Note 1. Edmund Fitzalan was premier Earl as Earl of Surrey, which titlehe acquired by his marriage with Alesia, sister and heir of John deWarrenne, last Earl of Surrey of the original male line. 

Note 2. Probably owing to the great mortality among the nobles causedby the French war, a man who survived fifty was regarded as very old inthe reign of Edward the Third. 

Note 3. This is Froissart's account of the events, and his dates havebeen mainly followed. Many writers give a varying narrative, statingthat 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 theDespensers, as is usual in the case of attainted persons, do not givethe date of death. 

Note 4. The castle was granted to Edmund Earl of Kent, brother ofEdward the Second; and there, on his attainder and execution, four yearslater, 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 of1397; 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 nothave given any very cogent reason, except that she wished to see theplace 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 fromit now. It would have been strange indeed if peace had dwelt in a heartwhere was neither "glory to God" nor "good-will to men. " And while herveneration for her mother's memory was heightened by her aunt'snarrative, her feeling towards her father, originally a shrinkingtimidity, had changed now into active hatred. Had she at that momentbeen summoned to his deathbed, she would either have refused to go nearhim at all, or have gone with positive pleasure. 

But beside all this, Philippa could not avoid the conclusion that hersalvation was as far from being accomplished as it had been when shereached Shaftesbury. She felt further off it than ever; it appeared torecede from her at every approach. Very uneasily she remembered Guy'sfarewell words, --"God strip you of your own goodness!" The Living Waterseemed 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; butuntil 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 theconvent, uncertain how long she would remain there. An apparentlytrivial incident decided that question for her. 

As Philippa stood at the convent gate, in a mild winter morning, sheheard a soft, sweet voice singing, and set herself to discover whencethe sound proceeded. The vocalist was readily found, --a little girl often years old, who was sitting on a bank a few yards from the gate, witha quantity of snowdrops in her lap, which she was trying with partialsuccess to weave into a wreath. Philippa--weary of idleness, Books ofHours, 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 herquestioner'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 faceseemed to reassure her, and she sang, in a low voice, to a sweet, weirdtune:--

 "`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 theethat--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 theGrey Lady was to augur herself unknown, at least in the Vale ofSempringham. 

"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 clusterof 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 notdwell in the convent, nor in any convent; she lived all alone, thereforeit was plain that she was not a sister. But she was always habited ingrey wherefore men called her the Grey Lady. No--she had no other name. 

"A recluse, manifestly, " said Philippa to herself; "the child does notunderstand. But is she an anchoritess or an eremitess?--Does she everleave her cell?" [See Note 1. ]

"Lady, she tendeth all the sick hereabout. She is a friend of everywoman in the Vale. My mother saith, an' it like you, that where thereis any wound to heal, or heart to comfort, there is the Grey Lady. Andshe saith she hath a wonderful power of healing, as well for mind asbody. When Edeline our neighbour lost all her four children by feverbetween the two Saint Agneses, [see Note 2], nobody could comfort hertill the Grey Lady came. And when Ida my playmate lay dying, and veryfearful of death, she said even the holy priest did her not so much goodas the Grey Lady. I think, " ended Elaine softly, "she must be an angelin disguise. "

The child evidently spoke her thought literally. 

"I will wait and see this Grey Lady, " thought Philippa. "Let me see ifshe can teach and comfort me. Ever since Guy of Ashridge visitedKilquyt, 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, whowas evidently well acquainted with the Grey Lady's proceedings. 

"Then to-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen, thou shalt cometo the convent gate, and I will meet with thee. Will thy mother givethee 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, whenPhilippa re-entered the gate. "During your absence, there came to thepriory close by a messenger from Arundel on his road toward Hereford;and hearing that the Lady de Sergeaux was with us, he sent word througha 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 unwelcometo her. She added, rather ungraciously, that "perhaps she had bettersee him. " She passed into the guest-chamber, whither in a few minutesthe messenger came to her. He was a page, habited in deep mourning; andPhilippa recognised him at once as the personal "varlet" attendant onthe Countess. The thought rose to her mind that the Earl might havefallen 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 daysbefore the feast of Saint Hilary, our Lady the Countess Alianora wascommanded to God. "

A tumult of conflicting feelings went surging through Philippa's heartand brain. 

"Was thy Lord at home?"

She inwardly hoped that he was not. It was only fitting, said thevindictive hatred which had usurped the place of her conscience, thatAlianora of Lancaster should feel something of that to which she hadhelped 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. "

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When the shadow began to lengthen on the following day, Philippa wrappedher mantle around her, and called to her damsel to follow. Her varletfollowed also, at a little distance behind. She found Elaine and ayounger child waiting for her outside the gate. Elaine introduced hercompanion as her sister Annora. Annora proved much less shy thanElaine, and far more ready with her communications. But she was notasked many questions; for as they turned away from the convent gate, they were met by a monk in the Dominican habit, and Philippa knewdirectly the face of Guy of Ashridge. 

"Christ save you, Father, " said she. 

"And you, daughter, " he answered. "Are you yet seeking comfort, or haveyou 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 theother. "

"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 youdo it?"

"Who then can do it?"

"God, " said Guy, solemnly. 

"God hates me, " replied Philippa, under her breath. "He hateth all minehouse. For nigh fifty years, He hath sent us sorrow upon sorrow, andhath crushed us down into the dust of death. "

"Poor blindling! is that a proof that He hateth you?" answered Guy moregently. "Well, it is true at times, when the father sendeth a varlet inhaste to save the child from falling over a precipice, the child--whoseheart 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 afteryou. "

"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 themonk. "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 Fathernot fair and precious in your eyes, that you are in so little haste tocome to Him? Daughter, what shall it profit you, if you gain the wholeworld--and lose your own soul?"

"Father, you are too hard upon me!" cried Philippa in a pained tone, andresisting with some difficulty a strong inclination to shed tears. "Iwould come to God, but I know not how, nor do you tell me. God is afaroff, and hath no leisure nor will to think on me; nor can I presume toapproach Him without the holy saints to intercede for me. I have soughttheir intercession hundreds of times. It is not I that am unwilling tobe saved; and you speak to me as if you thought it so. It is God thatwill not save me. I have done all I can. "

"O fool, and slow of heart to believe!" earnestly answered Guy. "Can itbe God, when He cared so much for you that He sent His blessed Son downfrom 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 yourhappiness, but your own. You have built up a wall of your ownexcellencies that you cannot see God; and then you cry, `He hath hiddenHimself from me. ' Pull down your miserable mud walls, and let the lightof Heaven shine in upon you. Christ will save you with no half norquarter salvation. He will not let you lay the foundation whereon Heshall build. He will not tear His fair shining robe of righteousness topatch 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 littlecontemptuously. 

