"I've nothing to do with better and worse--I haven't to judge for the
rest:
If other men are not better than I am, they are bad enough at the
best."
When Ivo thought proper to see Kate approaching, he turned with an
exclamation of hyperbolical admiration. He knew perfectly the type of
woman with whom he had to deal. "Ah, it is den you, fair maid? You be
fair widout dem, but much fairer wid de ear-rings, I you assure. Ah, if
you had but a comely ouche at your t'roat, just dere,"--and Ivo laid a
fat brown finger at the base of his own--"your beauty would be perfect--
perfect!"
"Lack-a-day, I would I had!" responded silly Kate; "but ouches and such
be not for the likes of me."
"How? Say no such a ting! I know of one jewel, a ruby of de best, and
de setting of pure gold, fit for a queen, dat might be had by de maid
who would give herself one leetle pain to tell me only one leetle ting,
dat should harm none; but you care not, I dare say, to trouble you-self
so much."
And Ivo thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly.
"Nay, now; do you?" said the bewitched fly, getting a little deeper into
the web. "Good Master Packman, do of your grace tell me how a maid
should earn that jewel?"
Ivo drew the brooch half out of his breast, so as just to allow Kate the
least glance at it possible.
"Is that the jewel?" she asked, eagerly. "Eh, but it shineth well-nigh
to match the sun himself! Come, now; what should I tell you? I'll do
aught to win it."
Ivo came close to her, and spoke into her ear.
"Show me which is the prisoner's window."
"Well, it's yon oriel, on the inner side of--Eh, but I marvel if I do
ill to tell you!"
"Tell me noting at all dat you count ill," was the pious answer of Ivo,
who had got to know all he needed except one item. "You can tarry a
little longer? or you are very busy? Sir Godfrey is away, is it not?"
"Nay, he's at home, but he'll be hence next week. He's to tilt at the
tournament at Leicester."
"Ah! dat will be grand sight, all de knights and de ladies. But I am
sure--sure--dere shall not be one so fair as you, sweet maid. Look you,
I pin de jewel at your neck. It is wort von hundred pound, I do ensure
you."
"Eh, to think of it!" cried enchanted Kate.
"And I would not part wid it but to my friend, and a maid so fair and
delightsome. See you, how it shine! It shine better as de sun when it
do catch him. You sleep in de prisoner's chamber?--yes?"
"Nay, I'm but a sub-chambermaid, look you--not even an upper. Mistress
Perrote, she sleeps in the pallet whenas any doth; but methinks her
Ladyship lieth alone at this present. Howbeit, none never seeth her
save Mistress Perrote and Mistress Amphillis, and my Lady and Sir
Godfrey, of course, when they have need. I've ne'er beheld her myself,
only standing behind the casement, as she oft loveth to do. My Lady
hath a key to her chamber door, and Mistress Perrote the like; and none
save these never entereth."
Ivo drank in all the information which Kate imparted, while he only
seemed to be carelessly trimming a switch which he had pulled from a
willow close at hand.
"They be careful of her, it should seem," he said.
"You may say that. They're mortal feared of any man so much as seeing
her. Well, I reckon I should go now. I'm sure I'm right full indebted
to you, Master Packman, for this jewel: only I don't feel as if I have
paid you for it."
"You have me paid twice its value, to suffer me look on your beautiful
face!" was the gallant answer, with a low bow. "But one more word, and
I go, fair maid, and de sun go from me wid you. De porter, he is what
of a man?--and has he any dog?"
"Oh ay, that he hath; but I can peace the big dog well enough, an' I did
but know when it should be. Well, as for the manner of man, he's
pleasant enough where he takes, look you; but if he reckons you're after
aught ill, you'll not come round him in no wise."
"Ah, he is wise man. I see. Well, my fairest of maidens, you shall, if
it please you, keep de big dog looking de oder way at nine o'clock of de
even, de night Sir Godfrey goes; and de Lady Princess have not so fair a
crespine for her hair as you shall win, so to do. Dat is Monday night,
trow?"
"Nay, 'tis Tuesday. Well, I'll see; I'll do what I can."
"Fair maid, if I t'ought it possible, I would say, de saints make you
beautifuller! But no; it is not possible. So I say, de saints make you
happier, and send you all dat you most desire! Good-night."
"Good even, Master Packman, and good befall you. You'll not forget that
crespine?"
"Forget? Impossible! Absolute impossible! I bear your remembrance on
mine heart all de days of my life. I adore you! Farewell."
When Meg, the next minute, joined Kate under the tree, there was no more
sign of Ivo than if he had been the airy creature of a dream.
