Cover art
"Down the nave Sybil came.... It was evident that she knew perfectly well where he stood who was to wear the crown." P. [317]
Lady Sybil's Choice
A Tale of the Crusades
BY
EMILY SARAH HOLT
AUTHOR OF "MISTRESS MARGERY," "SISTER ROSE," ETC.
"This Tale in ancient Chronicle,—
In wording old and quaint,
In classic language of the past,
In letters pale and faint,—
This tale is told. Yet once again
Let it be told to-day—
The old, old tale of woman's love,
Which lasteth on for aye."
NEW EDITION
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
1879
PREFACE.
"Why, seeing times are not hidden from the Almighty, do they that know Him, not see His days?"
From the earliest ages of the world, the needs-be of suffering has been a mystery. Down to the latest, it will be a mystery still. Truly, the more we "know Him," the less mystery it is to us: for even where we cannot see, we can trust His love. Yet there are human analogies, which may throw some faint light on the dark question: and one of these will be found in the following pages. "What I do, thou knowest not now"—sometimes because it is morally impossible,—our finite capacity could not hold it: but sometimes, too, because we could not be trusted with the knowledge. In their case, there is one thing we can do—wait. "O thou of little faith!—wherefore didst thou doubt?"
"Oh restful, blissful ignorance!
'Tis blessed not to know.
It keeps me still in those kind arms
Which will not let me go,
And hushes my soul to rest
On the bosom that loves me so!
"So I go on, not knowing,—
I would not, if I might.
I would rather walk in the dark with God
Than walk alone in the light;
I would rather walk with Him by faith,
Than walk alone by sight.
"My heart shrinks back from trials
Which the future may disclose;
Yet I never had a sorrow
But what the dear Lord chose:
So I send the coming tears back
With the whispered word, 'He knows!'"
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
- [GUY TAKES THE CROSS]
- [TWO SURPRISES FOR ELAINE]
- [ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS]
- [A JOURNEY—AND THE END OF IT]
- [CURIOUS NOTIONS]
- [THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE]
- [A LITTLE CLOUD OUT OF THE SEA]
- [AS GOOD AS MOST PEOPLE]
- [ELAINE FINDS MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED]
- [PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE]
- [THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM]
- [WILL SHE GIVE HIM UP?]
- [WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE]
- [SYBIL'S CHOICE]
LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE
CHAPTER I.
GUY TAKES THE CROSS.
"But what are words, and what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light;
And with no language but a cry."
—TENNYSON.
Alix says I am a simpleton. I don't think it is particularly pleasant. Sometimes she says I am a perfect simpleton: and I cannot say that I like that any better. Nor do I think that it is very civil in one's sister to put her opinion on record in this certainly perspicuous, but not at all complimentary manner. Still, I have heard her say it so many times that I might almost have come to believe it, if she did not say so of anybody but me. But when—as she did this morning—she says Guy is a simpleton, that I cannot stand with any patience. Because there is nobody like Guy in all the world. He is the best, kindest, dearest brother that ever a girl had or could have. And it is a shame of Alix to say such things. I am sure of it.[#]
[#] The brothers in this family are historical persons; the sisters fictitious.
I do not know how it is, but Alix seems vexed that I should like Guy best of all my brothers. She says I ought to make companions of Amaury and Raoul, who are nearer me in age. But is that any reason for liking people? At that rate, I ought to love Alix least of all, because she is furthest off. And—though I should not like her to know that I said so—I am not at all sure that I don't.
Being like you in character, it seems to me, is a much better reason for choosing companions, than being near you in age. And I think Guy is much more like me than Amaury or Raoul either. They don't care for the same things that I do, and Guy does. Now, how can you like a man's company when you can never agree with him?
Alix says my tastes—and, of course, Guy's—are very silly. I believe she thinks there is no sense in anything but spinning and cooking and needlework. But I think Amaury and Raoul are quite as foolish as we are. Amaury admires everything that shines and glitters, and he is not at all particular whether it is gold or brass. I believe, this minute, he knows more about samite, and damask, and velvet, than I do. You would think the world was coming to an end by the wail he sets up if his cap has a feather less than he intended, or the border of his tunic is done in green instead of yellow. Is that like being a man? Guillot says Amaury should have been a woman, but I think he should have stayed a baby. Then Raoul cares for things that bang and clash. In his eyes, everybody ought to be a soldier, and no tale is worth hearing if it be not about a tournament or the taking of a city.
Now I do think Guy and I have more sense. What we love to hear is of deeds really noble,—of men that have saved their city or their country at the risk of their own lives; of a mother that has sacrificed herself for her child; of a lady who was ready to see her true knight die rather than stain his honour. When we were little children at old Marguerite's knee, and she used to tell us tales as a reward when we had been good,—and who ever knew half so many stories as dear old Marguerite?—while Raoul always wanted a bloody battle, and Amaury a royal pageant, and Alix what she called something practical—which, so far as I could see, meant something that was not interesting—and Guillot, he said, "Something all boys, with no girls in it"—the stories Guy and I liked were just those which our dear old nurse best loved to tell. There was the legend of Monseigneur Saint Gideon, who drove the heathen Saracens out of his country with a mere handful of foot-soldiers; and that of Monseigneur Saint David, who, when he was but a youth, fought with the Saracen giant, Count Goliath, who was forty feet high—Guillot and Raoul used to like that too; and of Monseigneur Saint Daniel, who on a false accusation was cast to the lions, and in the night the holy Apostle Saint Peter appeared to him, and commanded the lions not to hurt him; and the lions came and licked the feet of Monseigneur Saint Peter. The story that Amaury liked best of all was about Madame Esther, the Queen of Persia, and how she entreated her royal lord for the lives of certain knights that had been taken prisoners; but he always wanted to know exactly what Madame Esther had on, and even I thought that absurd, for of course Marguerite had to make it up, as the legend did not tell, and he might have done that for himself. Raoul best loved the great legend of the wars of Troy, and how Monseigneur Achilles dragged Monseigneur Hector at the wheels of his chariot: which I never did like, for I could not help thinking of Madame the Queen, his mother, and Madame his wife, who sat in a latticed gallery watching, and remembering how their hearts would bleed when they saw it. The story Guy liked best was of two good knights of Greece, whose names were Sir Damon and Sir Pythias, and how they so loved that each was ready and anxious to lay down his life for the other: and I think what I best loved to hear was the dear legend of Madame Saint Magdalene, and how she followed the blessed steps of our Lord wherever He went, and was the first to whom He deigned to appear after His resurrection.
I wish, sometimes, that I had known my mother. I never had any mother but Marguerite. If she heard me, I know she would say, "Ha, my Damoiselle does not well to leave out the Damoiselle Alix." But I am sure Alix was never anything like a mother. If she were, mothers must be queer people.
Why don't I like Alix better? Surely the only reason is not because she is my half-sister. Our gracious Lord and father was twice married,—first to the Lady Eustacie de Chabot, who was mother of Alix, and Guillot, and Guy, and Amaury, and Raoul: and then she died, soon after Raoul was born; and the year afterwards Monseigneur married my mother, and I was her only child. But that does not hinder my loving Guy. Why should it hinder my loving Alix?
Most certainly something does hinder it,—and some tremendous thing hinders my loving Cousin Hugues de la Marche. I hate him. Marguerite says "Hush!" when I say so. But Hugues is so intensely hateable, I am sure she need not. He is more like Guillot than any other of us, but rougher and more boisterous by far. I can't bear him. And he always says he hates girls, and he can't bear me. So why should I not hate him?
O Mother, Mother! I wish you had stayed with me!
Somehow, I don't think of her as I do of any one who is alive. I suppose, if she were alive, I should call her "Fair Madame," and be afraid to move in her presence. But being dead seems to bring her nearer. I call her "Mother," and many a time I say her pretty, gentle name, Clémence,—not aloud, but in my thoughts. Would she have loved me if she had stayed?
Does she love me, where she is with God? They say she was so gentle and pious, I am sure she must be in Heaven. She stayed only a very little while with us; I was not two years old when she died. Marguerite says she used to carry me up and down the long gallery, looking tenderly down at my baby face, and call me her darling, her dove, her precious Elaine. Oh, why could I not have heard her, to remember it, only once?
There is no need to ask why I feel lonely and desolate, and muse on my dead mother, as I always do when I am miserable. I can never be anything else, now that Guy is gone. Monseigneur, our gracious Lord and father, gave consent a month since that Guy should take the holy cross, and yesterday morning he set forth with a company on his perilous journey. Was there no one in all the world but my Guy to fight for our Lord's sepulchre? And does our Lord think so very much about it, that He does not care though a maiden's heart be broken and her life desolate, if she give up her best beloved to defend it?
Well, I suppose it is wrong to say that. The good God is always good, of course. And I suppose it is right that Guy should put the sepulchre before me. He is the true knight, to sacrifice himself to duty; and I am not the noble-hearted damsel, if I wish he had done otherwise. And I suppose the great tears that fell on that red cross while I was broidering it, were displeasing to the good God. He ought to have the best. Oh yes! I see that, quite clearly. And yet I wonder why He wanted my best, when He has all the saints and angels round Him, to do Him homage. And I had only Guy. I cannot understand it.
Oh dear! I do get so puzzled, sometimes. I think this is a very perplexing world to live in. And it is of no use to say a word to Alix, because she only calls me a simpleton, and that does not explain anything: and Marguerite says, "Hush! My Damoiselle would not speak against the good God?"
And neither of them helps me a bit. They do not see that I never mean to speak against the good God. I only want to understand. They do not feel the same sort of want, I suppose, and so they think it wicked in me to feel it.
Does my mother understand it all? Must one die, to understand? And if so, why?
Guy would let me ask him such questions. I do not know that he saw the answer any better than I did, but at least we could agree in feeling them, and could try to puzzle the way out. But Alix appears not even to see what I mean. And it is disheartening, when one takes the trouble to brace up one's courage to ask such questions from somebody above one, of whom one feels ever so little afraid, only to be told in reply what the same person had told one a hundred times before—that one is a simpleton.
I wish somebody would listen to me. If I could have seen a saint,—some one who lived in perpetual communion with our Lord, and knew all things! But do saints know all things? If so, why could not I be a saint myself, and then I should know too?
Well, I have no doubt of the answer to that question. For if I were a saint, I must first be a nun; and that would mean to go away from home, and never, never see Guy any more.
Oh no! that would not do. So it is plain I can never be a saint.
When I come to think about it, I doubt if there ever were a saint in our family. Of course we are one of the oldest families in Poitou, and indeed I might say, in France; for Count Hugues I. lived about nine hundred years after our Lord, and that is nearly as far back as Charlemagne. And Monseigneur has no one above him but our gracious Lord the Count of Poitou, who is in his turn a vassal of our suzerain, the King of England, and he pays homage to the King of France.
I never did like that, and I don't now. I cannot see why our King should pay homage to the King of France for his dominions on this side of the sea.[#] The French say there were Kings in France before there ever were in England. Well, that may be so: but I am sure it was not long before, and our King is every bit as good as the King of France. When Raoul wants to tease me, he says I am a Frenchwoman. And I won't be called a Frenchwoman. I am not a subject of King Louis. I am a Poitevine, and a subject of the Lord Henry, King of England and Count of Poitou, to begin with: and under him, of his son the Lord Richard,[#] who is now our young Count; and beneath him again, of Monseigneur, my own father, who has as much power in his own territory as the King himself.
[#] This homage, exacted by the Kings of France, was always a sore subject with the Kings of England, who took every opportunity of evading that personal payment of it which it was the anxiety of the French monarchs to secure.
[#] Cœur-de-Lion.
It is true, Monseigneur's territory is not very large. But Father Eudes told us one day, when he was giving us our Latin lessons, that the great Emperor of Rome, Monseigneur Julius Cæsar, who was such a wonderful man and a great magician, used to say that he would rather be the first in a village than the second in imperial Rome itself. And that is just what I feel. I would rather be the Damoiselle Elaine, daughter of Monseigneur the Count of Lusignan, than I would be the niece or cousin of the Queen of France. I do like to be at the top of everything. And I would rather be at the top of a little thing than at the bottom of a big one.
Marguerite smiles and shakes her head when I say so to her. She says it is pleasanter down at the bottom. It makes me laugh to hear her. It is natural enough that she should think so, as she is only a villein, and of course she is at the bottom. And it is very well if she likes it. I could never bear it. But then I am noble, and it could not be expected that I should do so.
Though we never had a saint in our House, yet, as every one knows, we sprang from a supernatural source. The root of the House of Lusignan was the Fairy Mélusine, who was the loveliest creature imaginable, but half woman and half serpent. I do not know when she lived, but it must have been ages ago; and she built the Castle of Lusignan by enchantment. Sometimes, on a still summer evening, any one who is out alone will catch a glimpse of her, bathing in the fountain which stands in the pleasance.[#] I would not cross the pleasance after dark on a summer evening—no, not to be made a queen. I should be frightened to death of seeing the Lady Mélusine. For when any one of our line is about to die, she is sure to appear, so I should think I was going to die if I saw her. She comes, too, when any great calamity is threatening France. Perhaps I should not be quite sure to die, but I would rather not risk it. I never did see her, the saints be thanked; and Marguerite says she never did. I think she cannot have appeared for a long time. About forty years ago, before the death of the Lady Poncette, Countess of Angoulême, who was a daughter of our House, Arlette, the mother of our varlet Robert, thought she saw the Lady Mélusine; but it was nearly dark, and there were trees between them, and Arlette is near-sighted, so it was not possible to be sure. But she says her mother-in-law's niece's grand-aunt really did see her, and no mistake at all about it. She was bathing in the fountain, and she splashed her long tail about till the maiden almost lost her wits from the fright. And the very next year, Count Hugues the Good was murdered by the Duke of Guienne's people. Which shows plainly that there are such things as ghosts.
[#] Pleasure-grounds.
The night before Guy went away—can it be two evenings since,—only two?—we crept into the long gallery, as we two always do when we want a quiet talk, and sat down in that window from which you get the lovely view of the church spire through the trees, across the river. That is always our favourite window. Guy was trying to comfort me, and I am rather afraid I was crying. And he said, drawing me up to him, and kissing me,—
"Now, my little Elaine, there have been tears enough for once. I am not going to forget thee, any more than thou meanest to forget me. When I have fought the Saracens, and taken Saladin captive, and brought him in chains to Jerusalem, and the King has made me a Count, and given me a beautiful lady for my wife, and everybody is talking about me,"—of course I knew that was only Guy's fun; he did not really expect all that,—"then," he went on, "I will send home for Amaury and my little pet, and you shall come to me in the Holy Land. Monseigneur promised me that, thou knowest. He said it would be an excellent thing for thee; because thou wouldst not only have all thy sins forgiven at the Holy Sepulchre, but very likely I should have the chance of getting a good husband for thee. And I have talked well to Amaury about taking care of thee on the journey; and Marguerite must attend thee. So look forward to that, Lynette, and dry those red eyes."
"They will be red till thou comest back, Guy!" said I, with another burst of tears.
"I am sure I hope not!" he answered, laughing. "They will be very ugly if they are; and then how am I to get thee a husband?"
"I don't care about one, I thank thee," said I "So that does not signify."
"Ah, that is because thou art fourteen," said Guy; "wait till thou art four-and-twenty."
There, now! if I could have been vexed with my own dear Guy, and just when he was going away for ever—at least it looks very like for ever—but of course I could not. But why will men—even the very best of them—always fancy that a girl cares more for a husband than anything else in this world? However, I let it pass. How could I quarrel with Guy?
"Guy," I said, "dost thou care very much about having a beautiful lady for thy wife?"
Guy takes the Cross.
"Oh, certainly!" replied Guy, pursing up his lips, and pretending to be grave.
I did not like the idea one bit. I felt more inclined to cry till Guy came back than ever.
"What will she be like, Guy?" I asked, trying not to show it.
"She will be the loveliest creature in all the world," said Guy, "with eyes as black as sloes, and hair like a raven's plumage; and so rich that whenever she puts her hand in her pocket thou wilt hear the besants go chink, chink against each other."
"Wilt thou love her, Guy?" I said, gulping down my thoughts.
"To distraction!" replied Guy, casting up his eyes.
Well, I knew all the while it was nonsense, but I did feel so miserable I could not tell what to do. I know Raoul and Guillot have a notion that they are only fulfilling the ends of their being by teasing their sisters; but it was something so very new for Guy.
"But thou wilt not give over loving me, Guy?" I wailed, and I am sure there were tears in my voice as well as my eyes.