"Is it so?" responded the monk, with a pitying smile. "It seems to methat 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 ofwhom she hath told me, `that hath, ' quoth she, `great power ofcomforting the sorrowful. ' All about here seem to know her. They callher the Grey Lady. "

Guy looked on her long and earnestly, an expression creeping over hisface which Philippa could not understand. 

"Be it so, " he said at last. "`I will lead the blind by a way that theyknow not. ' Let my voice be silent when He speaketh. Verily"--and hisvoice fell to a softer tone--"I never passed through the deep waterswherein she has waded; nor, perchance, where you have. Let God speak toyou through her. Go your way. "

"But who is she--this Grey Lady?"

Philippa asked in vain. Guy either did not hear her, or would notanswer. He walked rapidly down the hill, with only "Farewell!" as hepassed her; and she went her way, to meet her fate--rather, to meetGod's providence--in the cell of the Grey Lady. 

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Note 1. Anchorites never left their cells, though they receivedvisitors within them, and sometimes taught children; hermits wanderedabout freely. 

Note 2. Saint Agnes' Day is January 21; but the 28th, instead of theoctave 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 wasmerely hollowed out in the rock, and built up in front, with a low doorand 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 latchand entered, half closing the door behind her. Some low-tonedconversation 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 drawndown. But Philippa's own knowledge of aristocratic life told her in aninstant that the reverence with which she was received was that of ahigh-born lady. It was plain that the eremitess was no peasant. 

Elaine seemed to know that she was no longer wanted, and she drew Annoraaway. The children went dancing through the wood, and Philippa, desiring Lena and Oliver to await her pleasure, shut the door of thecell. 

"Mother, " she began--for recluses were addressed as professed nuns, andwere indeed regarded as the holiest of all celibates--"I desire yourhelp. "

"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 Iwill not be saved; and I wish to be saved. He tells me to come toChrist, and I know not how to come, and he saith he cannot make meunderstand how. He saith God loveth me, because He hath given me a verydesolate and unhappy life; and I think He hateth me by that token. Inshort, Father Guy tells me to do what I cannot do, and then he saith Iwill not do it. Will you teach me, and comfort me, if you can? Themonk only makes me more unhappy. And I do not want to be unhappy. Iwant comfort--I want rest--I want peace. Tell me how to obtain it!"

"No one wishes to be unhappy, " said the eremitess, in her gentleaccents; "but sometimes we mistake the medicine we need. Before I cangive 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, andwill 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 itto be the second. I cannot get at God--that is all I know. And it isnot 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. Youare trying to break through over the wall. And `he that entereth not bythe door into the sheep-fold, but climbeth up some other way, the sameis 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 forbiddentree? Yes, I have heard that. "

"He built up a terrible wall between him and God. Every man, as borninto this world, is on the hither side of that wall. He knoweth notGod, he loveth not God, he careth not for God. "

"But that is not the case with me, " objected Philippa; "for I do wishfor Him. I want some one to love me; and I should not mind if it wereGod. Even He were better than none. "

The Grey Lady's veil trembled a little, as Philippa thought; but she satmeditating for an instant. 

"Before I answer your last remark, " she said, "will you tell me a littleof your life? I might know better how to reply. You are a marriedwoman, 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 musthave been obtuse if she were unable to detect a tone of deep sadnessunderlying 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!" Thepassionate energy with which the last words were spoken told its owntale. 

"Then it is no marvel, " answered the Grey Lady, in a very different tonefrom Philippa's, "that you come to me with a tale of sorrow. Wherethere is hatred there can be no peace; and without peace there can be nohope. "

"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 lovesme--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'sbitterness; but she made no answer. 

"Had God waited for us to love Him, " resumed the eremitess, "where hadwe 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 wayrough, that He might help me over it; He made the waters deep, that Hemight carry me through them; He caused the rain to fall heavily, that Imight run to Him for shelter; He made `mine earthly house of thistabernacle' dreary and cold, that I might find the rest, and light, andwarmth of His home above so much the sweeter. Yea, He made mefriendless, that I might seek and find in Jesu Christ the one Friend whowould never forsake me, the one love that would never weary nor waxcold. "

Philippa shook her head. She had never looked at her troubles in thislight "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 willstrive to ford them unaided; if the house be drear and lonely, and yetyou will not rise up and go home--is it any wonder that you aresorrowful, or that you do not know Him whose love you put thus away fromyou? 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 cansave from some afflictions, I grant: but from how many it can not! Canhuman love keep you from sickness?--from sorrow?--from poverty?--fromdeath? Yet the love of Christ can take the sting from all these, --cankeep you calm and peaceful through them all. They will remain, and youwill feel them; but the sting will be gone. There will be an underlyingcalm; the wind may ruffle the surface, but it cannot reach beneath. Thelamb is safe in the arms of the Shepherd, but it does not hold itselfthere. He who shed His blood for us on the rood keepeth us safe, andnone shall be able to pluck us out of His hand. O Lady, if `thouknewest the gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He wouldhave given thee Living Water. '"

"They tell me of that Living Water, one and all; and I would fain drinkthereof; but I am in the desert, and the Well is afar off, and I knownot where to find it. " Philippa spoke not angrily now, but verysorrowfully. 

"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 isdrawn, and ready. All that is needed is your outstretched hand to takeit. Christ giveth the Living Water; Christ is the Door by which, if anyman enter in, he shall be saved; Christ is our peace with God. You havenot 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. Godhath provided this salvation for you, and all your life He hath beenholding it forth to you--hath been calling you by all these your sorrowsto come and take it. So many years as you have lived in this world, somany years you have grieved Him by turning a deaf ear and a cold hearttowards His great heart and open hand held forth to you--towards Hisloving voice bidding you come to Him. Oh grieve Him no longer! Letyour own works, your own goodness, your own sufferings, drop from you asthe cast-off rags of a beggar, and wrap yourself in the fair white robeof righteousness which the King giveth you--which He hath wroughtHimself on purpose for you, --for which He asks no price from you, for Hepaid 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 lovethyou: 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 Gardenof God looked so beautiful, to her who stood waiting without the gate. But there appeared to be barriers between it and her, which she couldnot pass: and in especial one loomed up before her, dark andinsuperable. 