"My dear, foolish little Lynette!" said Guy, half laughing, and smoothing my hair; "dost thou not know me any better than that? Why, I shall be afraid of talking nonsense, or sense either, if thou must needs take it to heart in that style."
I felt rather comforted, but I did not go on with that. There was something else that I wanted to ask Guy, and it was my last opportunity.
"Guy," I said softly, after a moment's pause, "canst thou remember my mother?"
"Oh yes, darling," he said. "I was eleven years old when she died."
"Didst thou love her?" said I.
"Very dearly," he answered—quite grave now.
"Am I like her, Guy?"
Guy looked down on me, and smiled.
"Yes—and no," he said. "The Lady Clémence had lighter hair than thou; and her smile was very sweet. Thine eyes are darker, too, and brighter—there is something of the falcon in them: she had the eyes of the dove. Yet there is a likeness, though it is not easy to tell thee what."
"Did Monseigneur love her very much, Guy?" I said.
"More than he ever loved any other, I think," answered Guy. "He was married to my mother when both were little children, as thou knowest is generally the case: but he married thine for love. And—I don't know, but I always fancy that is the reason why he has ever been unwilling to have us affianced in infancy. When people are married as babies, and when they grow up they find that they do not like each other, it must be very disagreeable, I should think."
"I should think it was just horrible, Guy," said I. "But Alix and Guillot were affianced as babies."
"So they were," said he. "But I doubt if Guillot ever cared about it."
"Why, is Umberge one to care about?" I replied. "There is nothing in her of any sort. Was Alix very sorry, Guy, when her betrothed died? How old was she?"
"About ten years old," he said. "Oh no—not she. I do not think she had seen him five times."
"Well," I said, "I am very glad that I was not treated in that way."
So we went on talking. I hardly know what we talked about, or rather what we did not; for it was first one thing and then another, as our thoughts led that way. I asked Guy if he thought that our mothers knew what befel us here on earth, and he said he supposed they must, for how else could the saints and angels hear us?
I saw old Marguerite at one end of the gallery, and I am sure she was come to bid me go to bed: but as soon as she caught sight of Guy and me talking in the window, she made believe to be about something else, and slipped away again. She knew I wanted to have my talk out with Guy. The last talk I may ever have with him for years!
And now it is all over, and Guy is gone.
I wonder how he will get on! Will he do some grand, gallant deed, and be sent for to the Court of the Holy Land, and made a Count or a Duke?—and have all sorts of jewels and riches given him? Perhaps the Queen will put a chaplet of flowers on his head, and all the Princesses will dance with him, and he will be quite a hero. But about that beautiful lady,—I don't feel at all comfortable about her! I cannot tell whether I should love her or hate her. If she did not almost worship Guy, I am sure I should hate her.
And then there is another side to the picture, which I do not like to look at in the least. Instead of all this, Guy may get taken prisoner, and may languish out twenty years in some Saracen dungeon—perhaps, all his life!
Oh dear, dear! I don't know what to do! And the worst of it is, that nothing I can do will make any difference.
Why does the good God let there be any Saracens? Marguerite says—and so does Father Eudes, so it must be true—that God can do everything, and that He wants everybody to be a good Christian. Then why does He not make us all good Christians? That is what I want to know. Oh, I cannot, cannot make it out!
But then they all say, "Hush, hush!" and "Fie, Damoiselle!" as if I had said something very wicked and shocking. They say the good God will be very angry. Why is the good God angry when we want to know?
I wonder why men and women were ever made at all. I wonder why I was made. Did the good God want me for something, that He took the pains to make me? Oh, can nobody tell me why the good God wanted me?
He must be good, for He made all so beautiful. And He might have made things ugly. But then, sometimes, He lets such dreadful things happen. Are there not earthquakes and thunderstorms? And why does He let nice people die? Could not—well, I suppose that is wicked. No, it isn't! I may as well say it as think it.—Would it not have done as well if Alix had died, and my mother had lived? It would have been so much nicer! And what difference would it have made in Heaven—I hope Alix would have gone there—where they have all the angels, and all the saints? Surely they could have spared my mother—better than I can.
Well, I suppose—as Alix says when she wants one to be quiet—"it is no use talking." Things are so, and I cannot change them. And all my tears will not give me Guy back. I must try to think of the neuvaine[#] which he has promised to offer for me at the Holy Sepulchre, and hope that he won't be taken prisoner, and that he will be made a Count, and—well, and try to reconcile myself to that beautiful lady who is to have Guy instead of me. Oh dear me!
[#] Nine days' masses.
Now, there is another thing that puzzles me. (Every thing puzzles me in this world. I wish there had been another to which I could have gone, where things would not have puzzled me.) If God be everywhere—as Father Eudes says—why should prayers offered at the Holy Sepulchre be of more value than prayers offered in my bedchamber? I cannot see any reason, unless it were that God[#] loves the Holy Land so very much, because He lived and died there, that He is oftener there than anywhere else, and so there is a better chance of getting Him to hear. But how then can He be everywhere?
[#] In using this one of the Divine Names, a mediæval Romanist almost always meant to indicate the Second Person of the Trinity only.
Why will people—wise people, I mean—not try to answer such questions? Marguerite only says, "Hush, then, my Damoiselle!" Alix says, "Oh, do be quiet! When will you give over being so silly?" And Monseigneur pats me on the head, and answers, "Why should my cabbage trouble her pretty little head? Those are matters for doctors of the schools, little one. Go thou and call the minstrels, or bind some smart ribbons in thine hair; that is more fit for such maidens as thou."
Do they never want to know? And why should the answers be only fit for learned men, if the questions keep coming and worrying me? If I could once know, I should give over wanting to know. But how can I give over till I do?
Either the world has got pulled into a knot, or else I have. And so far from being able to undo me, nobody seems to see that I am on a knot at all.
"If you please, Damoiselle, the Damoiselle Alix wishes to know where your Nobleness put the maccaroons."
"Oh dear, Héloïse! I forgot to make them. Can she not do without them?"
"If you please, Damoiselle, your noble sister says that the Lady Umberge will be here for the spice this afternoon, and your Excellence is aware that she likes maccaroons."
Yes, I am—better than I like her. I never did see anybody eat so many at once as she does. She will do for once with cheesecakes. I would not mind staying up all night to make maccaroons for Guy, but I am sure cheesecakes are good enough for Umberge. And Alix does make good cheese-cakes—I will give her that scrap of praise.
"Well, Héloïse—I don't know. I really think we should do. But I suppose—is there time to make them now?"
"If you please, Damoiselle, it is three o'clock by the sundial."
"Then it is too late."
And I thought, but of course I did not say to Héloïse,—How Alix will scold! I heard her step on the stairs, and I fairly ran. But I did not lose my lecture.
"Elaine!" cried Alix's shrill voice, "where are you?"
Alix might be a perfect stranger, for the way in which she always calls me you. I came out. I knew it was utterly useless to try to hide.
"Where have you put those new maccaroons?"
"They are not made, Alix," I said, trying to look as if I did not care.
"Not made? Saint Martin of Tours help us! What can you have been doing?"
I was silent.
"I say, what were you doing?" demanded Alix, with a stamp of her foot.
"Never mind. I forgot the maccaroons."
If I had been speaking to any one but Alix, I should have added that I was sorry. But she is always so angry that it seems to dry up any regret on my part.
"You naughty girl!" Alix blazed out. "You very, very naughty girl! There is no possibility of relying on you for one instant. You go dreaming away, and forget everything one tells you. You are silly, silly!"
The tone that Alix put into that last word! It was enough to provoke all the saints in the calendar.
"There will be plenty without them," said I.
"Hold your tongue, and don't give me any impudence!" retorted Alix.
I thought I might have said the same. If Alix would speak more kindly, I am sure I should not get so vexed. I can't imagine what she would say if I were to do something really wicked, for she exhausts her whole vocabulary on my gathering the wrong flowers, or forgetting to make cakes.
"Don't be cross, Alix," I said, trying to keep the peace. "I really did forget them."
"Oh dear, yes, I never doubted it!" answered Alix, in that way of hers which always tries my patience. "Life is sacred to the memory of Guy, but my trouble and Umberge's likings are of no consequence at all! And it does not matter that the Baron de Montbeillard and his lady will be here, and that we shall have a dish too little on the table. Not in the least!"
"Well, really, Alix, I don't think it does much matter," said I.
"Of course not. And the Lady de Montbeillard will not go home and tell everybody what a bad housekeeper I am, and how little I care to have things nice for my guests—Oh dear, no!"
"If you treat her kindly, I should think her very ungrateful if she did," said I.
Alix flounced away with—"I wish you were gone after Guy!"
And so did I.
But at night, just before I dropped asleep, a new idea came to me—an idea that never occurred to me before.
Do I try Alix as much as she tries me?
Oh dear! I hope not. It cannot be. I don't think it is possible. Is it?
I wish I had not forgotten those cakes. Alix did seem so put out. And I suppose it was rather annoying—perhaps.
I did not like her saying that I was not to be trusted. I don't think that was fair. And I cannot bear injustice. Still, I did forget the cakes. And if she had trusted me, it was only reasonable that she should feel disappointed. But she did not need to have been so angry, and have said such disagreeable things. Well, I suppose I was angry too; but I show my anger in a different way from Alix. I do not know which of us was more wrong. I think it was Alix. Yes, I am sure it was. She treats me abominably. It is enough to make anybody angry.
Those limes seem to come up and look reproachfully at me, when I say that. I was not at all well—it might be three years ago: rather feverish, and very cross. And two travelling pedlars came to the Castle gate. One sold rare and costly fruits, and the other silken stuffs. Now I know that Alix had been saving up her money for a gold-coloured ribbon, for which she had a great fancy; and there was a lovely one in that pedlar's stock—in fact, I have never since seen one quite so pretty. Alix had just enough to buy it. She could not get any more, because the treasurer was away with Monseigneur at the hawking. But she saw my wistful glances at the limes in the other pedlar's panniers, and she bought some for me. They were delicious: but Alix went without her gold-coloured ribbon. She had no other chance of it, for the pedlar was on his way to the great Whitsuntide fair at Poictiers, and he would not stay even one night.[#]
[#] At the period of this story, shops were nearly unknown except in the largest towns. Country families—noble, gentle, or peasant—had to rely on laying in a stock of goods at the great fairs, held at Easter, Whitsuntide, Michaelmas, and Christmas; and for anything wanted between those periods, recourse was had to travelling pedlars, who also served as carriers and postmen when occasion demanded it.
I wonder if it be possible that Alix really loves me,—just one little bit! And I wonder if we could give over rasping one another as we do. It would be very difficult.
But if I ever do follow Guy, I will bring back, from Byzantium or Damascus, something beautiful for Alix, to make up for that gold ribbon. It was good of her. And I do wish I had remembered those maccaroons!
CHAPTER II.
TWO SURPRISES FOR ELAINE.
"I feel within me
A mind above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience."
—SHAKSPERE.
I should like to know, if I could find out, what it is that makes Alix have such a fancy for Lady Isabeau de Montbeillard. I think she is just abominable. She finishes off every sentence with a little crackling laugh, which it drives me wild to hear. It makes no difference what it is about. Whether it be, "Dear Damoiselle, how kind you are!" or "Do you not think my lord looks but poorly?" they all end up with "Ha, ha, ha!" Sometimes I feel as though I could shake her like Lovel does the rats.
If Lady Isabeau were like Alix in her ways, I would understand it better; but they are totally unlike, and yet they seem to have a fancy for each other.
As for the Baron, I don't care a bit about him any way. He is like Umberge in that respect—there is nothing in him either to like or dislike. And if there can be still less of anything than in him, I think it is in his brother, Messire Raymond, who sits with his mouth a little open, staring at one as if one were a curiosity in a show.
Alix told me this morning that I was too censorious. I am afraid that last sentence looks rather like it. Perhaps I had better stop.
The Baron and his lady went with us to the hawking, and so did Messire Raymond; but he never caught so much as a sparrow. Then, after we came back, I had to try on my new dress, which Marguerite had just finished. It really is a beauty. The under-tunic is of crimson velvet, the super-tunic of blue samite embroidered in silver; the mantle of reddish tawny, with a rich border of gold. I shall wear my blue kerchief with it, which Monseigneur gave me last New Year's Day, and my golden girdle studded with sapphires. The sleeves are the narrowest I have yet had, for the Lady de Montbeillard told Alix that last time she was at the Court, the sleeves were much tighter at the wrist than they used to be, and she thinks, in another twenty years or so, the pocketing sleeve[#] may be quite out of fashion. It would be odd if sleeves were to be made the same width all the way down. But the Lady de Montbeillard saw Queen Marguerite[#] when she was at Poictiers, and she says that the Queen wore a tunic of the most beautiful pale green, and her sleeves were the closest worn by any lady there.
[#] One of the most uncomely and inconvenient vagaries of fashion. The sleeve was moderately tight from shoulder to elbow, and just below the elbow it went off in a wide pendant sweep, reaching almost to the knee. The pendant part was used as a pocket.
[#] Daughter of Louis VII., King of France, and Constança of Castilla: wife of Henry, eldest son of Henry II. of England. Her husband was crowned during his father's life, and by our mediæval chroniclers is always styled Henry the Third.
I wish I were a queen. It is not because I think it would be grand, but because queens and princesses wear their coronets over their kerchiefs instead of under. And it is such a piece of business to fasten one's kerchief every morning with the coronet underneath. Marguerite has less trouble than I have with it, as she has nothing to fasten but the kerchief. And if it is not done to perfection I am sure to hear of it from Alix.
When Marguerite was braiding my hair this morning, I asked her if she knew why she was made. She was ready enough with her answer.
"To serve you, Damoiselle, without doubt."
"And why was I made, dost thou think, Marguerite? To be served by thee—or to serve some one else?"
"Of course, while the Damoiselle is young and at home, she will serve Monseigneur. Then, when the cavalier comes who pleases Monseigneur and the good God, he will serve the Damoiselle. And afterwards,—it is the duty of a good wife to serve her lord. And of course, all, nobles and villeins, must serve the good God."
"Well, thou hast settled it easier than I could do it," said I. "But, Margot, dost thou never become tired of all this serving?"
"Not now, Damoiselle."
"What dost thou mean by that?"
"Ah, there was a time," said Marguerite, and I thought a blush burned on her dear old face, "when I was a young, silly maiden, and very, very foolish, Damoiselle."
"Dost thou think all maidens silly, Margot?"
"Very few wise, Damoiselle. My foolish head was full of envious thoughts, I know that—vain wishes that I had been born a noble lady, instead of a villein maiden. I thought scorn to serve, and would fain have been born to rule."
"How very funny!" said I. "I never knew villeins had any notions of that sort. I thought they were quite content."
"Is the noble Damoiselle always quite content? Pardon me."
"Why, no," said I. "But then, Margot, I am noble, and nobles may rightfully aspire. Villeins ought to be satisfied with the lot which the good God has marked out for them, and with the honour of serving a noble House."
"Ha, Damoiselle! The Damoiselle has used a deep, strong word. Satisfy! I believe nothing will satisfy any living heart of man or woman,—except that one thing."
"What one thing?"
"I am an ignorant villein, my Damoiselle. I do not know the holy Latin tongue, as ladies do. But now and then Father Eudes will render some words of the blessed Evangel into French in his sermon. And he did so that day—when I was satisfied."
"What was it that satisfied thee, then, Margot?"
"They were words, Father Eudes said, of the good God Himself, when He walked on middle earth among us men. 'Come unto Me,' He said, 'all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"But I do not understand, Marguerite. How did those words satisfy thee?"
"The words did not, Damoiselle. But the thing did. I just took the blessed Lord at His word, and went to Him, and, thanks be to His holy Name, He gave me rest."
"What dost thou mean, Margot?"
"Will the dear Damoiselle not come and try? She will want rest, some day."
"Had I not better wait till I am tired?" said I, laughingly.
"Ah, yes! we never want rest till we are tired.—But not wait to come to the merciful Lord. Oh no, no!"
"Nay, I cannot comprehend thee, Margot."
"No, my Damoiselle. She is not likely to know how to come until she wants to do it. When she does want it, the good God will hear the Damoiselle, for He heard her servant."
"Didst thou entreat the intercession of Saint Marguerite?"
"Ah, no. I am but an ignorant old woman. The dear Lord said, 'Come unto Me.' And I thought, perhaps, He meant it. So I just went."
"But how couldst thou, Margot?"
"If it please my Damoiselle, I did it. And if He had been angry, I suppose He would not have heard me."
"But how dost thou know He did hear thee?"