"But--must I forgive my father?"

"You must come to Christ ere you do any thing. After that--when He hathgiven you His forgiving Spirit, and His strength to forgive--certainlyyou must forgive your father. "

"Whatever he hath done?"

"Whatever he hath done. "

"I can never do that, " replied Philippa, yet rather regretfully thanangrily. "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 yourheart is not quite so loveless as you would persuade yourself. "

"To the dead--no, " said Philippa huskily. "But to any who could love mein return--" and she paused again, leaving her sentence unended asbefore. "No, I never could forgive him. "

"Never, of yourself, " was the answer. "But whoso taketh Christ for hisPriest to atone, taketh Christ also for his King to govern. In him Godworketh, bringing forth from his soul graces which He Himself hath firstput there--graces which the natural heart never can bring forth. Faithis the first of these; then love; and then obedience. And both love andobedience 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 wasdeeply meditating, "what we give to God is these graces of which youspeak?--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 thegrace 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 thedepths 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 evercommitting further sin, for ever needing fresh cleansing and renewedpardon. 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 anyother way of salvation that will stand with the dignity of God? If mansave himself, then is Christ no Saviour; if man take the first steptowards God, then is Christ no Author, but only the Finisher of faith. "

"It seems to me, " answered Philippa rather coldly, "that such a view asyours 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 injuredthe 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 graceof condignity in a beggar, when he holdeth forth his hand to receive agarment in the convent dole? Is it such a condescension in him toaccept the coat given to him, that he thereby earneth it of merit? Yetthis, 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 Helead 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 andyour manners show you high-born; and they are low-born varlets--commonpeople. "

"The common people, " answered the Grey Lady, "are usually those who hearChrist the most gladly. `Not many noble are called;' yet, thank God, afew. But do you, then, count Archbishop Bradwardine, or BishopGrosteste, or William de Edingdon, Bishop of Winchester and Chancellorof England, --among the common people?"

"They were not among _them_?" exclaimed Philippa in contemptuoussurprise. 

"Trust me, but they were, --two of them at least; and the third preachedtheir 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: butshe 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 doright; 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 ofGod? And I do not perceive, by your view, how men approach God at all. "

"By God approaching them, " said the eremitess. "`Whosoever will, lethim take the Water of Life freely. ' But God provideth the water; manonly receiveth it; and the will to receive it is of God, not of man'sown deed and effort. `It is God that worketh in us. ' Salvation is `notof works, lest any man should boast. '"

"That is not the doctrine of holy Church, " answered Philippa, somewhatoffended. 

"It is the doctrine of Saint Paul, " was the quiet rejoinder, "for thewords 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 outin 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 LadySergeaux; "but there are the words. "

The little volume was no continuous Book of Scripture, but consisted ofpassages extracted almost at random, of varying lengths, apparently justas certain paragraphs had attracted her when she heard or read them. 

"Yes, I can read. My nurse taught me, " said Philippa, taking the littlebook from her hand. 

But her eyes lighted, the first thing, upon a passage which enchainedthem; and she read no further. 

"Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoeverdrinketh 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 changedsuddenly at the sight of the text, which she instantly guessed to be theoriginal 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 comehither for me again ere the dusk falleth. I shall abide a season withthis 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 Philippacould answer. 

Lena louted, and departed with Oliver, and her mistress again closed thedoor of the cell. The Grey Lady set bread before her, and honey, with acup 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 Philippainvoluntarily and unconsciously obeyed. And while she ate, her hostessin her turn became the questioner. 

"Are you a knight's wife?"

"I am the wife of Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall, " saidPhilippa. "My lord is away in Gascony, in the train of the Earl ofArundel, who accompanies the Duke of Lancaster, at present Governor ofthose parts. While he is absent, I hope to be able to make my salvationin retreat, and to quiet my conscience. "

The Grey Lady made no reply. Philippa almost expected her to ask if herconscience were quiet, or how much of her salvation she had made. Guyof Ashridge, she thought, would have preached a sermon on that text. But no answer came from the veiled figure, only her head drooped uponher hand as if she were tired. 

"Now I am wearying you, " said Philippa reproachfully. "I ought to havegone when I first thought thereof. "

"No, " said the Grey Lady. 

Her voice, if possible, was even softer than before, but Philippa couldnot avoid detecting in it a cadence of pain so intense that she began towonder if she were ill, or what portion of her speech could possiblyhave 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 comingquestion 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 knowyourself 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 becontent under such a trial? How may a weary, thirsting heart, come todrink 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 yetcame to this Well. `Ancor soyf j'ay:' tell me how I must labour, whereI 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 itso. "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 anythingbeneath 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 issatisfied. That is a strong word. Are you?"

"I am most unsatisfied, " answered Philippa; "otherwise I had not come toyou. I want rest. "

"And yet Christ hath been saying all your life, to you, as toothers, --`Come unto Me, all ye that travail and are weary laden, and Iwill 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 thesoul which should be soaring above earth--when the dreams of earth comelike a thick curtain between that soul and the hope of that Heaven--asit was just now. "

"Then you are not exempt from that?"

"In coming to Christ for rest, we do not leave our human hearts and ourhuman 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, thesad cadence returning to her voice. "I must leave that with God. Hehath undertaken to purge me from sin, and He knows what is sin. If thatbe so, He will purge me from it. I have put myself in His hands, to bedealt with as pleaseth Him; and my Physician will give me the medicineswhich 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 loveholiness. And what we love, we become. He that loveth sin must needsbe 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 thanit had been then. 

"What is sin?" asked the Grey Lady. 

Philippa was ready with a list--of sins which she felt certain she hadnot committed. 

"Give me leave to add one, " said the eremitess. "Pride is sin; nay, itis 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. NowI know nothing of you, nor of him; but if you could see yourself as youstand in God's sight--whatever it be that he hath done--you would knowyourself to be as black a sinner as he. Where, then, is yoursuperiority? You have as much need to be forgiven. "

"But I have _not_!" cried Philippa, in no dulcet tones, her annoyancegetting the better of her civility. "I never was a murderer! I neverturned coldly away from one that loved me--for none ever did love me. Inever crushed a loving, faithful heart down into the dust. I neverbrought a child up like a stranger. I never--stay, I will go no furtherinto the catalogue. But I know I am not such a sinner as he--nay, I amnot to be compared to him. "

"And have you, " asked the Grey Lady, very gently, "turned no cold ear tothe loving voice of Christ? Have you not kept far away from theheavenly Father? Have you not grieved the Holy Spirit of God? May itnot be said to you, as our Lord said to the Jews of old time, --`Ye willnot come to Me, that ye might have life'?"

It was only what Guy of Ashridge had said before. But this time thereseemed 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 holymass, 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. "NowI must go; and I hear Lena's voice without. But ere I depart, may I askyou one thing?"

"Anything. "

"What could I possibly have said that pained you? For that somethingdid 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 hasnot been named in mine hearing for twenty-seven years: you told mewhere, and doing what, was one of whom and of whose doings I had thoughtnever to hear any more. One, of whom I try never to think, save when Iam praying for him, or in the night when I am alone with God, and canask Him to pardon me if I sin. "

"But whom did I name?" said Philippa, in an astonished tone. "Have Ispoken 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 ofArundel; 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 terrifiedher began to steal over her. She threw herself on her knees at the feetof 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 atone 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 lonelycell. 

"Mother! mine own mother! I am Philippa Fitzalan!"

There was no cry from Isabel. She only held out her arms; and in anembrace as close and tender as that with which they had parted, thelong-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 anyforgive injuries that reach down to the very root of the heart andlife?"

"My child, " said Isabel, "he that injureth followeth after Satan; but hethat forgiveth followeth after God. It is because our great debt to Godis too mighty for our bounded sight, and we cannot reach to the endsthereof, that we are so ready to require of our fellow-debtors the smalland sorry sum owed to ourselves. `He that loveth not his brother whomhe hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' And can anylove and yet not forgive?"

"It is sometimes easier to love one ere he be seen than after, " saidPhilippa, sarcastically. 

Isabel smiled rather sadly, for the latent thought in her daughter'smind was only too apparent to her. Had Philippa known as little of herfather as of her mother, her feeling towards him would have been farless bitter. But there was no other answer. Even though twenty-sevenyears lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quittedArundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan. She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to seewhether 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 hishouse without his permission. "

Philippa's surprise and disappointment were legible in her face. 

"But, mother, thou knowest not my lord, " she interposed. "There is notin all the world a man more wearisome to dwell withal. Every thing Ido, he dislikes; and every thing I wish to do, he forbids. I amthankful for his absence, for when he is at home, from dawn to dusk hedoth nought save to find fault with me. "

But, notwithstanding her remonstrance, Philippa had fathomed hermother's motive in thus answering. Sir Richard possessed little of hisown; he was almost wholly dependent on the Earl her father; and had itpleased that gentleman to revoke his grant of manors to herself and herhusband, they would have been almost ruined. And Philippa knew quiteenough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings wouldbe so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel'spresence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from sayingmore. 

"Hush, my daughter!" said the low voice. "Repay not thou by findingfault in return. `What glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for yourfaults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well and sufferfor it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. '"

"I am not so patient as you, mother, " answered Philippa, shaking herhead. "Perhaps it were better for me if I were. But dost thou meanthat 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 cannotforsake the place wherein He hath set me, the work which He hath givenme to do. I will visit thee, and my sister also; but that done, I mustreturn 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 whenthey had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must bedifficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed thansurprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past. 

"My child, " said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, "if I err inthus speaking, I pray God to pardon me. I can but follow what I seeright; and `to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it isunclean. ' How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for helpthroughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst alwayscome, or send for me. "

This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, becauseshe felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescendedto make it. 

The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippawas unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen hadformed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabelhad been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, underthe superintendence of the King's Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also aPredicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random, --to"Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster's following, atBordeaux, or wherever he may be found. " Fortunately for Philippa, thePrior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer toLondon on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter tothe Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatchessent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written, requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she andIsabel 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 hercoming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame. The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and atPhilippa'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 havereturned hither, as you may hear. "

"Ah! Is it thou, child?" said the blind nun in answer. "I farereasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hitheragain. "

It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister fromwhom she had parted in such painful circumstances, thirty-seven yearsbefore. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippawaited 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 backagain?" And she stretched forth her hands in the direction from whichthe sound of her sister's voice had come. 

"No, but the living may, " said Isabel, kneeling down by her, andclasping her arms around her. 

"Isabel!" And Joan's trembling hands were passed over her face, as ifto assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. "It can be novoice but thine. Holy Virgin, I thank thee!"

The Abbess broke in, in a manner which, though well-meant, wasexceedingly ill-timed and in bad taste. She was kindly-disposed, buthad not the faintest trace of that delicate perception of others'feelings, and consideration for them, which constitutes the realdifference 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 younot she that was sometime Countess of Arundel?"

Philippa saw how Isabel trembled from head to foot; but she knew notwhat to say. Joan La Despenser was equal to the emergency. 

"Holy Mother, " she said quietly, "would it please you, of your greatgoodness, to permit me to remain here during the recreation-hour with mysister? I am assured we shall have much to say each to other, if we mayhave your blessed allowance to speak freely after this manner. "

"Be it so, Sister, " said the Abbess, smiling genially; "I will see toour sisters in the recreation-chamber. "

A long conversation followed the departure of the Abbess. Joan took upthe history where she had parted from Isabel, and told what had been herown lot since then; and Isabel in her turn recounted her story--neithera long nor an eventful one; for it told only how she had been taken toSempringham by the page, and had there settled herself, in the hermit'scell which happened to be vacant. 