"When the Damoiselle entreats Monseigneur to give her a silver mark, and he opens his purse and gives it, is it possible for her to doubt that he has heard her? The good God must have heard me, because He gave me rest."
"I do not understand, Margot, what thou meanest by rest. And I want to know all about it. Have things given over puzzling thee? Is there some light come upon them?"
"It seems to me, Damoiselle, if I be not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts"——
"Go on," said I. "I want to know them."
"Then, my Damoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see every thing in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun. But it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the Throne of God, and they stand before that Throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Damoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that her eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the Cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down, in the red gold of His own blood, the price of our redemption. It must have been because He thought it worth while. And if He paid such a price for a poor villein woman like me, He must have wanted me. The Damoiselle would not cast a pearl into the Vienne for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if He cared enough about me to give His life for me, then He must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Damoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him to whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. What the good God, who thus loves me, wills for me, I will for myself also."
"But, Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart."
"Would the blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think He breaks hearts that are willing to be His. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken."
"But thou wouldst not like something which hurt thee?"
"Not enjoy it—no, no. Did the Damoiselle enjoy the verdigris plaster which the apothecary put on her when she was ill three years ago? Yet she did not think him her enemy, but her friend. Ah, the good God has His medicine-chest. And it holds smarting plasters and bitter drugs. But they are better than to be ill, Damoiselle."
"Marguerite, I had no idea thou wert such a philosopher."
"Ah, the noble Damoiselle is pleased to laugh at her servant, who does not know what that hard word means. No, there is nothing old Marguerite knows, only how to come to the blessed Lord and ask Him for rest. He gave the rest. And He knew how to do it."
I wonder if old Marguerite is not the truest philosopher of us all. It is evident that things do not puzzle her, just because she lets them alone, and leaves them with God. Still, that is not knowing. And I want to know.
Oh, I wish I could tell if it is wicked to want to know!
I wonder if the truth be that there are things which we cannot know:—things which the good God does not tell us, not because He wishes us to be ignorant, but because He could not possibly make us comprehend them. But then why did He not make us wiser?—or why does He let questions perplex us to which we can find no answer?
I think it must be that He does not wish us to find the answer. And why? I will see what idea Marguerite has about that. She seems to get hold of wise notions in some unintelligible way, for of course she is only a villein, and cannot have as much sense as a noble.
There was that tiresome Messire Raymond in the hall when I went down. He is noble enough, for his mother's mother was a Princess of the Carlovingian[#] blood: but I am sure he has no more sense than he needs. The way in which he says "Ah!" when I tell him anything, just exasperates me. The Baron, his brother, is a shade better, though he will never wear a laurel crown.[#] Still, he does not say "Ah!"
[#] A descendant of Charlemagne.
[#] The prize of intellect.
I don't like younger brothers. In fact, I don't think I like men of any sort. Except Guy, of course—and Monseigneur. But then other men are not like them. Guillot, and Amaury, and Raoul rank with the other men.
I wonder if women are very much better. I don't think they are, if I am to look upon Alix and the Lady de Montbeillard as samples.
Oh dear, I wonder why I hate people so! It must be because they are hateful. Does anybody think me hateful? How queer it would be, if they did!
I really do feel, to-night, as if I did not know whether I was standing on my feet or on my head. I cannot realise it one bit. Alix going to be married! Alix going away from the Castle! And I—I—to be the only mistress there!
Monseigneur called me down into the hall, as I stood picking the dead leaves from my rose-bushes for a pot-pourri. There was no one in the hall but himself. Well, of course there were a quantity of servitors and retainers, but they never count for anything. I mean, there was nobody that is anybody. He bade me come up to him, and he drew me close, kissed me on the forehead, and stroked down my hair.
"What will my cabbage say to what I have to tell her?" said he.
"Is it something pleasant, Monseigneur?" said I.
"Now, there thou posest me," he answered, "Yes,—in one light. No,—in another. And in which of the two lights thou wilt see it, I do not yet know."
I looked up into his face and waited.
"Dost thou like Messire Raymond de Montbeillard?"
"No, Monseigneur," I answered.
"No? Ha! then perchance thou wilt not like my news."
"Messire Raymond has something to do with it?"
"Every thing."
"Well," said I, I am afraid rather saucily, "so long as he does not want to marry me, I do not much care what he does."
Monseigneur pinched my ear, kissed me, and seemed extremely amused.
"Thee? No, no! Not just yet, my little cabbage. Not just yet! But suppose he wanted to marry Alix?"
"Does he want to marry Alix?"
"He does."
"And under your good leave, Monseigneur?"
"Well, yes. I see no good reason to the contrary, my little cat. He is a brave knight, and has a fine castle, and is a real Carlovingian."[#]
[#] Throughout France in the Middle Ages, the Carlovingian blood was rated at an extravagant value.
"He is a donkey!" said I. "Real, too."
"Ha, hush, then!" replied Monseigneur, yet laughing, and patting my cheek. "Well, well—perhaps not overburdened with brains—how sharp thou art, child, to be sure! (No want of brains in that direction.) But a good, worthy man, my cabbage, and a stalwart knight."
"And when is it to be, Monseigneur?" I asked.
"In a hurry to see the fine dresses?" demanded my gracious Lord, and laughed again. "Nay, I think not till after Christmas. Time enough then. I am in no hurry to lose my housekeeper. Canst thou keep house, my rabbit?—ha, ha! Will there be anything for dinner? Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
I was half frightened, and yet half delighted. Of course, I thought, if Alix goes away, Umberge will come and reign here. Nobody is likely to think me old enough or good enough.
"Under your Nobility's good leave, I will see to that," said I.
Monseigneur answered by a peal of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! Showing her talons, is she? Wants to rule, my cabbage—does she? A true woman, on my troth! Ha, ha, ha!"
"If it please you, Monseigneur, why should you come short of dinner because I see about it?"
My gracious Lord laughed more than ever.
"No reason at all, my little rabbit!—no reason at all! Try thy hand, by all means—by all means! So Umberge does not need to come? Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"Certainly not for me," said I, rather piqued.
"Seriously, my little cat," said he, and his face grew grave. "Wouldst thou rather Umberge did not come? Art thou not friends with her?"
"Oh, as to friends, so-so, là-là,"[#] said I. "But I think I should get along quite as well without her."
[#] Middling.
"But wouldst thou not weary for a woman's company?"
"I never weary for any company but Guy's," I answered; and I think the tears came into my eyes.
"Is it still Guy?" said he, smiling, but very kindly now. "Always Guy? Well, well! When the time comes—I promised the boy thou shouldst go out to him. We must wait till he writes to say he is ready to receive thee. So Guy stands first, does he?"
I nodded, for my heart was too full to speak. He patted my head again, and let me go. But I thought he looked a little troubled; and I could not tell why.
When I came to undress, the same evening, I asked Marguerite if she had heard the news.
"The Damoiselle Alix was so gracious as to inform me," said she.
"Dost thou like it, Margot?"
"Ha, my Damoiselle! What does it matter what a villein old woman likes?"
"It matters to me, or I should not have asked thee," said I.
"I trust it will be for the noble Damoiselle's welfare," said she; and I could get her to say no more.
"Now, Margot, tell me something else," said I. "Why does the good God not make all things clear to everybody? What sayest thou?"
"He has not told me why, Damoiselle. Perhaps, to teach my Damoiselle to trust Him. There could be no trust if we always knew."
"But is not knowing better than trusting?" I replied.
"Is it?" responded Marguerite. "Does Monseigneur always take my Damoiselle into his secrets, and never require her to trust him? God is the great King of all the world. Kings always have secret matters. Surely the King of kings must have His state secrets too."
This seemed putting it on a new footing. I sat and considered the matter, while Marguerite took off my dove cote[#] and unbound my hair.
[#] The rich network which confined the hair; often of gold and precious stones.
"Still, I don't see why we may not know everything," I said at last.
"Does my Damoiselle remember what stood in the midst of the beautiful Garden of God, wherein Adam and Eva were put to dwell?"
"The tree of knowledge," said I. "True; but that does not help me to the why. Why might Adam and Eva not eat it?"
"Will my Damoiselle pardon me? I think it does help to the why; but not to the why of the why—which is what she always wants to see. Why Adam and Eva might not eat it, I suppose, was because the good God forbade it."
"But why, Marguerite?—why?"
"Ha! I am not the good God."
"I do not see it one bit," said I. "Surely knowledge is a good thing."
"Knowledge of good, ay,—which is knowledge of God. The good Lord never forbids us that. He commands it. But let me entreat my Damoiselle to remember, that this was the tree of knowledge of good and evil. That we should know evil cannot be good."
"I do not understand why the good God ever let Satan be at all," said I. "And I do not see how Satan came to be Satan, to begin with."
"The blessed Lord knows all about it," said Marguerite. "When my Damoiselle was a little child, I am sure she did not understand why we gave her bitter medicines. But the apothecary knew. Can my Damoiselle not leave all her questions with the good Lord?"
"I want them answered, Margot!" I cried impatiently. "If I knew that I should understand when I am dead, I would not so much mind waiting. But I don't know any thing. And I don't like it."
"Well, I do not know even that much," she replied. "It may be so. I cannot tell. But the good Lord knows—and He loves me."
"How knowest thou that, Marguerite?"
"People don't die for a man, Damoiselle, unless they love him very much indeed."
"But how dost thou know that it was for thee?"
"It was for sinners: and I am one."
"But not for all sinners, Margot. A great many sinners will go to perdition, Father Eudes says. How canst thou tell if thou art one of them or not?"
"Ah, that did perplex me at first. But one day Father Eudes read out of the holy Gospel that all who believed in our Lord should have life eternal: so that settled it. The sinners that are lost must be those who do not believe in our Lord."
"Marguerite! don't we all believe in Him?"
"Let the Damoiselle forgive me if I speak foolishly. But there are two brothers among the varlets in the hall—Philippe and Robert. Now, I quite believe that they both exist. I know a good deal about them. I know their father and mother, Pierrot and Arlette: and I know that Philippe has a large nose and black hair, and he is fond of porpoise; while Robert has brown hair and limps a little, and he likes quinces. Yet, if I wanted to send a crown to my niece Perette, I should feel quite satisfied that Robert would carry it straight to her, while I should not dare to give it to Philippe, lest he should go to the next cabaret and spend it in wine. Now, don't I believe in Robert in a very different way from that in which I believe in Philippe?"
"Why, thou meanest that Robert may be trusted, but Philippe cannot be," said I. "But what has it to do with the matter?"
"Let the Damoiselle think a moment. Does she simply believe that the good God is, or does she trust Him?"
"Trust Him!—with what?" said I.
"With yourself, my Damoiselle."
"With myself!" I exclaimed. "Nay, Margot, what dost thou mean now?"
"How does the Damoiselle trust Monseigneur? Has she any care lest he should fail to provide her with food and clothing suitable to her rank? Does it not seem to her a matter of course that so long as he lives he will always love her, and care for her, and never forget nor neglect her? Has she ever lain awake at night fretting over the idea that Monseigneur might give over providing for her or being concerned about her welfare?"
"What a ridiculous notion!" I cried. "Why, Margot, I simply could not do it. He is my father."
"And what does my Damoiselle read in the holy Psalter? Is it not 'Like as a father pitieth his children, even so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?' Is He not Our Father?"
"Yes, of course we expect the good God to take care of us," I replied. "But then, Margot, it is a different thing. And thou knowest He does not always take care of us in that way. He lets all sorts of things happen to hurt and grieve us."
"Then, when my Damoiselle is ill, and Monseigneur sends off in hot haste for Messire Denys to come and bleed her in the foot, he is not taking care of her? It hurts her, I think."
"Oh, that has to be, Margot. As thou saidst, it is better than being ill."
"And—let my Damoiselle bear with her servant—is there no 'must be' with the good God?"
"But I don't see why, Margot. He could make us well all in a minute. Monseigneur cannot."
"Yet suppose it is better that my Damoiselle should not be made well all in a minute, but should learn by suffering to be patient in sickness, and thankful for her usual good health? Did not Monseigneur Saint David say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted'?"
"Oh, what a queer idea!" said I.
"Is it?" quietly answered Marguerite. "I once heard a young noble lady say, about three years ago, that it was so delightful to feel well again after being ill, that it really was worth while going through the pain to reach it. And I think,—if I may be pardoned the allusion,—I think they called her the Damoiselle Elaine de Lusignan."
I could not help laughing. "Well, I dare say I did say something like it. But, Margot, it is only when I am getting well that I think so. When I am well, to begin with, I don't want to go through the pain again."
"When my Damoiselle is truly well of the mortal disease of sin, she will never need to go through the pain again. But that will not be till the sin and the body are laid down together."
"Till we die—dost thou mean that?"
"Till we die."
"O Margot! don't. I hate to think of dying."
"Yes. It is pleasanter to think of living. They are well for whom all the dying comes first, and the life is hereafter."
"Well, I suppose I shall be all right," said I, jumping into bed. "Monseigneur pays my Church dues, and I hear the holy mass sung every day. I say my prayers night and morning, and in all my life I never was so wicked as to touch meat on a fast-day. I think, on the whole, I am a very good girl."
"Will my Damoiselle be angry if I ask her whether the good Lord thinks the same?"
"O Marguerite! how can I know?"
"Because, if Father Eudes read it right, we do know. 'There is none that doeth good, no, not one.'"
"Margot, how thou must listen to Father Eudes! I hear him mumbling away, but I never bother my head with what he is saying. He has got to say it; and I have got to sit there till he has done; that is all. I amuse myself in all sorts of ways—count the bits of glass in the window, or watch the effect of the crimson and blue light creeping over the stalls and pillars, or think how Saint Agatha would look in a green robe instead of a purple one. What makes thee listen to all the stuff he says?"
"My Damoiselle sees that—saving her presence—I am a little like her. I want to know."
"But Father Eudes never tells us anything worth knowing, surely!"
"Ha! Pardon me, my Damoiselle. He reads the true words of the good God from the holy Evangels. Commonly they are in the holy Latin tongue, and then I can only stand and listen reverently to the strange sounds: the good God understands, not I. But now and then I suppose the blessed Lord whispers to Father Eudes to put it into French for a moment: and that is what I am listening for all the time. Then I treasure the words up like some costly gem; and say them to myself a hundred times over, so that I may never forget them any more. Oh, it is a glad day for me when Father Eudes says those dear words in French!"
"But how thou dost care about it, Margot! I suppose thou hast so few things to think of, and delight in—I have more to occupy me."
"Ah, my Damoiselle! The blessed Lord said that His good word was choked up and brought no fruit when the cares of other things entered into the heart. No, I have not much to think of but my work, and—three graves in a village churchyard, and one——And I have not much to delight in save the words of the blessed Lord. Yet—let my Damoiselle bear with me!—I am better off than she."
"O Margot!" And I laughed till the tears came into my eyes. It was so excessively absurd.
Marguerite took up the lamp.
"May the good God and His angels watch over my sweet Damoiselle," she said.
And then she tucked the silken coverlet round me, and put out the lamp, that the light should not keep me awake; and quietly undressed herself, and got into the trundle-bed. And I was asleep almost before she lay down.
But, Oh dear, how ridiculous! Marguerite better off than I am! There is no harm in her fancying it, dear old thing; but the comicality of the idea! Why, I dress in velvet and diaper, and she in unshorn wool; and I lie on a feather-bed, under fustian blankets and satin coverlets, and she sleeps on straw with a woollen rug over her; and I ride, and hawk, and sing, and dance, and embroider,—and she is hard at all sorts of rough work from morning to night. Why, she cannot wear a jewel, nor a bit of gold, nor have any sort of pleasure except singing and dancing, and she is too old for both. Of course, such things as nobles amuse themselves with are not fit for villeins. But that a villein should fancy for a moment that she is better off than a noble—Oh, it is too absurd for any thing!
Well, really!—better off than I am!
CHAPTER III.
ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
"All things that can satisfy,
Having Jesus, those have I."
So all is over, and Alix is really gone! It was a grand wedding. The bride was in blue velvet, embroidered in gold, with golden girdle, fermail,[#] and aumonière; her mantle was of gold-coloured satin, and her under-tunic of black damask. I thought she chose her colours with very good taste (more than Alix generally does); but one should look nice on one's wedding-day, if one ever is to do. And she did look nice, in her gemmed coronal, and no hood, and all her hair flowing over her shoulders.[#] As for Messire Raymond, I nearly went into fits when I caught sight of him. The creature had dressed himself in a yellow tunic, with a brick-red super-tunic, and flesh-coloured hose. Then he had green boots, striped in gold; and a sky-blue mantle studded with golden stars. Raoul said he must fancy that he was Jupiter, since he had clad himself with the firmament: but Amaury replied that, with all that flame-colour, he must be Vulcan, if he were a Pagan deity of any kind. Father Eudes sang the mass, and Father Gilbert, the Lord of Montbeillard's chaplain, gave the nuptial benediction. I was dressed in pale green and dark violet, and Lady Isabeau in rose-coloured satin.
[#] Brooch.
[#] The costume restricted to brides or to queens at their coronation.
Then came the wedding-feast in the great hall, for which Alix and I had been preparing a week beforehand; (and after all, I am certain Héloïse forgot to put any more sugar in the placentæ[#]): and then the hall was cleared, and we danced till supper-time. Then, after supper, the minstrels played; and Lady Isabeau and I, with all the other ladies there, went up and put the bride to bed: and after throwing the stocking and all the other ceremonies,—and I am glad to say it did not hit me,[#] but that ugly Elise de la Puissaye,—we came back into the hall, and danced again till it was time to take up the posset.[#] Oh, I was tired when I did get to bed at last! I should not like to be at another wedding next week.
[#] Cheesecakes.
[#] The girl hit by the stocking was expected to be married next.
[#] This serving of a posset to the newly-married pair in the night was a purely French custom.
Well, it really is a very good thing that Alix is gone. I have had some peace these last two days. And there! if the very last thing she did before going was not to do me an ill turn! She went and persuaded Monseigneur to invite Umberge to come and take the reins. Oh, of course I could not be expected to understand anything!—(what sort of a compliment was that to her teaching?)—I was a mere baby, full of nonsense,—and all on in that way. And when Monseigneur was so good as to say that I did not like the idea of Umberge's coming, and he thought he would try what I could do, Alix fairly laughed in his face. As if I were fit to decide!—the baby that I was!—she said. Thank you very much, Dame Alix de Montbeillard; perhaps I have more sense than you suppose. At any rate, I am very glad of one thing,—that we have got rid of you.
Oh dear! I wonder whether any body ever thinks that it would be nice to get rid of me? But then I am not disagreeable, like Alix. I am sure I am not.
Now, why is it that when one gets something one has been wishing for a long while, one does not feel satisfied with it? I have been fancying for months how pleasant it would be when Alix was gone, and there would be no one to find fault with me. Yet it is not pleasant at all. I thought it would be peaceful, and it is dull. And only this afternoon Raoul was as cross with me as he could be. Monseigneur took my part, as he well might, because of course I was right; but still it was disagreeable. Why don't I feel more happy?
I thought I would see what Marguerite would say, and I asked her what she thought about it. She only smiled, and said,—"Such is the way of the world, my Damoiselle, since men forsook the peaceful paths of God."
"But why do things look so much more delightful beforehand than when they come?" said I.
"The Damoiselle has a vivid fancy. Does she never find that things look more unpleasant at a distance?"
"Well, I don't know—perhaps, sometimes," I said. "But disagreeable things are always disagreeable."
I suppose something in my face made Marguerite answer—
"Is the coming of the Lady Umberge disagreeable to my Damoiselle?"
"Oh, as to that, I don't care much about it," said I. "But I do want to hear from Guy."
Ay, that is coming to be the cry in my heart now. I want to hear from Guy! I want to know where he is, and what he is doing, and whether he is made a Count yet, and—Oh dear, dear!—whether that dreadful beautiful lady, whom he is to like so much better than me, has appeared. That could not happen to me. I could never love any body better than Guy.
I should so like a confidante of my own rank and age. Umberge would never do at all, and she is quite fifteen years older than I am. If I had had a sister, a year older or younger than myself, that would have been about the right thing. Nobody ever was my confidante except Guy. And I wander about his chamber very much as Level does, and feel, I should imagine, very much like him when he holds up one paw, and looks up at me, and plainly says with his dog-face,—"Where is he?—and is he never coming back?" And I can only put my cheek down on his great soft head, and stroke his velvet ears, and feel with him. For I know so little more than he does.
It must be dreadful for dogs, if they want to know!
Here is Umberge at last. She came last night, and Guillot with her, and Valence and Aline. They are nice playthings, or would be, if I might have my own way. But—I cannot quite understand it—the Umberge who has come to live here seems quite a different woman from the Umberge who used to come for an afternoon. She used to kiss me, and call me "darling," and praise my maccaroons. But this Umberge has kept me running about the house all morning, while she sits in a curule chair with a bit of embroidery, and says, "Young feet do not tire," and "You know where everything is, and you are accustomed to the maids." It looks as if she thought I was a superior sort of maid. Then, when our gracious Lord comes in, she is all velvet, and "dear Elaines" me, and tells him I am such a sweet creature—ready to run about and do any thing for any body.
If there is one thing I do despise, it is that sort of woman. Alix never served me like that. She was sharp, but she was honest. If Monseigneur praised the placentæ, she always told him when I had made them, and would not take praise for what was not her work.
I shall never be able to get along with Umberge, if this morning is to be a specimen of every day.
Oh dear! I wish Alix had not gone! And I wish, I wish we could hear from Guy!
Things do not go on as smoothly as they used to do. I think Monseigneur himself sees it now. Umberge is not fond of trouble, and instead of superintending every thing, as Alix did, always seeing after the maids, up early and down late, she just takes her ease, and expects things to go right without any trouble on her part. Why, she never rises in the morning before six, and she spends a couple of hours in dressing. It is no good to tell her of any thing that is wanted, for she seems to expect every thing to mend itself. Yesterday morning, one of the jacinths dropped out of the sheet on my bed,[#] and I told Umberge—(Alix was always particular about any thing of that kind being reported to her directly)—but she only said, "Indeed? Well, I suppose you can sleep as well without it." But it was last night that Monseigneur seemed vexed. We had guests to supper, and I am sure I did my best to have things nice; but every thing seemed to go wrong. Umberge apparently thought the supper would order itself in the first place, and cook itself in the second, for beyond telling me to see that all was right, she took no care about it at all, but sat embroidering. The dining-room was only just ready in time, and the minstrels were half an hour behind time; the pastry was overbaked, and the bread quite cold. There was no subtlety[#] with the third course, and the fresh rushes would have been forgotten if I had not asked Robert about them. I was vexed, for Alix was there herself, and I knew what she would think,—to say nothing of the other guests. I do think it is too bad of Umberge to leave me all the cares and responsibilities of mistress, while she calmly appropriates the position and the credit, and then scolds me if every thing is not perfection. Why, I must go and dress some time; and was it my fault if Denise left the pies in too long while I was dressing, or did not attend to my order to have the bread hot[#] at the last minute? I cannot be every where!
[#] How jewels were set in linen sheets is a mystery, but there is abundant evidence of the fact.
[#] Ornamental centre-piece.
[#] It was considered of consequence that the bread at a feast should be as new as possible.
My gracious Lord did not blame me; he asked Umberge and me together how it happened that all these things were wrong: and I declare, if Umberge did not say, "Elaine had the ordering of it; Monseigneur will please to ask her." I am afraid I lost my temper, for I said—
"Yes, Monseigneur, I had the ordering of it, for my fair sister took no care of any thing; and if I could have had three pairs of hands, and been in six places at once, perhaps things might have been right."
Monseigneur only laughed, and patted my head. But this evening I heard him say to Guillot, just as I was entering the hall—
"Fair Son, thy fair wife puts too much on the child Elaine."
Guillot laughed, rubbed his forehead, and answered—"Fair Father, it will take more than me to stop her."
"What! canst thou not rule thine own wife?" demanded our gracious Lord.
"Never tried, Monseigneur," said Guillot. "Too late to begin."
And Monseigneur only said, with a sigh,—"I wonder when we shall hear from Guy!"
Guillot looked relieved, and (seeing me, I think) they went on to talk of something else.
But everything seems changed since they came. Except for my gracious Lord and Amaury and Raoul. It does not feel like home.
Alix rode over this afternoon. I took her to my bower in the turret, and almost directly she asked me,—"How do you get on with our fair sister?"
And I said,—"O Alix! I wish thou wouldst come back!"
She laughed, and replied,—"What would my lord say, child? I thought you were not very comfortable."
"What made thee think so, Alix? Was it Tuesday night?"
"Tuesday night—the supper? I guessed you had seen to it."
"Why?—was it so very bad?" said I, penitently.
"Bad?—it was carelessness and neglect beyond endurance," she said. "No, I saw the maids wanted the mistress's eye; and Umberge evidently had not given it; and I thought you had tried to throw yourself into the gap, and—as such an inexperienced young thing would—had failed."
I really was pleased when Alix said that.
"Then thou wert not vexed with me, Alix?"
"Not I. You did your best. I was vexed enough with Umberge. I knew she was lazy, but I did not expect her to discredit the house like that."
"She seems quite altered since she came here," I said.
"Ah, you never can tell how people will turn out till you come to live with them," said Alix. "So you are not so very glad, after all, to lose me, little one?"
I was startled, for I never supposed that Alix had guessed that. I did not know what to say.
"Why, child, did you think I had no eyes?" she added. "You know you were glad."
I did what I generally do—hesitated for a moment, and then came out bluntly with the truth—
"Well, Alix, I was glad. But I am not now."
Alix laughed. "That is right," she said; "always tell the plain truth, Elaine. You will find many a time, as you go through life, child, that the prettiest pasties are not always the best flavoured, nor the plainest say[#] the worst to wear."
[#] A common quality of silk.
I suppose it is so. But I never should have guessed that I should be wishing for Alix to come back.
"Marguerite," I said one morning as I was dressing, "dost thou think it would be wrong if I were to pray for a letter from Guy?"
"I cannot think it wrong to pray for anything," she answered, "provided we are willing that the good God should choose for us in the end."
"Well, but I am not sure that I am willing to have that."
"Is my Damoiselle as wise as the good Lord?"
"Oh no, of course not! But still"——
"But still, my Damoiselle would like always to have her own way."
"Yes, I should, Margot."
"Well, if there be one thing for which I am thankful it is that the good Lord has not given me much of my own way. It would have been very bad for me."
"Perhaps, for a villein, it might," said I; "but nobles are different."
"Possibly, even for the nobles," said Marguerite, "the good Lord might be the best chooser."
"But it seems to me, if we left everything in that way, we should never pray at all."
"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. That we have full trust in a friend's wisdom is scarcely a reason why we should not ask his counsel."
"But the friend cannot know what advice you need. The Lord knows all about it."
"Does my Damoiselle never tell her thoughts to Monseigneur Guy because he knows that she is likely to think this or that?"
"Oh, but it is such pleasure to tell one's thoughts to Guy," I replied. "He generally thinks as I do; and when he does not, he talks the thing over with me, and it usually ends in my thinking as he does. Then if I am sad, he comforts me; and if I am rejoicing, he rejoices with me; and—O Margot! it is like talking to another me."
"My Damoiselle," said Marguerite, with a peculiar smile which I have seen on her lips before, and never could understand—it is so glad and sunny, yet quiet and deep, as if she were rejoicing over some hidden treasure which she had all to herself,—"My Damoiselle has said well. 'He that is joined to the Lord is one spirit.' 'If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another.' My Damoiselle does not yet know what it is to speak out freely all her thoughts to One who is infinitely high and wise, and who loves her with an infinite love. I am but a poor ignorant villein woman: I know very little about any thing. Well! I take my ignorant mind to Him who knows all things, and who can foresee the end from the beginning. I do not know any grand words to pray with. I just say, 'Sir[#] God, I am very much puzzled. I do not know what to do for the best. Put the best thing into my head. Thou knowest.' Every night, before I go to sleep, the last thing, I say in my heart, 'Sir God, I do not know what is good, and what is evil for me. Thou knowest. Give me the good things to-night, and keep the evil ones away.' I suppose, if I were very wise and clever, I should not make such poor, ignorant prayers. I should know then what would be best to do. Yet I do not think I should be any better off, for then I should see so much less of the good Lord. I would rather have more of the good God, and less of the quick wit and the ready tongue."
[#] Though this title will certainly sound strange, if not irreverent, to modern ears, it was meant as the most reverent epithet known to those who used it.
It would be nice to feel as Margot does. I cannot think where she got it But it would never do for me, who am noble, to take pattern from a poor villein. I suppose such thoughts are good for low, ignorant people.
What should I have done if I had been born a villein? I cannot imagine what it would feel like. I am very glad I was not. But of course I cannot tell what it would feel like, because nobles have thoughts and feelings of quite a different sort to common people.
I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions. He always says more queer ideas come into my head than any one else's.
O Guy, Guy!—when shall I see thee again? Two whole years, and not a word from thee! Art thou languishing in some Paynim dungeon? Hast thou fallen in some battle? Or has the beautiful lady come, and thy little Lynette is forgotten?
I have been asking Father Eudes to tell me something about the Holy Land, for I want to be able to picture to myself the place where Guy is. And of course Father Eudes can tell, for he knows all about every thing; and he had an uncle who was a holy palmer, and visited the blessed Sepulchre, and used to tell most beautiful legends, he says, about the Holy Land. Beside which, his own father fought for the Sepulchre in the second Crusade, and dwelt in that country for several years.
Father Eudes says it is nearly a hundred years since the kingdom of Jerusalem was founded, for it was in the year of our Lord 1099, at the time of the first Crusade. The first King was the gallant Count Godefroy of Boulogne, who was unanimously chosen by all the Christian warriors after the Holy City was taken: but he would never call himself King, but only "Defender of the Holy Sepulchre." But, alas!—the good King Godefroy only reigned one year; and on his death the Princes all assembled in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which they also call the Temple, to elect a successor. And because there were great contentions among them, they resolved to decide the choice by lot: and they stood around the tomb of our Lord, each holding a long taper, and earnestly besought the good God that He would cause the taper held by him who ought to be King of Jerusalem to be lighted by miracle. And when the prayer was ended, one of the tapers was found to be burning. It was that held by Duke Robert the Courthose, son of Lord William the Norman, who conquered England. But to the horror of all the Princes, Duke Robert blew out the taper, and refused to be King. He said that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in that place where for his sins our Lord had worn a crown of thorns. And I really have always felt puzzled to know whether he acted very piously or very impiously. So, in the end, the brother of King Godefroy was chosen; but he also left no child, though he reigned eighteen years. But the Lady Ida, his sister, who was a very wise and preux[#] lady, had a son, and he reigned after his uncle for thirteen years: yet at his death he left four daughters, and no son. And Father Eudes thinks that this showed the displeasure of our Lord, who had willed that the kingdom of Jerusalem should belong to our Lords the Kings of England, and they wickedly refused to receive it.
[#] Brave, noble, chivalrous.
For of course it is the bounden duty of all Christian men to rescue the Holy Land out of the hands of Paynims, Jews, and such horrible heretics, who all worship the Devil, and bow down to stocks and stones: since this land belonged to our Lord Jesus Christ, who was King of it by holy Mary His mother, and He died seised of the same. For which reason all Christian men, who are the right heirs of our said Lord, ought to recover their inheritance in that land, and not leave it in the hands of wicked heretics, who have no right to it at all, since they are not the children and right heirs of Jesus Christ our Lord.[#]
[#] This singular reasoning is borrowed from Sir John Mandeville.
Well! when King Beaudouin II. was dead, the Holy Land fell to the eldest of his four daughters, who was named the Lady Melisende: and she wedded Count Foulques of Anjou, and from her all the kings since then have come: so now it seems settled in the line of Anjou. I suppose our Lords the Kings of England, therefore, have no right to it any more.
I cannot help feeling sorry that Duke Robert blew out the taper. I would not have done it, if it had been mine. I think to be the Queen of Jerusalem would be the grandest thing in all the world—even better than to be the Empress of Monseigneur the Cæsar. Is it not the Land of God?
A letter at last!—a letter from Guy! And he is high in the King's favour, and has won booty to the amount of eighteen thousand golden crowns, and he wants Amaury and me to go to him at once. I keep dancing about and singing, I am so delighted. And not one word of the beautiful lady! That is best of all.
Guy says the King is a mesel,[#] and dwells in chambers to himself; and he has never been married, so there is no Queen, except the widow of the late King his father; and she is of the high blood of Messeigneurs the Cæsars,[#] but is not the mother of the King. He is like Guy, for his own mother, who was the Damoiselle de Courtenay, died when he was very young: and he has one sister of the whole blood, who is called the Lady Sybil; and one sister of the half blood, who is called the Lady Isabel. The Lady Sybil is a widow, though she is younger than Alix: for she was the wife of Monseigneur Guillaume, the Marquis of Montferrat, who died about the time Guy reached the Holy Land; and she has one child, Monseigneur Beaudouin, named after the King his uncle. The Lady Isabel is not yet married, and she is about fourteen years old. Guy writes that the King, and the ladies his sisters, and the old Queen, are all very good to him, and he is prospering marvellously.