When Philippa was lying awake that night, her thoughts were troublousones. Not only did she very much doubt Sir Richard's consent to hermother's visit to Kilquyt; but another question was puzzling herexceedingly. How far was it desirable to inform Isabel of the death ofAlianora? She had noticed how the unfortunate remark of the Abbess hadagitated her mother; and she also observed that when Joan came to speakto Isabel herself, she was totally silent concerning Earl Richard. Theuncomplimentary adjectives which she had not spared in speaking toPhilippa were utterly discarded now. Would it not do at least as muchharm 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 creepingover the forest, when Sir Richard's answer arrived at Shaftesbury. Itwas not a pleasing missive; but it would have cost Philippa more tearsif it had made her less angry. That gentleman had not written in a goodtemper; but he was not without excuse, for he had suffered somethinghimself. He had not dared to reply to Philippa's entreaty, withoutseeking in his turn the permission of the Earl of Arundel, in whosehands his fortune lay to make or mar. And, by one of thoseuncomfortable coincidences which have led to the proverb that"Misfortunes never come single, " it so happened that the news of theCountess's death had reached the Earl on the very morning whereon SirRichard laid Philippa's letter before him. The result was that therebroke on the devoted head of Sir Richard a tempest of ungovernable rage, so extremely unpleasant in character that he might be excused for hisanxiety to avoid provoking a second edition of it. The Earl wasgrieved--so far as a nature like his could entertain grief--to lose hissecond wife; but to find that the first wife had been discovered, and byher daughter, possessed the additional character of insult. That theoccurrence was accidental did not alter matters. Words would notcontent the aggrieved mourner: his hand sought the hilt of his sword, and Sir Richard, thinking discretion the better part of valour, made hisway, as quickly as the laws of matter and space allowed him, out of theterrible presence whereinto he had rashly ventured. Feeling himselfwholly innocent of any provocation, it was not surprising that he shouldproceed to dictate a letter to his wife, scarcely calculated to gratifyher 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 asinnocent of the art of calligraphy as Philippa herself; and theappending of his seal was the only part of the letter achieved by hisown hand. 

Philippa read the note three times before she communicated its contentsto any one. The first time, it was with feelings of bitter angertowards both her father and her husband; the second, her view of herfather's conduct remained unchanged, but she began to see that SirRichard, from his own point of view, was not without reasonable excusefor his refusal, and that considering the annoyance he had himselfsuffered, his letter was moderate and even tolerably kind, --kind, thatis, for him. After the third perusal, Philippa carried the letter toJoan, and read it to her--not in Isabel's presence. 

"What a fool wert thou, child, " said Joan, with her usual bluntness, "tosend 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 thesubstance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her atKilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lipquivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled. 

"I am not surprised, my child, " she said. "Take heed, and obey. " Itwas hard work to obey. Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leaveIsabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the aslonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night inthe recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat bythemselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of herdaughter. 

"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 pleasedHim; why did He not do so? How can it augur love, to take out of ourway all things loved or loving?"

"My daughter, " answered Isabel, "I am assured--and the longer I live themore assured I am--that the way which God marketh out for each one ofHis chosen is the right way, the best way, and for that one the onlyway. Every pang given to us, if we be Christ's, is a pang that couldnot be spared. `As He was, so are we in this world;' and with us, aswith Him, `thus it _must_ be. ' All our Lord's followers wear His crownof thorns; but theirs, under His loving hand, bud and flower; which Hisnever did, till He could cry upon the rood, `It is finished. '"

"But could not God, " said Philippa, a little timidly, "have given usmore grace to avoid sinning, rather than have needed thus to burn oursins out of us with hot irons?"

"Thou art soaring up into the seventh Heaven of God's purposes, mychild, " answered Isabel with a smile; "I have no wings to follow thee sofar. "

"Thou thinkest, then, mother, " replied Philippa with a sigh, "that wecannot understand the matter at all. "

"We can understand only what is revealed to us, " replied Isabel; "andthat, I grant, is but little; yet it is enough. `As many as I love, Irebuke and chasten. ' `What son is he whom the father chasteneth not?'How could it be otherwise? He were no wise father nor loving, whoshould teach his son nothing, or should forbear to rebuke him for suchfolly as might hereafter be his ruin. "

Isabel was silent, and Philippa's memory went back to those old lovelessdays at Arundel, when for her there had been no chastening, no rebuke, only cold, lifeless apathy. That was not love. And she thought also ofher half-sister Alesia, whom she had visited once since her marriage, and who brought up her children on the principle of no contradiction andunlimited indulgence; and remembering how discontented and hard toplease this discipline had made them, she began to see that was not loveeither. 

"Thou hast wrought arras, my daughter, " said Isabel again. "Thouknowest, therefore, that to turn the arras the backward way showeth notthe pattern. The colours are all mixed out of proportion, as thefastenings run in and out. So our life is in this world. The arrasshall only be turned the right way above, when the angels of God shallsee it, and marvel at the fair proportions and beauteous colours of thatwhich looked so rough and misshapen here below. 

"Moreover, we are thus tried, methinks, not only for our own good. Weare sent into this world to serve: to serve God first, and after toserve man for God's sake. And every blow of the chisel on the stonedoth but dress it for its place. God's chisel never falleth on thewrong place, and never giveth a stroke too much. Every pang fitteth usfor 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'sgreatnesses are not ours. In His eyes, a poor serving-maiden may have aloftier and more difficult task than a lord of the King's Council, or aMarshal of the army. 

"And after all, every sorrow and perplexity, be it large or small, dothbut give God's child an errand to his Father. Nothing is too little tobear to His ear, if it be not too little to distress and perplex Hisservant. To Him all things pertaining to this life are small--the clothof estate no less than the blade of grass; and all things pertaining tothat other and better life in His blessed Home, are great and mighty. Yet we think the first great, and the last little. And therefore thingsbecome great that belong to the first life, just in proportion as theybear upon the second. Nothing is small that becomes to thee an occasionof 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 anymore!"

"God will teach thee Himself, my child, " said Isabel tenderly. "He canteach far better than I. Only be thou not weary of His lessons; norrefuse to learn them. Maybe thou canst not see the use of many of themtill they are learned; but `thou shalt know hereafter. ' Thou shalt findmany a thorn in the way; but remember, it is not set there in anger, ifthou be Christ's; and many a flower shall spring up under thy feet, whenthou art not looking for it. Only do thou never loose thine hold onHim, who has promised never to loose His on thee. Not that thoushouldst be lost in so doing; He will have a care of that: but thoumightest 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 fromGod. "

And Philippa, drawing closer to her, whispered, --"Mother, pray for me. "

A very loving smile broke over Isabel's lips, as she pressed them fondlyupon 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?"

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Note 1. I am aware that this resolution will appear inconsistent withIsabel's character; yet any other would have been inconsistent with hertimes. The vows of recluses were held very sacred; and the opinions ofthe Boni-Homines on the monastic question were little in advance ofthose 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 thenobles. 