[#] Leper.
[#] She was Maria, daughter (some writers say niece) of the Emperor Manuel Comnemus.
Guy's letter was brought by a holy palmer, late last night. I am sure the palmer must be a very holy man, for he had scallops fastened to his shovel-hat, and cross-keys embroidered on his bosom, and bells upon his sleeve, and the holy cross upon his shoulder.[#] His cross was green, so he must be a Fleming.[#] And whenever I came near him, there was such a disagreeable smell, that he must, I am sure, be very holy indeed. He told Robert, and Marguerite told me, that he had not changed his clothes for three whole years. What a holy man he must be! I was very glad when he gave me his benediction, though I did try to keep as much to windward of him as I could, and I put a sprig of lavender in my handkerchief before I asked for it. I am rather afraid Father Eudes would say it was wicked of me to put that sprig of lavender in my handkerchief. But really I think I should have felt quite disgusted if I had not done so. And why should it be holy not to wash one's self? Why don't they always leave babies unwashed, if it be, that they might grow up to be holy men and women?
[#] The scallop-shell denoted a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James of Compostella; the cross-keys, to Rome; the bells, to Canterbury (hence the "Canterbury bell"); and the cross, to the Holy Sepulchre.
[#] The Flemings wore a green cross, the French a red, the English a white one. The proverbial "Red Cross Knight," therefore, strictly speaking, could not be an Englishman.
I wonder if the angels like smells which we think disagreeable. If they do, of course that would account for it. Yet one cannot imagine an angel with soiled feathers.
I suppose Guy would say that was another of my queer ideas. Oh, I am so delighted that we have heard from Guy!
Monseigneur says I must have lots of new dresses to take with me. I have been wishing, ever so long, for a fine mantle of black cloth, lined with minever: and he says I shall have it. And I want a golden girdle, and a new aumonière.[#] I should like a diaper[#] gown, too,—red and black; and a shot silk, blue one way, and gold the other.
[#] The bag which depended from the girdle.
[#] This term seems to have indicated stuff woven in any small regular pattern, not flowers.
My gracious Lord asked me what gems I would best like.
"Oh, agate or cornelian, if it please your Nobility," said I, "because they make people amiable."
He pinched my ear, and said he thought I was amiable enough: he would give me a set of jacinths.[#]
[#] These gems were believed to possess the properties in question.
"What, to send me to sleep?" said I, laughing.
"Just so," he answered. "Thou art somewhat too wide-awake."
"What do you please to mean, Monseigneur?"
He smiled, but then sighed heavily, and stroked my head.
"Ah, my little Lynette!" he said. "If thy blessed mother had but lived! I know not—truly I know not—whether I act for thy real welfare or not. The good God forgive our blunders, poor blindlings that we are!" And he rose and went away.
But of course it must be for my welfare that I should go to Guy, and get some appointment in the household of one of the Princesses, and see life, and—well, I don't know about getting married. I might not have so much of my own way. And I like that dearly. Besides, if I were married I could not be always with Guy. I think I won't, on the whole.
I asked Marguerite to-night if she could tell why holy people did not wash: and she said she thought they did.
"Well," said I, "but yonder holy palmer had not taken his clothes off for three years; and I am sure, Margot, he did not smell nice."
"I think," said Marguerite, "under leave of my Damoiselle, he would have been at least as holy if he had changed them once a month."
"O Margot! is not that heterodoxy?" asked I, laughing.
"Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant—no! Did not Monseigneur Saint Paul himself say that men should wash their bodies with pure water?"
"I am sure I don't know," said I. "I always thought, the holier you were, and the dirtier. And that is one reason why I always thought, too, that I could never be holy. I should want my hands and face clean, at least."
"Did my Damoiselle think she could never be holy?"
"Yes, I did, Margot, and do."
"Wherefore? Let her forgive her poor servant."
"Oh, holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things," said I. "You must not wash, nor lie on a comfortable bed, nor wear anything nice, nor dance, nor sing, nor have any pleasure. I don't want to be holy. I really could not do with it, Margot."
"Under my Damoiselle's leave, all those things she has mentioned seem to me to be outside things. And—unless I mistake, for I am but an ignorant creature—holiness must be something inside. My soul is inside of me; and to clean my soul, I must have something that will go inside to it. The inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things straight, will it not? But I do not see what the outside things can do to the inside—except that sometimes they make us cross. But then it is we who are wrong, not they."
"Dost thou suppose it is wicked to be cross, Margot?"
"Damoiselle, Father Eudes once read a list of the good things that a true Christian ought to have in his heart,—there were nine of them: 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.' I think one cannot have many of them when one is cross and peevish."
"Then thou dost not think it sinful to delight in fine clothes and jewels, and lie in a soft bed, and have dainties for dinner?—for all those are outside."
"Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world's substitute for happiness."
"Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these good things?—and am I not happy?"
"All these,—ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not happy."
"Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I.
"Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?"
"Oh yes!—anything thou wilt."
"Then is my Damoiselle quite certain—safely, happily certain—what will become of her when she shall die?"
"O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose I shall go to Heaven—why should I not? Don't all nobles go there, except those who are very, very wicked?"
"Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?"
"Why, everybody does, of course."
"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. Not I."
"Oh, thou art an old woman, and hast outlived thy youth and its pleasures. No wonder."
"My Damoiselle will find, as life goes on, that the older she grows, the more distasteful that thought becomes to her. That is, unless she should learn to be happy, which may the good God grant!"
I could not help laughing heartily. For a young noble maiden like me, to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Margot, in the art of being happy, did seem so very ridiculous.
"Ah, my Damoiselle may laugh now," said Marguerite in her quiet way; "but I have told the sober truth."
"Oh dear!" said I. "I think I had better sleep on it.—Margot, art thou not very much pleased at the thought of going to the Holy Land?"
"Ah, yes, my Damoiselle, very much. I would dearly like to behold the earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden,—the lake on which He walked, and the hill from which He went up. Ah! 'He shall so come'—'this same Jesus'!"
I looked at her in astonishment. The worn old face and sunken eyes seemed alight with some hidden rapture. I could not understand her.
"And the Holy Sepulchre!" I said; for that is holiest of all the holy places, as everybody knows.
"Well, I should not so much care to see that," answered Marguerite, to my surprise. "'He is not there; He is risen.' If a dear friend of mine had gone on a journey, I should not make a pet of the saddle on which he rode away. I should rather want not to see it, for it would always remind me that he was gone."
"Marguerite!" exclaimed I, "dost thou not know that a neuvaine offered at the Holy Sepulchre is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other altar?"
"Will my Damoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it? Of course, if the good God choose to have it so, there is an end of the matter. But I think I would rather be sure. For me, I should like to pray in the Church of the Nativity, to thank Him for coming as a little babe into this weary world: and in the Church of the Ascension, to beg Him to hasten His coming again."
"Ah, the Church of the Ascension!" said I. "There are pillars in that church, nearly close to the wall; and the man who can creep between the wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins."
"Is that in the holy Evangel?" asked Marguerite; but I could not tell her.
"I fancy there may be some mistake about that," she added. "Of course, if it be in the holy Evangel! But it does not look quite of a piece with what Father Eudes reads. He read one day out of the writing of Monseigneur Saint John, that the blood of Jesus Christ, the blessed Lord, cleansed us from all sin: and another time—I think he said it was from the Evangel of Monseigneur Saint Matthew—he read that if a man did but ask the good God for salvation, it should be given him. Well! I asked, and He gave it me. Could He give me anything more?—or would He be likely to do it because I crept between a wall and a pillar?"
"Why, Marguerite! Hast thou been listening to some of those wicked Lyonnese, that go preaching up and down? Dost thou not know that King Henry the father hath strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that rabble?"
"If it please my Damoiselle, I know nothing at all about them."
"Why, it is a merchant of Lyons, named Pierre Waldo, and a lot more with him; they go up and down the country, preaching, and corrupting people from the pure Catholic faith. Hast thou listened to any such preachers, Margot?"
"Ha, my Damoiselle, what know I? There was a Grey Friar at the Cross a few weeks since"——
"Oh, of course, the holy brethren of Saint Augustine are all right," said I.
"Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar's robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!—and very much more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again."
"Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid, Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents."
"Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he were."
"No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against."
"True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants—no, no!—that is no heresy!"
"What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might know, one's own self!"
"Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer."
"I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know that."
"We are better off, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite. "For though the good God did not answer Pilatus—maybe he was not worthy—He did answer the same question, asked by Monseigneur Saint Thomas. Did not my Damoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French? It was only a few weeks ago."
I shook my head. I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all these things. I never do. But she went on.
"It was one day when the good Lord had told Messeigneurs the Apostles that He was going to ascend to Heaven: and He said, 'The way ye know.' But Monseigneur Saint Thomas—ah! he was rather like my Damoiselle; he wanted to know!—he replied that they did not know the way. (If he had not been a holy apostle, I should not have thought it very civil to contradict his Seigneur, let alone the good Lord.) But the good God was not angry: He saw, I suppose, that Monseigneur Saint Thomas did not mean anything wrong, but he wanted to know, like a damoiselle of the House of Lusignan. So He said, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.'"
"But I do not see what that means," said I. "Truth cannot be a person,—a man cannot be a way. Of course it is a figure of speech; but still I do not see what it means."
I was very sleepy, and I fancy rather cross. Marguerite stooped and kissed my hand, and then turned and put out the light.
"Rest, my fair Damoiselle," she said, tenderly. "And may the good God show my darling what it means!"
CHAPTER IV.
A JOURNEY—AND THE END OF IT.
"A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye:
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky."
—WORDSWORTH.
Bound for the East Countrie! Ay, we are fairly off at last, Amaury and I,—with old Marguerite, and her niece Perette, and Bertrade, Robert's daughter, and Robert himself, to wait upon me; and an escort of armed men, and Amaury's attendants.
Yet it was not all brightness when we came to leave the Castle. Alix and Messire Raymond were there to take leave of us: and I really fancied—it must have been fancy!—that there were tears in Alix's eyes when she kissed me. There were none in Umberge's, nor in Guillot's. But Raoul cried honestly; though Amaury said afterwards that he believed three-quarters of Raoul's tears were due to his having to stay behind. Father Eudes gave me his blessing; and he wept too, poor old man! I dare say he was sorry. He was here before I was born. Then the maidens and servants came forward, the women kissing my hand, and the men my robe: and last of all I came to Monseigneur, our father.
He folded me close in his arms, and bent his head down upon mine; and I felt two or three hot tears on my brow.
"My little Lynette!" he said. "My little, little girl! The one bud of my one love! Must I let thee go? Ha, well!—it is for thy welfare. The good God bless thee, mignonne, and Messeigneurs and Mesdames the saints. Please God, little maiden, we shall meet in Jerusalem."
"Meet in Jerusalem?" I said in surprise. This was news to me—that Monseigneur meant to take the cross.
"Ay," said he softly, "in the 'Syon Aurea, ut clarior oro.' There is an upper City, my child, which is fairer than the lower. Jesu, of His mercy, bring us both there!"
"Amen!" said Father Eudes. "Dame Mary, pray for us poor sinners!"
There was a great bustle after that, and noise, and clashing; and I do not remember much distinctly, till I got into the litter with Bertrade, and then first Amaury set forth on his charger, with his squires after him, and then Marguerite behind Robert on horseback, and Perette behind Amaury's varlet, who is a cousin of hers; and then my litter moved forward, with the armed men around and behind. I just saw them all clearly for one moment—Alix with her lips set, looking at us, as if she were determined not to say a word; and Messire Raymond smoothing his moustache; and Guillot with an old shoe poised in the air, which hit my fore postilion the next minute; and Umberge with that fair false smile with which she deludes every one at first sight; and Monseigneur, with his arms folded, and the tears fairly running down his cheeks, and his lips working as if he were deeply grieved. Just for one minute there they all stood; and I think they will make a picture in my eyes till the end of time for me. And then my litter was drawn out of the Castle gate, and the horses tramped across the drawbridge, and down the slope below: and I drew the curtain of the litter aside, and looked back to see my dear old home, the fair strong Castle of Lusignan, growing less and less behind me every moment, till at last it faded into a more dim speck in the distance, and I felt that my long and venturesome journey had begun.
Oh, why do people never let us know how much they love us, until just as we unclasp hands and part?
Do they always know it themselves?
And I wonder whether dying is anything like this. Do men go a long journey to God, with an armed escort of angels, and do they see the world go less and less behind them as they mount? I will ask Margot what she thinks. She is but a villein, in truth, but then she has such curious fancies.
I have asked Marguerite, and she shakes her head.
"Ha! no, my Damoiselle. It can be no long journey to God. Father Eudes said but last Sunday, reading from the Breviary, in his sermon, that 'He is not far from every one of us.' And the good thief Ditmas, that was crucified with God, was there in half a day. It can only be a little way to Heaven. Ah! much less than half a day, it must be; for did not Monseigneur Saint Gabriel, the holy Archangel, begin to fly when Monseigneur Saint Daniel began to pray?—and he was there before he had finished his beads. It is a long while since Father Eudes told us that; and I thought it so comforting, because it showed that Heaven was not far, and also that the good Lord listens so quickly when we call. Ah! I have to say, 'Wait, Héloïse!—I am listening to Perette:' but the good Lord does not need to do that. He can hear my Lady the Queen, and the Lady Alix, and Monseigneur Guy, and my Damoiselle, and her servant Marguerite, all at once."
Yes, I suppose it must be so, though I cannot understand it. One has to believe so many things that one cannot understand. Do we even know how we live from day to day? Of course it is known that we have certain organs in our bodies, by which we breathe, and speak, and walk, and digest food; but can any one tell how all they do goes to make up what we call life? I do not believe it.
We took our way by Poictiers, across the duchies of Berry and Burgundy, and through Franche-Comté, crossing some terrible mountains between Besançon and Neufchatel. Then we travelled across Switzerland—Oh, how beautiful it is! I felt as though I should have been content to stay there, and never go any farther. But Amaury said that was just like a silly girl. What man, said he—with such an accent on the man!—ever wanted to stop away from gorgeous pageants and gallant deeds of arms, just to stare at a big hill with some snow on it, or a pool of water with some trees round it? How could any body make a name in that foolish way?—said Messire Amaury.
But old Marguerite thought with me. "Damoiselle," she said, "I am very thankful I came on this journey. Methinks I have a better notion what Heaven will be like than I had before we left Poitou. I did not know the good God was so rich. There seems to be no end to the beautiful things He can make. Oh, how beautiful He Himself must be! And we shall see His face. Father Eudes read it."
Whatever one says to Marguerite, she always finds something to say in answer about the good God. Surely she should have been a nun.
We came into Italy through two great passes,—one over the Julier mountain, so called from Julius Cæsar, the great Emperor, who made the road by help of the black art, and set up two pillars on the summit to commemorate his deeds: and then, passing through a beautiful valley, where all flowers of the year were out together, and there was a lovely chain of lakes,—(which naughty Amaury scornfully called crocuses and dirty water!)—we wound up hill after hill, until at last it really seemed as if we must have reached the top of the world. Here were two small lakes, at the foot of a drear slope of ice, which in these parts they call a glacier: and they call them the Black Lake and the White Lake. We had two sturdy peasants as guides over the mountains, and I should have liked dearly to talk with them about their country, but of course it would not have been seemly in a damsel of my rank: noblesse oblige. But I got Marguerite to ask them several questions, for their language is sufficiently like the Langue d'Oc[#] for us to understand them, though they speak very thickly and indistinctly. They told Marguerite that their beautiful valley is named the Val Engiadina,[#] and they were originally a colony from Italy, who fled from a persecution of the Saracens.[#] This pass is called the Bernina, for berne in their tongue signifies a bear, and there are many bears about here in winter. And they say this mountain is the top of the world, for here the waters separate, on the one side flowing far away into Asia, near the place where Adam dwelt in Paradise;[#] and on the other, into the great western sea,[#] which we shall shortly have to cross. And here, on the very summit of this mountain, dwelt a holy hermit, who gave me a shelter in his hut, while the men camped outside round great fires; for though it was August, yet at this great height it was quite cold. And so, through the pass, we wound slowly down into Italy.
[#] Two cognate languages were at this time spoken in France; north of the Loire, the Langue d'Oil, and south, the Langue d'Oc, both words meaning yes in the respective languages. The more northern language was the harsher, ch being sounded as k, just as church in England becomes kirk in Scotland. Cher, chaise, chien, therefore, were pronounced ker, kaise, kien, in the Langue d'Oil.