Note 3. This adjective also was peculiar to the peerage and the RoyalFamily. It was given to every relation except between husband and wife:and the French _beau-pirt_ for _father-in-law_ is doubtless derived fromit. 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, SaintLouis, when he prayed, said, "_Sire Dieu_, " the title of knighthood. Quaint and almost profane as this usage sounds to modern ears, I thinktheir instinct was right: they addressed God in the highest and mostreverential 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 theCastle of Arundel. In the stateliest chamber of that Castle, where thehangings were of cramoisie paned with cloth of gold, the evening taperswere burning low, and a black-robed priest knelt beside the bed where anold 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 memoryserveth: and many men have been worse sinners than I. I never robbed achurch in all my wars. I have bequeathed rents and lands to the Prioryof God and Saint Pancras at Lewes, for two monks to celebrate day by daymasses of our Lady and of the Holy Ghost, --two hundred pounds; and formatins and requiem masses in my chapel here, a thousand marks; and fourhundred marks to purchase rent lands for the poor; and all my debts Ihave had a care to pay. Can I perform any other good work? Will thatdo, Father?"

"Thou canst do nought else, my son, " answered the priest. "Thou hastright nobly purchased the favour of God, and thine own salvation. Thysoul shall pass, white and pure, through the flames of Purgatory, to betriumphantly acquitted at the bar of God. "

And lifting his hands in blessing, he pronounced the unholyincantation, --"_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 manknew, as he had never known on earth, whether he stood clean and sinlessbefore God or not. There were no bands in that death. The river didnot look dark to him; it did not feel cold as his feet touched it. Buton the other side what angels met him? and what entrance was accorded, to that sin-defiled and uncleansed soul, into that Land wherein thereshall 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 herhalf-brother, the young, brave, joyous man upon whose head the oldcoronet had descended, --the news of the Earl's death reached PhilippaSergeaux at Kilquyt. Very differently it affected her from the mannerin which she would have received it four years before. And verydifferently from the manner in which it was received by the daughters ofAlianora, to whom (though they did not put it into audible words) thereal 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 tome, and the two, or three, thousand marks. " For thus he had rememberedJoan and Alesia; and thus they remembered him. To Mary he left nothing;a sure sign of offence, but how incurred history remains silent. But tothe eldest daughter, whose name was equally unnamed with hers--whoseears heard the news so far away--whose head had never known the fall ofhis hand in blessing--whose cheek had never been touched by loving lipsof his--to Philippa Sergeaux the black serge for which she exchanged herdamask robes was real mourning. 

She did not say now, "I can never forgive my father. " It is not when weare lying low in the dust before the feet of the Great King, oppressedwith the intolerable burden of our ten thousand talents, that we feeldisposed to rise and take our fellow-servant by the throat, with thepitiless, "Pay me that thou owest. " The offensive "Stand by, --I amholier than thou!" falls only from unholy lips. When the woman that wasa sinner went out, washed and forgiven, from that sinless Presence, withthe shards of the broken alabaster box in her hand, she was less likelythan at any previous time in her life to reproach the fellow-sinnerswhom she met on her journey home. So, when Philippa Sergeaux's eyeswere opened, and she came to see how much God had forgiven her, thelittle that she had to forgive her father seemed less than nothing incomparison. She could distinguish now, as previously she could not--butas God does always--between the sin and the sinner; she was able to keepher hatred and loathing for the first, and to regard the second with thedeepest pity. And when she thought of the sleep into which she couldhave 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 anyfeeling but that of unutterable anguish. 

They had not sent for her to Arundel. Until she heard that the end wasreached, she never knew he was near the end at all. 

It is not Christianity, but Pharisaism, which would shut up the kingdomof heaven against all but itself. To those who have tasted that theLord is gracious, it is something more than mere privilege to summon himthat is athirst to come. "Necessity is upon them--yea, woe is unto themif they preach not the gospel!" Though no Christian is a priest, everyChristian must be a preacher. Ay, and that whether he will or not. Hemay impose silence upon his lips, but his life must be eloquent in spiteof himself. And what a terrible thought is this, when we look on ourpoor, unworthy, miserable lives rendered unto the Lord, for all Hisbenefits toward us! When the world sees us vacillating between rightand wrong--questioning how near we may go to the edge of the precipiceand yet be safe--can it realise that we believe that right and wrong tobe a matter of life and death? Or when it hears us murmuringcontinually over trifling vexations, can it believe that we honestlythink ourselves those to whom it is promised that all shall work forgood--that all things are ours--that we are heirs of God, andjoint-heirs with Christ?

O Lord, pardon the iniquities of our holy things! Verily, without Theewe can do nothing. 

On the morning that this news reached Kilquyt, an old man in the garb ofthe Dominican Order was slowly mounting the ascent which led from theVale of Sempringham. The valley was just waking into spring life. Inthe trees above his head the thrushes and chaffinches were singing; andjust before him, diminished to a mere speck in the boundless blue, alark poured forth his "flood of delirious music. " The Dominican pausedand 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 vainregrets over yesterday, no woeful anticipations of to-morrow. But whatkind 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 Elainefour years before. 

"Ah, maid, art thou there?" answered Guy. "Run on, Annora, and say tothe Grey Lady that I will be at her cell in less than an hour. Thy feetare 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, andthreescore and ten is another. If I could turn back and go nofurther!--Is the child here again already?"

"Father Guy, " said Annora, running up and throwing herself down on theprimrose bank, "I have been to the cell, but I have not given yourmessage. "

"Is the Lady not there?" asked Guy, a sudden feeling of relief comingover him. 

"Oh yes, she is there, " replied the child; "but she was kneeling atprayer, and I thought you would not have me disturb her. "

"Right, " answered the monk. "But lest she should leave the cell ere Ireach 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, resumedhis 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 ofthe 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 heracquaintance. 

"Is she come forth yet?" asked Guy. 

Annora shook her flaxen curls. Guy went to the little window, andglanced within. The grey figure was plainly visible, kneeling inprayer, with the head bent low, and resting against a ledge of the rockwhich formed the walls of the little dwelling. The monk sat down on apiece of rock outside the cell, and soon so completely lost himself inthought that Annora grew weary of her amusement before he spoke again. She did not, however, leave him; but when she had thrown away herflowers, and had spent some minutes in a vain search for a four-leavedclover, fairly tired out, she came and stood before him. 