[#] The Engadine.
[#] All the evil done or doing in the world was at this time attributed to the Saracens. The colony is supposed to have arisen from the flight of a group of Christians in the persecution under Diocletian.
[#] The Black Sea.
[#] The Mediterranean.
Marguerite and Perette were both full of the beauty they had seen in the great glacier, on which they went with the guides: but it would not have done for a damsel of my rank, and really I saw no beauty in it from across the lake; it looked like a quantity of very dirty ice, with ashes scattered over it. But they said it was full of deep cracks or fissures, in which were the loveliest colours that human eye could see or heart imagine.
"Ah! I can guess now!" said Marguerite. "I could not think what Monseigneur Saint John meant when he said the city was gold like clear crystal. I know now. Damoiselle, in the glacier there are walls of light, the sweetest green shading into blue that my Damoiselle can possibly imagine: they must be like that, but golden. Ha! if my Damoiselle had seen it! The great nobles have not all the good things. It is well not to be so high up that one cannot see the riches of the good God."
She has the queerest notions!
Well!—we travelled on through Lombardy, and tarried a few days at Milan, whence we journeyed to Venice, which is the strangest place I ever saw or dreamed of, for all the streets are canals, and one calls for one's boat where other people order their horses. The Duke of Venice, who is called the Doge, was very kind to us. He told us at supper a comical story of a Duchess of Venice who lived about a hundred years ago. She so dearly loved ease and luxury that she thought it too much trouble to eat with her fingers like everybody else; and she actually caused her attendants to cut her meat into little pieces, like dice, and then she had a curious instrument with two prongs,[#] made of gold, with which she picked up the bits and put them in her dainty mouth. Only fancy!
[#] The first fork on record.
At Venice we embarked, and sailed to Messina, where most of the pilgrims for the Holy Land assemble, as it is the most convenient port. We did not go overland, as some pilgrims do, through the dominions of the Byzantine Cæsar;[#] but we sailed thence to Crete. I was rather sorry to miss Byzantium,[#] both on account of the beautiful stuffs which are sold there, and the holy relics: but since I have seen a spine of the crown of thorns, which the Lady de Montbeillard has—she gave seven hundred crowns for it to Monseigneur de Rheims[#]—I did not care so much about the relics as I might otherwise have done. Perhaps I shall meet with the same kind of stuffs in Palestine; and certainly there will be relics enough.
[#] The Eastern Emperor; his dominions in Europe extended over Greece and Turkey.
[#] Constantinople.
[#] The Archbishop.
From Crete we sailed to Rhodes, and thence to Cyprus. They all say that I am an excellent sailor, for I feel no illness nor inconvenience at all; but poor Bertrade has been dreadfully ill, and Marguerite and Perette say they both feel very uncomfortable on the water. At Cyprus is an abbey of monks, on the Hill of the Holy Cross; and here Amaury and his men were housed for the night, and I and my women at a convent of nuns not far off. At the Abbey they have a cross, which they say is the very cross on which our Lord suffered, but some say it is only the cross of Ditmas, the good thief. I was rather puzzled to know whether, there being a doubt whether it really is the holy cross, it ought to be worshipped. If it be only a piece of common wood, I suppose it would be idolatry. So I thought it more right and seemly to profess to have a bad headache, and decline to mount the hill. I asked Amaury what he had done.
"Oh! worshipped it, of course," said he.
"But how if it were not the true cross?" I asked.
"My sister, wouldst thou have a knight thus discourteous? The monks believe it true. It would have hurt their feelings to show any doubt."
"But, Amaury, it would be idolatry!"
"Ha, bah!" he answered. "The angels will see it put to the right account—no doubt of that. Dear me!—if one is to be for ever considering little scruples like that, why, there would be no end to them—one would never do any thing."
Then I asked Marguerite if she went up to worship the holy cross.
"No, Damoiselle," said she. "The Grey Friar said we worship not the cross, but the good God that died thereon. And I suppose He is as near to us at the bottom of the hill as at the top."
Well, it does look reasonable, I must say. But it must be one of Marguerite's queer notions. There would be no good in relics and holy places if that were always true.
This island of Cyprus is large and fair. It was of old time dedicated by the Paynims to Venus, their goddess of beauty: but when it fell into Christian hands, it was consecrated anew to Mary the holy Mother.
From Cyprus we sailed again, a day and a half, to Tyre; but we did not land there, but coasted southwards to the great city of Acre, and there at last we took land in Palestine.
Here we were lodged in the castle, which is very strong: and we found already here some friends of Amaury, the Baron de Montluc and his two sons, who had landed about three weeks before us. Hence we despatched a letter to Guy. I was the writer, of course, for Amaury can write nothing but his name; but he signed the letter with me. Messire Renaud de Montluc, who was setting out for the Holy City, undertook to see the letter safe. We were to follow more slowly.
We remained at Acre about ten days. Then we set forth, Amaury and I, the Baron de Montluc and his son Messire Tristan, and several other knights who were waiting for a company, with our respective trains; and the Governor of Acre lent us an additional convoy of armed men, to see us safe to the Holy City.
This was my first experience of tent life; and very strange it felt, and horribly insecure. I, accustomed to dwell within walls several feet thick, with portcullis and doors guarded by bolts and bars, in a chamber opening on an inner court, to have no more than one fold of goats' hair canvas between me and the outside world! True, the men-at-arms were camped outside; but that was no more than a castle garrison: and where was the castle?
"Margot," said I, "dost thou not feel horribly frightened?"
For of course, she, a villein, would be more accessible to fear than a noble.
"Oh no, my Damoiselle," she said very quietly. "Is it not in the holy Psalter that 'the Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them'? We are as safe as in the Castle of Lusignan."
It is a very good thing for Marguerite and the maidens that I am here. Because, of course, the holy angels, who are of high rank, would never think of taking care of mere villeins. It must mean persons of noble blood.
We journeyed on southwards slowly, pausing at the holy places—Capernaum, where Messeigneurs Saint Peter and Saint Andrew dwelt before they followed our Lord; and where Monseigneur Saint Peter left Madame his wife, and his daughter, Madame Saint Petronilla, when he became our Lord's disciple. Of course, he was obliged to leave them behind, for a holy apostle could not have a wife. (Marguerite says that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross at Lusignan, said that in the early ages of the Church, priests and even bishops used to be married men, and that it would have been better if they had continued to be so. I am afraid he must be a very wicked person, and one of those heretical Waldenses.) We also tarried a while at Cæsarea, where our Lord gave the keys to Monseigneur Saint Peter, and appointed him the first Bishop of Rome; and Nazareth, where our Lady was born and spent her early life. Not far from Neapolis,[#] anciently called Sychem, they show the ruins of a palace, where dwelt King Ahab, who was a very wicked Paynim, and had a Saracen to his wife. At Neapolis is the well of Monseigneur Saint Jacob, on which our Lord once sat when He was weary. This was the only holy place we passed which old Marguerite had the curiosity to go and see.
[#] Nablous.
"Now, what made thee care more for that than any other?" I asked her. "Of course it was a holy place, but there was nothing to look at save a stone well in a valley. Our Lady's Fountain, at Nazareth, was much prettier."
"Ah, my Damoiselle is young and blithe!" she said, and smiled. "It is long, long since I was a young mother like our Lady, and longer still since I was a little child. But the bare old well in the stony valley—that came home to me. He was weary! Yet He was God. He is rested now, on the throne of His glory: yet He cares for me, that am weary still. So I just knelt down at the old well, and I said to Him, in my ignorant way,—'Fair Father,[#] Jesu Christ, I thank Thee that Thou wert weary, and that by Thy weariness thou hast given me rest.' It felt to rest me,—a visit to the place where He sat, tired and hungry. But my Damoiselle cannot understand."
[#] "Bel Père"—one of the invocations then usual.
"No, Margot, I don't at all," said I.
"Ah, no! It takes a tired man to know the sweetness of rest."
Three days' journey through the Val de Luna, which used to be called the Vale of Ajalon, brought us to the city of Gran David, which was of old named Gibeon. The valley is styled De Luna because it was here that Monseigneur Saint Joshua commanded the sun and moon to stand still while he vanquished the Paynims. From Gran David it is only one day's journey to the Holy City.
"To-morrow, Margot!" said I, in great glee. "Only to-morrow, we shall see the Holy Sepulchre!"
"Ha! Thanks be to the good God. And we need not wait till to-morrow to see Him that rose from it."
"Why, Marguerite, dost thou ever have visions?"
"Visions? Oh no! Those are for the holy saints; not for a poor ignorant villein woman like me."
"Then what didst thou mean, just now?"
"Ah, my Damoiselle cannot understand."
"Margot, I don't like that. Thou art always saying it. I want to understand."
"Then she must ask the good God to show her."
And that is all I can get out of her.
Short of a league from the Holy City is the little hill called Mont Joie, because from it the palmers catch the first glimpse of the blessed Jerusalem. We were mounting, as it seemed to me, a low hillock, when Amaury rode up beside me, and parting the curtains, said—
"Now, Elaine, look out, for we are on the Mont Joie. Wilt thou light down?"
"Certainly," I answered.
So Amaury stopped the litter, and gave me his hand, and I jumped out. He took me to the place where the palmers kneel in thanksgiving for being brought thus far on their journey: and here I had my first sight of the Holy City.
It is but a small city, yet strongly fortified, having three walls. No Paynim is permitted to enter it, nor of course any heathen Jew. I cannot imagine how it was that the good God ever suffered the Holy City, even for an hour, to be in the hands of those wicked people. Yet last night, in the tent, if Marguerite did not ask me whether Monseigneur Saint Paul was not a Jew! I was shocked.
"Oh dear, no!" said I.
"I heard somebody say so," she replied.
"I should think it was some Paynim," said I. "Why, of course none of the holy Apostles were Jews. That miscreant Judas Iscariot, and Pontius Pilatus, and all those wicked people, I suppose, were Jews: but not the holy Apostles and the saints. It is quite shocking to think of such a thing!"
"Then what were they, if my Damoiselle pleases?" said Marguerite.
"Oh, they were of some other nation," said I.
For really, I do not know of what nation they were,—only that they could never have been Jews.
Amaury said that we must first visit the Holy Sepulchre; so, though I was dying to have news of Guy, I comforted myself with the thought that I should hereby acquire so much more merit than if I had not cared about it.
We entered the Holy City by the west gate, just as the dusk was beginning; and passing in single file along the streets, we descended the hill of Zion to the Holy Sepulchre.
In this church are kept many holy relics. In the courtyard is the prison where our Lord was confined after His betrayal, and the pillar to which He was bound when scourged: and in the portico the lance which pierced His side. The stone which the Angel rolled away from the sepulchre is now broken in two. Here our Lady died, and was buried in the Church of Saint Mary, close by. In this church is kept the cup of our Lord, out of which He habitually drank: it is of silver, with a handle on each side, and holds about a quart. Here also is the sponge which was held to His mouth, and the crown of thorns. (By a miracle of the good God, one half of the crown is also at Byzantium.) The tomb of our Lord is seven feet long, and rises three palms from the floor; fifteen golden lamps burn before it, day and night. I told the whole Rosary at the holy tomb, or should have done, for I felt that the longer I waited to see Guy, the more merit I should heap up: but Amaury became impatient, and insisted on my coming when a Pater and eight Aves were still to say.
Then we mounted the hill of Zion again, passing the church built in honour of the Prince of the Apostles, on the spot where he denied our Lord: and so we reached the King's Palace at last.
Amaury sprang from his horse, and motioned my postilion to draw up in front of the chief gate. I heard him say to the porter—
"Is Sir Guy de Lusignan here?"
"My gracious Lord, the Count of Joppa and Ascalon, is here, if it like you, noble Sir," replied the porter. "He is at this moment in audience of my Lady the Queen."
I was so glad to hear it. Then Guy had really been created a Count! He must be in high favour. One half of his prophecy was fulfilled. But what about the other?
"Pray you," said Amaury to the porter, "do my Lord Count to wit that his brother, Sir Amaury de Lusignan, and his sister, the Lady Elaine, are before the gate."
I hardly know how I got through the next ten minutes. Then came quick steps, a sound of speech, a laugh, and then my curtains were pushed aside, and the voice I loved best in all the world said—
"Lynette! Lynette, my darling!"
Ay, it was my own Guy who came back to me. Changed?—no, not really changed at all. A little older; a little more bronzed; a little longer and fuller in the beard:—that was all. But it was my Guy, himself.
"Come! jump out," he said, holding his hand, "and let me present thee to the Lady Queen. I long to see my Lynette the fairest ornament of her Court. And how goes it with Monseigneur, our fair father?"
So, talking all the way, I walked with Guy, hand in hand, up the stairs, and into the very bower of the imperial lady who bears the crown of all the world, since it is the flower of all the crowns.
"I can assure thee," said Guy, "the Lady Queen has often talked of thee, and is prepared to welcome thee."
It was a beautiful room, though small, decorated with carved and fragrant cedar-work, and hung with blue and gold. Round the walls were blue and gold settles, and three curule chairs in the midst. There were only three ladies there,—but I must describe them.
The Queen, who sat in one of the curule chairs, was rather short and stout, with a pleasant, motherly sort of look. She appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age. Her daughter, the Lady Isabel, who sat in another chair, busied with some embroidery, was apparently about eighteen; but Guy told me afterwards that she is only fifteen, for women ripen early in these Eastern lands, and grow old fast. She has luxuriant black hair and dark shining eyes. On the settle was a damsel a little older than the Princess, not quite so dark, nor so handsome. She, as I afterwards found, was the Damoiselle Melisende de Courtenay,[#] a distant relative of the King, who dwells with the Princesses. Guy led me up to the Queen.
[#] A fictitious person. Millicent is the modern version of this old Gothic name. It comes from Amala-suinde, and signifies heavenly-wisdom.
"Madam," said he, "your Highness has heard me often speak of my younger sister."
"Ha! the little Damoiselle Helena?"[#] replied the Queen, smiling very kindly. "Be welcome, my child. I have indeed heard much of you; this brother of yours thinks nobody like you in the world,—not even one, eh, Sir Count?—Isabel! I desire thee to make much of the Damoiselle, and let her feel herself at home. And,—Melisende! I pray thee, give order for her lodging, and let her women be seen to. Ah!—here comes another who will be glad to be acquainted with you."
[#] Helen is really quite distinct from Ellen, of which lost Elaine is the older form. The former is a Greek name signifying attractive, captivating. The latter is the feminine of the Celtic name Alain,—more generally written Alan or Allan,—and means bright-haired. Eleanor (it is a mistake as regards philology to write Elinor) is simply an amplification of Ellen by the addition of "or," gold. It denotes, therefore, hair bright as gold. Annora is a corruption of Eleanor, and Nora or Norah a further contraction of Annora.
I turned round to see at whom the Queen was looking. An inner door of the chamber had just opened, and two ladies were coming into the room. At the one I scarcely looked, save to see that she was old, and wore the garb of a nun. The other fixed my eyes in an instant.
Shall I say she was beautiful? I do not know. She has a face about which one never thinks whether it is beautiful or not. She is so sweet, so sweet! Her hair is long, of a glossy golden hue: her eyes are dark grey, and all her soul shines out in them. Her age seemed about twenty. And Guy said behind me, in a whisper—
"The Lady Sybil of Montferrat."
Something in Guy's tone made me glance suddenly at his face. My heart felt for a moment as if it stopped beating. The thing that I feared was come upon me. The whole prophecy was fulfilled: the beautiful lady stood before me. I should be first with Guy no longer.
But I did not feel so grieved as I expected. And when Lady Sybil put her arms round me, and kissed me, and told me I should be her dear little sister,—though I felt that matters must have gone very far indeed, yet somehow I was almost glad that Guy had found a heart to love him in this strange land.
The old nun proved to be a cousin of the Queen, whom they call Lady Judith.[#] She is an eremitess, and dwells in her cell in the very Palace itself. I notice that Lady Sybil seems very fond of her.
[#] A fictitious person.
Damoiselle Melisende showed me a nice bed-chamber, where I and my three women were to lodge. I was very tired, and the Queen saw it, and in her motherly way insisted on my having some supper, and going to bed at once. So I did not even wait to see Amaury again, and Guy went to look for him and bring him up to the Queen. The King, being a mesel, dwells alone in his own rooms, and receives none. When Guy has to communicate with him, he tells me that he talks with him through a lattice, and a fire of aromatic woods burns between them. But I can see that Guy is a very great man here, and has the affairs of the State almost in his own hands.