"The shadow is nearly straight, Father Guy. Will she be much longer, doyou think?"

Guy started suddenly when Annora spoke. 

"There is something amiss, " he replied, in a tone of apprehension. "Inever knew her so long before. Has she heard my news already?"

He looked in again. The grey veiled figure had not changed itsposition. After a moment's irresolution, Guy laid his hand upon thelatch. The monk and the child entered together, --Guy with a face ofresolute endurance, as though something which would cost him much painmust nevertheless be done; Annora with one of innocent wonder, notunmixed with awe. 

Guy took one step forward, and stopped suddenly. 

"O Father Guy!" said Annora in a whisper, "the Grey Lady is notpraying, --she is asleep. "

"Yes, she is asleep, " replied Guy in a constrained voice. "`So Hegiveth His beloved sleep. ' He knew how terribly the news would painher; and He would let none tell it to her but Himself. `I thank Thee, OFather, 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 awakeher? She is not having nice dreams, I am afraid. "

"The angels must awake her, " said Guy, solemnly. "Sweeter dreams thanhers could no man have; for far above, in the Holy Land, she seeth theKing's face. Child, this is not sleep--it is death. "

Ay, in the attitude of prayer, her head pillowed in its last sleep onthat ledge of the rock, knelt all that was mortal of Isabel LaDespenser. With her had been no priest to absolve--save the HighPriest; no hand had smoothed her pathway to the grave but the Lord's ownhand, who had carried her so tenderly through the valley of the shadowof death. Painlessly the dark river was forded, silently thepearl-gates were thrown open; and now she stood within the veil, in theinnermost sanctuary of the Temple of God. The arras of her life, wrought with such hard labour and bitter tears, was complete now. Allthe strange chequerings of the pattern were made plain, the fairproportions no longer hidden: the perfected work shone out in itsfinished 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 ofmuch suffering before she came to Sempringham; for silent as she wasconcerning the details of that life, Isabel had never tried to concealthe fact that it had been one of suffering. And the child's childishidea was the old notion of poetical justice--of the good being rewarded, and the evil punished, openly and unmistakably, in this world; a stateof affairs frequently to be found in novels, but only now and then inreality. Had some splendid litter been borne to the door of the littlecell, and had noblemen decked in velvet robes, shining with jewels, andriding on richly caparisoned horses, told her that they were come tomake the Grey Lady a queen, Annora would have been fully satisfied. Buthere the heavenly chariot was invisible, and had come noiselessly; thewhite and glistering raiment of the angels had shone with no perceptiblelustre, had swept by with no audible sound. The child wept bitterly. 

"What troubleth thee, Annora?" said Guy of Ashridge, laying his handgently upon her head. 

"Oh!" sobbed Annora, "God hath given her nothing after all!"

"Hath He given her nothing?" responded Guy. "I would thou couldst askher, and see what she would answer. "

"But I thought, " said the child, vainly endeavouring to stop crying, "Ithought He had such beautiful things to give to people He loved. Sheused to say so. But He gave her nothing beautiful--only this cell andthose grey garments. I thought He would have clad her in goldenbaudekyn [see Note 1], and set gems in her hair, and given her a horseto ride, --like the Lady de Chartreux had when she came to the Conventlast year to visit her daughter, Sister Egidia. Her fingers were allsparkling with rings, and her gown had beautiful strings of pearl downthe front, with perry-work [see Note 2] at the wrists. Why did not Godgive the Grey Lady such fair things as these? Was she not quite as goodas the Lady de Chartreux?"

"Because He loved her too well, " said Guy softly. "He had better andfairer things than such poor gauds for her. The Lady de Chartreux mustdie one day, and leave all her pearls and perry-work behind her. But tothe Lady Isabel that here lieth dead, He gave length of days for everand ever; He gave her to drink of the Living Water, after which shenever 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 littleflaxen head, "God grant that when thy few and evil days of this lowerlife 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. "Forthe corruptible coronet whereof man deprived thee, God hath given theean incorruptible crown. For the golden baudekyn that was too mean to toclothe thee, --the robes that are washed white, the pure bright stone[see Note 3] whereof the angels' robes are fashioned. For the statelybarbs 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 enoughfor 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 thouseest Him. I believe He hath done well, with thee, as with me, but thouknowest it. "

 "`Jamais soyf n'auras A l'eternite!'"

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Note 1. Baudekyn, the richest variety of this rich silk, in whichthreads 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 "pureand 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 historicalfoundation it rests, and in what points the fiction departs from truth. 

The Order of Predicant Friars was instituted by Dominic in 1215, withthe avowed object of maintaining Roman doctrine and supremacy, and ofopposing and superseding the wandering preachers sent out by theWaldensian Church into all parts of Europe, and known chiefly as_Boni-Homines_, or _Poor Men of Lyons_. But the Waldensian Church wasacute enough to take advantage of this movement; and no sooner had theOrder been founded than an army of "Gospellers" (as even thus early theywere called), issued forth under its shelter. It appears probable thatat an early period of their preaching, a very large percentage of thePredicant Friars were Gospellers. It is, moreover, an historical fact, that during the struggle between Edward the Second and his wretchedQueen, the Predicant Friars ranged themselves on the side of the King, who had always been their friend, and whose own confessor, Luke deWodeford, was of their Order. (_Rot. Ex. , Pasc_, 2 Ed. III. ) That theDespensers also patronised them is rather an inference founded uponfact, yet on such facts as very decidedly point to this conclusion. Itshould not be forgotten, that all accounts of the reign and character ofEdward the Second which have come down to us were written by monks, orby persons educated in the opinions of the monks; and the Church of Romehas never, at any period of her history, hesitated to accuse of thevilest crimes any who endeavoured to escape from her toils into the purelight 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 principlesof the _Boni-Homines_ at all, it was evidently a mere matter ofintellectual 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 arealways distinguished as _La_ Despenser in contemporary records) lived toa good age, for she was probably born about 1310, and she died in hernunnery of Shaftesbury, November 8, 1384 (I. P. M. 8 Ric. II. , 14). 