I said to Marguerite as I was undressing,—"Margot, I think Count Guy is going to marry somebody."
"Why, if it please my Damoiselle?"
"From the way he looks at Lady Sybil, and—other things."
"Your gracious pardon, but—is he less loving to my Damoiselle?"
"Oh no!—more loving and tender than ever, if that be possible."
"Then it is all right," said Marguerite. "He loves her."
"What dost thou mean, Margot?"
"When a man marries, my Damoiselle, one of three things happens. Either he weds from policy, and has no love for his lady; but Monseigneur Guy loves to look at her, so it is not that. Or, he loves himself, and she is merely a toy which ministers to his pleasure. Then he would be absorbed in himself and her, and not notice whether any other were happy or unhappy. But if he loves her, with that true, faithful, honourable love, which is one of God's best gifts, then he will be courteous and tender towards all women, because she is one. And especially to his own relatives, being women, who love him, he will be very loving indeed. That is why I asked."
"O Margot, Margot!" I said, laughing. "Where on earth dost thou find all thy queer notions?"
"Not all on earth, my Damoiselle. But, for many of them, all that is wanted is just to keep one's eyes open."
"Are my eyes open, Margot?"
"My Damoiselle had better shut them now," replied Marguerite, a little drily. "She can open them again to-morrow."
So I went to sleep, and dreamed that Guy married Lady Judith, in her nun's attire, and that I was in great distress at the sacrilege, and could do nothing to avert it.
CHAPTER V.
CURIOUS NOTIONS.
"The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned."
—ROBERT BROWNING.
For the last few weeks, since we reached Jerusalem, I have been very busy going about with the Damoiselle Melisende, and sometimes the Lady Isabel, with Amaury as escort. We have now visited all the holy places within one day's journey. I commanded Marguerite to attend me, for it amuses me afterwards to hear what she has to say.
We went to the Church of Saint Mary, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which is built in a round form; and in it is the empty tomb in which our Lady was buried. So some say, and that the angels carried her body away in the night: but other some say, that while the holy Apostles were carrying her to her burial, the angels came down and bore her away to Paradise. I asked Margot (as she always listens) if she had heard Father Eudes read about it from the holy Evangel: but she said he had never read the story of that, at least in French. In this church there is a stone in the wall, on which our Lord knelt to pray on the night of His betrayal; and on it is the impression of His knees, as if the stone were wax. There is no roof to the church, but by miraculous provision of the good God, the rain never falls on it. Here also, our Lord's body, when taken down from the cross, was wrapped and anointed.
We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble table at which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and they received the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, with an altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here is kept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. All these are on Mount Zion.
Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holy Apostles' feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had put it by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her. Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel.
"Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "It does not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet."
"But that cannot be, Margot!" said I.
Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm.
"Child," said she gently, "'if He wash thee not, thou hast no part with Him.'"
"And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,—if He wash us, we have part with Him."
"Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.' Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enter into rest.'"
I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars' purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all.
Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else.
"Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go in peace' to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were."
"O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?"
"Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intently through the roof of the church,—or where the roof should have been—into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in my heart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up, maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!"
"I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be just dreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock."
"Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and see Monseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,—would she think it a dreadful shock?"
"Margot! How can the two be compared?"
"Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly.
"Marguerite! Dost thou—canst thou—love our Lord as much as I love Guy? It is not possible!"
"A thousand times more, my Damoiselle. Your Nobility, I know, loves Monseigneur very dearly; yet you have other interests apart from him. I have no interest apart from my Lord. All my griefs, all my joys, I take to Him; and until He has laid His hand on them and blessed them, I can neither endure the one nor enjoy the other."
I wonder if Lady Judith feels like that! I should like to ask her, if I could take the liberty.
Marguerite was looking up again into the sky.
"Only think what it will be!" she said. "To look up from the cradle of your dying child, with the anguish of helplessness pressing tight upon your heart—and see Him! To look up from your own sick bed, faint and weary beyond measure—and see Him! From the bitter sense of sin and failure—from cruel words and unkind looks—from loneliness and desolation—from hunger and cold and homelessness—to look up, and see Him! There will be some suffering all these things when He comes. Oh, why are His chariot-wheels so long in coming? Does not He long for it even more than we?"
I was silent. She looked—this old villein woman—almost like one inspired.
"He knows!" she added softly. "He knows. He can wait. Then we can. Surely I come quickly. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!"'
Amaury called me, and I left her there.
He wanted to creep through the columns, and wished me to try first, as I am slimmer than he. I managed it pretty well,—so now all my sins are remitted, and I do feel so good and nice! Lady Isabel could hardly do it; and Amaury, who has been growing fatter of late, could not get through at all. He was much disappointed, and very cross in consequence. Damoiselle Melisende would not try. She said, laughing, that she was quite sure she could not push through, and she must get her sins forgiven some other way. But she mischievously ran and fetched old Marguerite, and putting on a grave face, proposed to her to try the feat. Now I am quite certain Marguerite could never have done it; for though she is not stout, she is a large-built woman. But she looked at the place for a moment, and then said to Melisende—
"If the Damoiselle pleases, what will follow?"
"Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she.
"I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away. "Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven."
"What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel.
"Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly."
"Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess, eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression.
I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She is only comical."
Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble is kept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know His judgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. She said she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangel said that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on that marble?
"Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased the good God that it should receive the impress."
"The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But—well, I am an ignorant woman."
Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Lady appeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to believe her assumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle is kept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain.
That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be.
"Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am."
"Pardon me—not at all!" he answered.
"And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende.
"By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist."
"Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes."
"I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist."
"And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired.
"Undoubtedly, Lady," said he.
"But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness.
"Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady."
"What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron.
"But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?"
"How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.
"Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my Lady Queen,—lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter, quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What men call the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!"
"You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy.
"Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am no such fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, and there I begin and end. So does every wise man."
"Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think all the wise men must believe as he does?"
"Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"
Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he. "I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before met one of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,—In your system, what becomes of the soul after death?"
"Nay, if there be no soul, what can become of it?" put in Damoiselle Melisende.
"Pure foy!" cried the Baron. "I concern myself about nothing of that sort. Holy Church teaches that the soul survives the body, and it were unseemly to gainsay her teaching. But—ha! what know I?"
"For me," said Messire Renaud, a little grandiloquently, "I believe that death is simply the dissolution of that which seems, and leaves only the pure essence of that which is. The modicum of spirit—of that essence—which I call my soul, will then be absorbed into the great soul of the Universe—the Unknowable, the Unknown."
"We have a name for that, Messire," said Guy reverently. "We call it—God."
"Precisely," answered Messire Renaud. "You—we—holy Church—personify this Unknowable Essence, which is the fountain of all essence. The parable—for a parable it is—is most beautiful. But It—He—name it as you will—is none the less the Unknown and the Unknowable."
"The boy must have a fever, and the delirium is on him," said the Baron. "Get a leech, lad. Let out a little of that hot blood which mystifies thy foolish brains."
There was silence for a minute, and it was broken by the low, quiet voice of Lady Judith, who sat next to the Lady Queen, with a spindle in her hand.
"'And this is life eternal, that they should know Thee.'" She added no more.
"Beautiful words, truly," responded Messire Renaud. "But you will permit me to observe, Lady, that they are—like all similar phrases—symbolical. The soul that has risen the nearest to this ineffable Essence—that is most free from the shell of that which seems—may, in a certain typical sense, be said to 'know' this Essence. Now there never was a soul more free from the seeming than that of Him whom we call our Lord. Accordingly, He tells us that—employing one of the loveliest of all types—He 'knew the Father.' It is perfectly charming, to an enlightened mind, to recognise the force, the beauty, the hidden meaning, of these exquisite types."
"Lad, what is the length of thine ears?" growled the Baron. "What crouched ass crammed all this nonsense into thee? 'Enlightened mind'—'exquisite types'—'charming symbolism'! I am not at all sure that I understand thee, thou exquisite gander! But if I do, what thou meanest, put in plain language, is simply that there is no God. Eh?"
"Fair Father, under your good leave, I would choose other words. God—what we call God—is the Unknowable Essence. Therefore, undoubtedly there is God, and in a symbolic sense, He is the Creator of all things, this Essence being the source out of which all other essences are evolved. Therefore, parabolically speaking"——
"I'll lay my stick about thy back, thou parabolical mud-puddle!" cried the Baron. "Let me be served up for Saladin's supper if I understand a word of thy foolery! Art thou a true son of holy Church or not? That is what I want to know."
"Undoubtedly, fair Sir!" said Messire Renaud. "God forbid that I should be a heretic! Our holy Mother the Church has never banned the Nominalists."
"Then it is high time she did!" retorted the Baron. "I reckon she thinks they will do nobody much harm, because no mortal being can understand them. But where, in the name of all the Seven Wonders of the World, thou gattest such moonshine sticking in thy brains, shoot me if I know. It was not from my Lady, thy fair mother; and I am sure it was not from me."
Messire Renaud made no answer beyond a laugh, and the Lady Queen quickly introduced a different subject. I fancy she saw that the Baron was losing his temper. But when Messire Renaud was about to take leave, Lady Judith arose, as quietly as she does everything, and glided to his side.
"Fair Sir," she said gently, "I pray you, pardon one word from an old woman. You know years should teach wisdom."
"Trust me, Lady, to listen with all respect," said he courteously.
"Fair Sir," she said, "when you stand face to face with death, you will find It does not satisfy your need. You will want Him. You are not a thing, but a person. How can the thing produced be greater than that which produces it?"
"Your pardon, fair Lady and holy Mother!" interposed Messire Renaud quickly. "I do not object to designate the Unknowable Essence as Him. Far from it! I do but say, as the highest minds have said,—We cannot know. It maybe Him, It, Them:—we cannot know. We can but bow in illimitable adoration, and strive to perfect, to purify and enlighten, our minds, so that they shall grow nearer and nearer to that ineffable Possibility."
A very sad look passed over Lady Judith's face.
"My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died for thee."
And without another word, she glided back to her seat.
"Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soul me?"
"To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," said she; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show you the other."
"Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that my body does not exist at all,—it only seems to be."
"Does he say the same of his own body?"
"Oh yes; of all."
"Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he come into my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and a sword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them, whether his body be himself or not."
[#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date.
"Oh, he says that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose to imagine that he had no pain, it would stop."
"Very good," said Marguerite. "Then let him set his broken leg with his beautiful imagination. If he can cure his pain by imagining he has none, what must he be if he do not?"
"Well, I know what I should think him. But his father, the Baron de Montluc, will have it just the opposite—that there is no soul, nor anything but what we can see and hear."
"Ah! they will both find out their mistakes when they come to die," said Margot. "Poor blind things! The good God grant that they may find them out a little sooner."
I asked Guy if he did not think the Baron's notion a very dangerous one. But while he said "yes," he added that he thought Messire Renaud's much more so.
"It is so much more difficult to disprove," said he. "It may look more absurd on the surface, but it is more subtle to deal with, and much more profound."
"They both look to me very silly," said I.
"I wish they were no worse," was Guy's answer.
To-day we have been to the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. This is a little city, nearly two leagues from Jerusalem, that is, half a day's ride. The way thither is very fair, by pleasant plains and woods. The city is long and narrow, and well walled, and enclosed with good ditches on all sides. Between the city and the church lies the field Floridus, where of old time a certain maiden was brought to the burning, being falsely accused. But she, knowing her innocence, prayed to our Lord, and He by miracle caused the lighted faggots to turn into red roses, and the unlighted into white roses; which were the first roses that were ever in the world.
The place where our Lord was born is near the choir of the church, down sixteen steps, made of marble and richly painted; and under the cloister, down eighteen steps, is the charnel-house of the holy Innocents. The tomb of Saint Jerome is before the holy place. Here are kept a marble table, on which our Lady ate with the three Kings that came from the East to worship our Lord; and the cistern into which the star fell that guided them. The church, as is meet, is dedicated to our Lady.
Marguerite wanted to know if I were sure that the table was marble. Because, she said, our Lady was a poor woman—only imagine such a fancy!—but she insisted upon it that she had heard Father Eudes read something about it. As if the Queen of Heaven, who was, moreover, Queen of the land, could have been poor! I told Marguerite I was sure she must be mistaken, for our Lady was a Princess born.
"That may be, of blood," said she; "but she was poor. Our Lord Himself, when on earth, was but a villein."
I was dreadfully shocked.
"O Marguerite!" I cried. "What horrible sacrilege! Art thou not afraid of the church falling on thee?"
"It would not alter that if it did," said she drily.
"Our Lord a villein!" exclaimed I. "How is such a thing possible? He was the King of Kings."
"He is the King of Kings," said Marguerite, so reverently that I was sure she could mean no ill; "and He was of the royal blood of Monseigneur Saint David. That is the Evangel of the nobles. But He was by station a villein, and wrought as a carpenter, and had no house and no wealth. That is the Evangel of the villeins. And the villeins need their Evangel, Damoiselle; for they have nothing else."
I could not tell what to answer. It is rather puzzling. I suppose it is true that our Lord was reputed the son of a carpenter; and he must have wrought as such,—Monseigneur Saint Joseph, I mean,—for the Lady de Montbeillard, who is fond of picking up relics, has a splinter of wood from a cabinet that he made. But I always thought that it was to teach religious persons[#] a lesson of humility and voluntary poverty. It could not be that He was poor!
[#] By this term a Romanist does not mean what a Protestant does. The only "religious persons," in the eyes of the former, are priests or monks.
Then our Lady,—I have seen a scrap of her tunic, and it was as fine stuff as it could be; and I have heard, though I never saw it, that her wedding-ring is set with gems. I said this to Marguerite. How could our Lady be poor?
"All that may be," she replied, with quiet perverseness. "But I know, for all that, Father Eudes read that our Lord was born in a cratch, or laid in one, because there was no room in the inn. And they do not behave in that way to kings and nobles. That is the lot of the villein. And He chose the villein's lot; and I, a villein, have been giving Him thanks for it."
And nothing that I could say would disturb her calm conviction.
Damoiselle Melisende told me some interesting things as we rode back to the Holy City. As,—that Jerusalem is very badly supplied with water, and the villeins collect and drink only rain-water. Of course this does not affect the nobles, who drink wine. About two leagues from Jerusalem, towards the north, is a little village called Jericho, where the walls of the house of Madame Saint Rahab are still standing. She was a great lady who received into her house certain spies sent by Monseigneur Saint Joshua, and hid them behind the arras. (Now, there again!—if that stupid old Marguerite would not have it that Madame Saint Rahab kept a cabaret. How could a great lady keep a cabaret? I wish she would give over listening, if it makes her take such fancies.) Damoiselle Melisende also told me that Adam, our first father, was buried in the place where our Lord was crucified; and our Lord's blood fell upon him, and he came to life again, and so did many others. And Adam wept for his son Abel one hundred years. Moreover, there is a rock still standing in the place where the wicked Jews had their Temple, which was in the holiest place of all; and here our Lord was wont to repose whilst His disciples confessed themselves to Him.[#]
[#] All these legends may be found in the Travels of Sir John Mandeville.
Coming home, we passed by the Golden Gate, which is the gate whereby our Lord entered the Holy City on the ass, and the gate opened to Him of its own accord. Damoiselle Melisende bade me observe three marks in the stone where the ass had set his feet. The marks I certainly saw, but I could not have told that they were the print of an ass's hoofs. I suppose I was not worthy to behold them quite distinctly.
Guy called me to him this evening.
"Little Lynette," he said, "I have something to tell thee."
"Let me spare thee the pains, Guy," answered I mischievously. "Dost thou think I have no eyes? I saw it the first night we came."
"Saw what?" asked Guy, with an astonished look.
"That thy beautiful lady had appeared," I replied. "Thou art going to wed with Lady Sybil."
"What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing. "Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency of the kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence of the nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil."
"If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said it honestly.
"Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of all lands! And she, Lynette—she is a gem and a treasure."
"I am sure of that, Guy," said I.
"And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The King has given Amaury a wife."
"Oh, poor thing!—who is it?" said I.
Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears.
"Poor thing!—who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?"
"Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her, and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to please him."
"Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It is the Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thou dost not know her."
"Dost thou?—what is she like?"
"Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy—(what a falsehood!). "Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clémence, thy fair mother,—a woman is a woman, and that is all."
"Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose, and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said such a thing, I should not have wondered."
"Men are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business is to look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobody expects a woman to be over wise or clever."
"Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine ears boxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, I never heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seem to look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet and plaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out that your plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cry out, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillations of something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let me tell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, and individuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Pretty phrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may sound very well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it never occur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a little genuine respect and consideration? We are not toys; we are not pet animals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with human feelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to our complexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of our separate consciences and intellects."
"'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused. "'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, I have had a lecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry."
"Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's pet monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused with that one ape in particular."
Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.
Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is nobody.
I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it as a personal insult—as though every spark of intellect added to our brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is, of course, to please the men,—not to make the most of herself as an individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.
They will see what they will see. I can live without them. And I mean to do.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE.
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?
Now do let me grumble and groan:
It is all very well other folks should have fun;
But why can't they let me alone?"
Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,—of which one variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system and purify the blood,—and garlic, which they consider an antidote to poison,—and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,—and hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and showed them to Marguerite.
[#] Senna.
[#] Colocynth.
[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.
"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and found out what sort of thing it was.
"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this country, and only in one particular spot."
"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit, my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running after it all their lives."
Then I saw what she meant.
They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts, and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children clever. They make no hay in this country.
[#] Oranges.
As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in Europe,—especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other blue.
[#] Cotton.
Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night, they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once. It seems to me rather a good idea.
Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.
[#] All mediæval Christians thought this.
[#] The first drum on record.
We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three, on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!—how I pity her! I would not marry Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.
I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,—Oh, so much! She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.
"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.
"Very much indeed," said I,—"if you love him, Lady."
"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as concerned him. Never, till he came hither."
Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But—shall I own to having been the least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?
I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises women—I have noticed that brainless men always do—and I should not have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy. Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather disappointed me.
Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.
I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day. We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose damask.
I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no colour in particular; she is not beautiful—nor ugly: she is not agreeable—nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.
Well!—we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady Judith and I were left alone.
"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."
"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."
"Then, holy Mother,—do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from him?"
Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.
"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"
"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy? Loyauté d'amour forbid! "But I mean in general."
"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."
"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I. "Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"
"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up the man too high."
"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.
"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very complicated thing."
"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"
"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a double one.—Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."
"But where the temperaments are alike—?" said I; for I always think Guy and I were cast in the same mould.
"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two brothers, there is always a difference."
"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"
"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one mould,—yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."
"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"
"Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.
"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of that sort."
"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."
"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."
Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.
"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"
"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."
"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the words of the Master—thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him? He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."
Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.
"I don't know how!" I said.
"No, dear heart; He knows how," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou art willing to learn of Him—if thou art willing, Helena."
"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But—I could not leave Guy."
"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into the cloister?"
"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in the world,—can one?"
"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out. Its root is in thine own heart, little one."
"But—your pardon, holy Mother!—you yourself have chosen the cloister."
"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact, it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I was five years old."
"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a wife?"[#]
[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different places at the date of the dissolution.
"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,—yes, I think so."
"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I, laughing.
"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without marriage."
"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun? Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get leave from my superiors to live with Guy."
"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy never disappoint thee, my child?"
It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"—but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something else.
I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.
"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered, turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I am afraid she will be disappointed."
"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to do?"
"Does one always know what is right? As to why,—there are the world, the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."
The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,—that is other people; and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes. But the flesh,—why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right. Marguerite must be mistaken.
Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite. Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the blood must remain the same.
I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I should never think of calling her sweet—at least, not sweet like her sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only what she wants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of that sort. But I do not like them.
As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do not wonder at Guy.
Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too busy to attend to any thing.
"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"
"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"
I nodded.
"I think it is help," she answered.
"But what sort of help?"
"The sort we need at the minute."
"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"
"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the reason why she does not get it."
"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and not receive grace?"
"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"
"Margot! Is not that heresy?"
"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."
"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread, the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]
[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years later.
"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully. "But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."
I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort, whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up and down the snowy streets in company, singing—only fancy, singing! And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could give; and then they went on, singing,—always singing. I asked Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,—it was she who told me,—what they sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity Song of the angels,—"Glory to God in the highest,—on earth peace towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the snow but one,—one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,—I think it was Lincoln, but I am not sure,—and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught his thin, quavering voice, still singing,—"Glory to God in the highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not singing,—dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his song.[#]
[#] Vulgate version.
[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing Christians, by professing Christians.
Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies the difference from truth and holiness?
I must ask Lady Judith.
Oh dear, why will people?—I do think it is too bad. I never thought of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,—But that Guy, of all people in all this world—
Come, I had better tell my story straight.
I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had caught me.
"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"
"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"
"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."
"What wouldst thou say to four?"
"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."
"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"
"Cry my eyes out, I think."
Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.
"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest hither for that object."
"I came hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.
"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone. "Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure thee."
"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.
For that was the bitterest drop—that Guy should be willing to part with me.
"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it would be an excellent match,—and of course I should be glad to see thee comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."
Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever understand women?
"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is there about me that is unsettled?"
"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no woman is considered settled till she marries."
"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world," said I.
"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."
"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"
"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"—I think Guy saw that had hurt me—"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"
I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.
"My dear little sister," said Guy again,—and very lovingly he said it,—"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."
Ah, that was it. He did not understand!
"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"
"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt."
"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.
It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.
[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.
"No," said I; "none."
"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"
"I dare say it will piece again," said I.
Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"
And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.
Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.
I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.
Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.
I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?
'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,
Be at rest.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,
If He be my Guide?'
'In His feet and hands are wound-prints,
And His side.'
"'Is there diadem, as monarch,
That His brow adorns?'
'Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns.'
"If I find Him, if I follow,
What His guerdon here?'
'Many a sorrow, many a labour,
Many a tear.'
"'If I still hold closely to Him,
What hath He at last?'
'Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,
Jordan past.'
"'If I ask Him to receive me,
Will He say me nay?'
'Not till earth, and not till heaven,
Pass away.'"
"Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said Damoiselle Melisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask when the Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."
Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's gold diapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had so touched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judith answered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ran off again.
"Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy with the diaper.
"Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could.
"Did it please thee now?"
"It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse.
"They had not far to come, had they, little one?"
I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And—it was very silly of me, but—I burst into tears once more.
"It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wilt feel better for it, my child."
"But I had—had it out—once," sobbed I.
"Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, little one."
"It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do not exactly know why I was crying."
"Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimes it means that we dare not look and see why."
I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredient in my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put into words, even to myself.
It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was not even that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield that place to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready had it been to any one else. But—there was the sting—he did not love me as I loved him. He could do without me.
And I could have no comfort from sympathy. Because, in the first place, the only person whose sympathy would have been a comfort to me was the very one who had distressed me; and in the second place, I had a vague idea underlying my grief that I had no business to feel any; that every body (if they knew) would tell me I was exceedingly silly—that it was only what I ought to have expected—and all sorts of uncomfortable consolations of that kind. Was I a foolish baby, crying for the moon?—or was I a grand heroine of romance, whose feelings were so exquisitely delicate and sensitive that the common clay of which other people were made could not be expected to understand me? I could not tell.
Oh, why must we come out of that sweet old world where we walked hand in hand, and were all in all to each other? Why must we grow up, and drift asunder, and never be the same to one another any more?
Was I wicked?—or was I only miserable?
About the last item at any rate there was no doubt. I sat, thinking sad thoughts, and trying to see my work through half-dimmed eyes, when Lady Judith spoke again.
"Helena," she said, "grief has two voices; and many only hear the upper and louder one. I shall be sorry to see thee miss that lower, stiller voice, which is by far the more important of the two."
"What do you mean, holy Mother?" I asked.
"Dear heart," she said, "the louder voice, which all must hear, chants in a minor key, 'This world is not your rest.' It is a sad, sad song, more especially to those who have heard little of it before. But many miss the soft, sweet music of the undertone, which is,—'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.' Yet it is always there—if we will only listen."
"But a thing which is done cannot be undone," said I.
"No," she answered. "It cannot. But can it not be compensated? If thou lose a necklace of gilt copper, and one give thee a gold carcanet instead, hast thou really sustained any loss?"
"Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the copper carcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to me for that?"
"Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It was almost as if she had said,—"I did not understand thee to mean that!"—"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. But there is one."
"Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing.
"Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is close to thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it."
"What, holy Mother?"
Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone.
"'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"
"I cannot!" I sobbed.
"No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will of Him that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Hélène de Lusignan."
"O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the good God!"
"Couldst thou not?" was all she said.
"Have I done that?" I faltered.
"Ask thine own conscience," replied Lady Judith. "Dear child, He loved not His will when He came down from Heaven, to do the will of God His Father. That will was to save His Church. Little Helena, was it to save thee?"
"How can I know, holy Mother?"
"It is worth knowing," she said.
"Yes, it is worth knowing," said I, "but how can we know?"
"What wouldst thou give to know it? Not that it can be bought: but what is it worth in thine eyes?"
I thought, and thought, but I could not tell wherewith to measure any thing so intangible.
"Wouldst thou give up having thine own will for one year?" she asked.
"I know not what might happen in it," said I, with a rather frightened feeling.
Why, I might marry, or be ill, or die. Or Guy might give over loving me altogether, in that year. Oh, I could not, could not will that! And a year is such a long, long time. No, I could not—for such a time as that—let myself slip into nothing, as it were.
"Helena," she said, "suppose, at this moment, God were to send an angel down to thee from Heaven. Suppose he brought to thee a message from God Himself, that if thou wouldst be content to leave all things to His ordering for one year, and to have no will at all in the matter, He would see that nothing was done which should really harm thee in the least. What wouldst thou say?"
"Oh, then I should dare to leave it!" said I.
"My child, if thou art of His redeemed, He has said it—not for one short year, but for all thy life. If, Helena!"
"Ah,—if!" I said with a sigh.
Lady Judith wrought at her gold diapering, and I at my roses, and we were both silent for a season. Then the Lady Queen and the Lady Isabel came in, and there was no further opportunity for quiet conversation.
CHAPTER VII.
A LITTLE CLOUD OUT OF THE SEA.
"Coming events cast their shadows before."
—CAMPBELL.
It is Monday night, and I am,—Oh, so tired!
The three grand weddings are over. Very beautiful sights they were; and very pleasant the feasts and the dances; but all is done now, and if Messire Renaud feels any doubt to-night about his body being himself, I have none about mine.
Eschine made a capital bride, in the sense in which a man would use the words. That is, she looked very nice, and she stood like a statue. I do not believe she had an idea in her head beyond these: that she was going to be married, that it was a very delightful thing, and that she must look well and behave becomingly.
Is that the sort of woman that men like? It is the sort that some men seem to think all women are.
But Amaury! If ever I did see a creature more absurd than he, I do not know who it was. He fidgetted over Eschine's bridal dress precisely as if he had been her milliner. At the very last minute, the garland had to be altered because it did not suit him.
Most charming of all the weddings was Guy's. Dear Lady Sybil was so beautiful, and behaved so perfectly, as I should judge of a bride's behaviour,—a little soft moisture dimming her dark eyes, and a little gentle tremulousness in her sweet lips. Her dress was simply enchanting,—soft and white.
Perhaps Lady Isabel made the most splendid-looking bride of the three; for her dress was gorgeous, and while Lady Sybil's style of beauty is by far the more artistic and poetical, Lady Isabel's is certainly the more showy.
So far as I could judge, the three brides regarded their bridegrooms with very different eyes. To Eschine, he was an accident of the rite; a portion of the ceremony which it would spoil the show to leave out. To Lady Isabel, he was a new horse, just mounted, interesting to try, and a pleasant triumph to subdue. But to Lady Sybil, he was the sun and centre of all, and every thing deserved attention just in proportion as it concerned him.
I almost hope that Eschine does not love Amaury, for I feel sure she will be very unhappy if she do. As to Messire Homfroy de Tours, I do not think Lady Isabel will find him a pleasant charger. He is any thing but spirited, and seems to me to have a little of the mule about him—a creature who would be given at times to taking the bit in his teeth, and absolutely refusing to go a yard further.
And now it is all over,—the pageants, and the feasts, and the dancing. And I cannot tell why I am sad.
How is it, or why is it, that after one has enjoyed any thing very much, one always does feel sad?
I think, except to the bride and bridegroom, a wedding is a very sorrowful thing. I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions. But it looks to me so terribly like a funeral. There is a bustle, and a show; and then you wake up, and miss one out of your life. It is true, the one can come back still: but does he come back to be yours any more? I think the instances must be very, very few in which it is so, and only where both are, to you, very near and dear.
I think Marguerite saw I looked tired and sad.
"There have been light hearts to-day," she said; "and there have been heavy ones. But the light of to-day may be the heavy of to-morrow; and the sorrow of to-night may turn to joy in the morning."
"I do feel sorrowful, Margot; but I do not know why."
"My Damoiselle is weary. And all great joy brings a dull, tired feeling after it. I suppose it is the infirmity of earth. The angels do not feel so."
"I should like to be an angel," said I. "It must be so nice to fly!"
"And I," said Marguerite; "but not for that reason. I should like to have no sin, and to see the good God."
"Oh dear!" said I. "That is just what I should not like. In the sense of never doing wrong, it might be all very well: but I should not want never to have any amusement, which I suppose thou meanest: and seeing the good God would frighten me dreadfully."
"Does my Damoiselle remember the time when little Jacquot, Bertrade's brother, set fire to the hay-rick by playing with lighted straws?"
"Oh yes, very well. Why, what has that to do with it?"
"Does she recollect how he shrieked and struggled, when Robert and Pierre took him and carried him into the hall, for Monseigneur himself to judge him for his naughtiness?"
"Oh yes, Margot. I really felt sorry for the child, he was so terrified; and yet it was half ludicrous—Monseigneur did not even have him whipped."
"Yet, if I remember rightly, my Damoiselle was standing by Monseigneur's side at the very time; and she did not look frightened in the least. Will she allow her servant to ask why?"
"Why should I, Margot? I had done nothing wrong."
"And why is my Damoiselle more like Jacquot than herself, when she comes to think of seeing the good God?"
"Ah!—thou wouldst like me to say, Because I have done wrong, I suppose."
"Yes; but I think there was another reason as well."
"What was that, Margot?"
"My Damoiselle is Monseigneur's own child. She knows him. He loves her, and she knows it."
"But we are all children of the good God, Margot."
"Will my Damoiselle pardon me? We are all His creatures: not all His children. Oh no, no!"
"O Margot!" said I suddenly, "didst thou note that tall, dark, handsome knight, who stood on Count Guy's left hand,—Count Raymond of Tripoli?"
"He in the mantle lined with black sable, and gold-barred scarlet hose?"
"That is the man I mean."
"I saw him. Why, if it please my Damoiselle?"
"Didst thou like him?"
"My Damoiselle did not like him?"
Marguerite is very fond of answering one question by another.
"I did not; and I could not tell why."
"Nor I. But I could."
"Then tell me, Margot."
"My Damoiselle, every man has a mark upon his brow which the good God and His angels can see. But few men see it, and in some it is not easy to see. Many foreheads look blank to our eyes. But sooner or later, one of the two marks is certain to shine forth—either the holy cross of our Lord, or the badge of the great enemy, the star that fell from heaven. And what I saw on that man's lofty brow was not the cross of Christ, but the star of Satan."
"Margot, thy queer fancies!" said I, laughing. "Now tell me, prithee, on whose forehead, in this house, thou seest the cross."
"The Lady Judith," she answered without the least hesitation; "and I think, the Lady Sybil. Let my Damoiselle pardon me if I cannot name any other, with certainty. I have weak eyes for such sights. I have hope of Monseigneur Count Guy."
"Margot, Margot!" cried I. "Thou uncharitable old creature, only three! What, not the Lady Queen, nor the Lady Isabel, nor the holy Patriarch! Oh, fie!"
"Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant. The Lady Queen,—ah, I have no right to say. She looks blank, to me. The cross may be there, and I may be blind. But the Patriarch—no! and the Lady Isabel—the good God forgive me if I sin, but I believe I see the star on her."
"And on me?" said I, laughing to hide a curious sensation which I felt, much akin to mortification. Yet what did old Marguerite's foolish fancies matter?
I was surprised to see her worn old eyes suddenly fill with tears.
"My sweet Damoiselle!" she said. "The good God bring out the holy cross on the brow that I love so well! But as yet,—if I speak at all, I must speak truth—I have not seen it there."
I could not make out why I did not like the Count of Tripoli. He is a very handsome man,—even my partial eyes must admit, handsomer than Guy. But there is a strange look in his eyes, as if you only saw the lid of a coffer, and beneath, inside the coffer, there might be something dark and dangerous. Guy says he is a splendid fellow; but Guy always was given to making sudden friendships, and to imagining all his friends to be angels until he discovered they were men. I very much doubt the angelic nature of Count Raymond. I do not like him.