Richard Earl of Arundel, surnamed _Copped-Hat_, the elder of the twosons of Earl Edmund and Alesia, heiress of Surrey, was born about 1308, and died January 24, 1376. (Arundel MS. 51, fol. 18. ) His father wasbeheaded with Hugh Le Despenser the Elder, October 8 or 27, 1326; hismother died before May 23, 1338. (Froissart's Chronicles, Book I. , chapter xi. ; _Rot. Pat_. 12 Ed. III. , Part 2. ) His first marriage wasbefore February 2, 1321 (_Ib_. 14 Ed. II. , Pt. 2); and his baby Countesswas probably not more than three years old at that time. Her divorceimmediately preceded the second marriage, and it was apparently justbefore June 24, 1345. On that day, "Isabel La Despenser, and Alianoradaughter of Henry Earl of Lancaster, " are returned among the tenants ofRichard Earl of Arundel (_Ib_. , 19 Ed. III. , Pt. 1): the designationshowing that on that day neither was Countess of Arundel, but that themarriage-settlements of Alianora were already executed. After this dateall trace of Isabel disappears, until we meet with the name of "DameIsabel, daughter of Sir Hugh Spencer, " among the persons buried in the

Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. (Harl. MS. 544, fol. 78. ) TheCountess Alianora, at the time of her marriage, was the widow of JohnLord Beaumont, and the mother of two infant children; she had only justreturned from a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella. (_Rot. Pat_. 18 Ed. III. , Pt 1. ) She died January 11, 1372 and wasburied at Lewes. (Reg. Lewes, fol. 108. ) Her second family consistedof three sons and three daughters--Richard, John, Thomas, Joan, Alesia, and Alianora. The last-named died in childhood; all the rest survivedtheir parents. --Richard, a well-meaning and brave, but passionate andnarrow-minded man, was governed by his stronger-minded brother Thomas, and under his evil influence entered upon a treasonable conspiracy, forwhich he paid the penalty on Tower Hill in the spring of 1397. --John ischiefly remarkable for having married the heiress of Maltravers, andbecoming eventually the root of the family. --Thomas became Bishop of Elyand Archbishop of Canterbury--the persecuting Archbishop Arundel whowill perhaps be remembered by the readers of "Mistress Margery"--andafter suffering for his treasonable practices a richly-deservedbanishment, was at once recalled and restored by his friend andfellow-conspirator, Henry the Fourth. He died in 1413. That the Houseof Arundel had no "Gospel" sympathies is shown by more evidences thanone; though the Archbishop himself had at one time pretended friendshiptowards the Lollards. It did not last long; he would scarcely have beena true Arundel had it done so. --Joan Fitzalan was a woman of intenseenergy and terrible passions. She did not live happily with herhusband, Humphrey Earl of Hereford, as appears from a curious and uniqueentry on the Patent Rolls (33 Ed. III. , Pt. 3), providing that Humphreyshould not divorce Joan on any pretence of precontract. The Earl, however, died at the early age of thirty-one, and Joan, whose twodaughters were married to Princes (Alianora to Thomas Duke ofGloucester, Mary to Henry the Fourth), became a very powerful andwealthy widow. One anecdote will show what her character was betterthan volumes of description. She presided in person at the execution ofJohn Duke of Exeter (brother of her sister Alesia's husband), he beingloyal to his half-brother, King Richard, while Joan was a vehementpartisan 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?" Asquire volunteered to officiate, but when he had seen and heard the manwhom he was to slay, he shrank from the terrible task. "Madam, " was hisremonstrance to the Countess, "for all the gold in the world, I cannotkill 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 likelyto "do what she had promised, " the squire preferred the fall of theDuke's head to his own. (_Lystoire de la Traison et Mort du RoyRichart_, pp. 98-9. ) This strong-minded woman died April 7, 1419, andwas buried at Walden, having previously been admitted a sister of theGrey 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 hertime, though the members of her numerous family were very prominentcharacters. She died March 17, 1416 (I. P. M. 4 H. V. , 51). 

By all genealogists who have hitherto written on the Arundel family, twomore daughters are ascribed to Earl Richard the Copped-Hat. These arePhilippa Sergeaux, the heroine of the tale; and Mary L'Estrange. At thetime when this story was written, I was misled to follow thissupposition, though I had already seen that in that case, Isabel, andnot Alianora, must have been the mother of Philippa. Some months afterthe story was first published, I began to suspect that this was also thecase with regard to Mary L'Estrange. But I was not prepared for thediscovery, made only last May, that Philippa Sergeaux was not thedaughter of Earl Richard at all! In two charters recorded on a CloseRoll for 20 Ric. II. , she distinctly styles herself "daughter of SirEdmund of Arundel, Knight, " This was a younger brother of Earl Richard;and his wife was Sybil Montacute, a daughter of the Lollard House ofSalisbury. It is probable, though no certainty has yet been found, thatMary L'Estrange was also a daughter of Sir Edmund, since datesconclusively show that she cannot have been the daughter of Alianora ofLancaster. She died August 29, 1396, leaving an only child, AnkarettaTalbot. (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 onthis point. It is scarcely a discredit not to have known a fact whichwas known to none. The tale must therefore be regarded as pure fiction, so far as Philippa is concerned; for Isabel La Despenser apparently hadno child. The facts remain the same as regards other persons, wheretheir history is not affected by the discovery. 

Philippa Sergeaux is represented in the opening of the story as a childof three years old. It is more than probable that she was about tenyears younger. The date of her marriage is not on record. She waseventually the mother of five children, though all were born subsequentto the period at which my story closes. They were--Richard, bornDecember 21, 1376, and died issueless, June 24, 1396; Elizabeth, born1379, wife of Sir William Marny; Philippa, born 1381, wife of RobertPassele; Alice, born at Kilquyt, September 1, 1384, wife of Guy de SaintAlbino; Joan, born 1393, died February 21, 1400. Philippa became awidow, September 30, 1393, and died September 13, 1399. (I. P. M. , 17Ric. II. , 53; 21 Ric. II. , 50; 1 H. IV. , 14, 23, 24. )

Some of the Christian names may strike the reader as having a verymodern sound. I may therefore note that not one name occurs in thestory which is not authenticated by its appearance in the state papersof the time. 

It only remains to be added, that the fictitious characters of the taleare Giles de Edingdon and Guy of Ashridge, the nurse Alina, Agnes thelavender, the nuns Laura and Senicula, and the woodcutter's childrenElaine 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 ofJohn of Gaunt in Guienne, has been assumed for the purposes of thestory.