The little pedlar had escaped dexterously, and only just in time. He
hid for a moment beneath the shade of a friendly shrub, and, as soon as
he saw Meg's back turned, ran downwards into the Derby road as lithely
as a cat, and took the way to that city, where he recounted to his
companions, when other people were supposed to be asleep, the
arrangement he had made to free the Countess.
"Thou art sore lacking in discretion, my son," said Father Eloy, whose
normal condition was that of a private confessor in Bretagne, and whose
temporary disguise was that of a horse-dealer. "Such a maid as thou
describest is as certain to want and have a confidant as she is to wear
that trumpery. Thou wilt find--or, rather, we shall find--the whole
house up and alert, and fully aware of our intention."
Ivo's shoulders were shrugged very decidedly.
"_Ha, chetife_!" cried he; "she will want the crespine."
"Not so much as she will want to impart her secret," answered the
priest. "Who whispered to the earth, `Midas has long ears'?"
"It will not matter much to Ivo, so he be not taken," said the knight.
"Nor, in a sense, to you, Father, as your frock protects you. I shall
come off the worst."
"You'll come off well enough," responded Ivo. "You made an excellent
mercer this morrow. You only need go on chaffering till you have sold
all your satins, and by that time you will have your pockets well lined;
and if you choose your route wisely, you will be near the sea."
"Well and good! if we are not all by that time eating dry bread at the
expense of our worthy friend Sir Godfrey."
"Mind _you_ are not, Sir Roland," said Ivo. "Every man for himself. I
always fall on my feet like a cat, and have nine lives."
"Nine lives come to an end some day," replied Sir Roland, grimly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"On what art thou a-thinking thus busily, Phyllis?"
"Your pardon, Mistress Perrote; I was thinking of you."
"Not hard to guess, when I saw thine eyes look divers times my ways.
What anentis me, my maid?"
"I cry you mercy, Mistress Perrote; for you should very like say that
whereon I thought was none of my business. Yet man's thoughts will not
alway be ruled. I did somewhat marvel, under your pleasure, at your
answer to yon pedlar that asked how you came to be hither."
"Wherefore? that I told him no more?"
"Ay; and likewise--"
"Make an end, my maid."
"Mistress, again I cry you mercy; but it seemed me as though, while you
sore pitied our Lady, you had no list to help her forth of her trouble,
an' it might be compassed. And I conceived [Note 1] it not."
"It could not be compassed, Phyllis; and granting it so should, to what
good purpose? Set in case that she came forth this morrow, a free
woman--whither is she to wend, and what to do? To her son? He will
have none of her. To her daughter? Man saith she hath scantly more
freedom than her mother in truth, being ruled of an ill husband that
giveth her no leave to work. To King Edward? It should but set him in
the briars with divers other princes, the King of France and the Duke of
Bretagne more in especial. To my Lady Princess? Verily, she is good
woman, yet is she mother of my Lady Duchess; and though I cast no doubt
she should essay to judge the matter righteously, yet 'tis but like that
she should lean to her own child, which doubtless seeth through her
lord's eyes; and it should set her in the briars no less than King
Edward. Whither, then, is she to go for whom there is no room on middle
earth [Note 2], and whose company all men avoid? Nay, my maid, for the
Lady Marguerite there is no home save Heaven; and there is none to be
glad of her company save Him that was yet more lonely than she, and
whose foes, like hers, were they of His own house."
"'Tis sore pitiful!" said Amphillis, looking up with the tears in her
eyes.
"`Pitiful'! ay, never was sadder case sithence that saddest of all in
the Garden of Gethsemane. Would God she would seek Him, and accept of
His pity!"
"Surely, our Lady is Christian woman!" responded Amphillis, in a rather
astonished tone.
"What signifiest thereby?"
"Why she that doth right heartily believe Christ our Lord to have been
born and died, and risen again, and so forth."
"What good should that do her?"
Amphillis stared, without answering.
"If that belief were very heartfelt, it should be life and comfort; but
meseemeth thy manner of belief is not heartfelt, but headful. To
believe that a man lived and died, Phyllis, is not to accept his help,
and to affy thee in his trustworthiness. Did it ever any good and
pleasure to thee to believe that one Julius Caesar lived over a thousand
years ago?"
"No, verily; but--" Amphillis did not like to say what she was thinking,
that no appropriation of good, nor sensation of pleasure, had ever yet
mingled with that belief in the facts concerning Jesus Christ on which
she vaguely relied for salvation. She thought a moment, and then spoke
out. "Mistress, did you mean there was some other fashion of believing
than to think certainly that our Lord did live and die?"
"Set in case, Phyllis, that thou shouldst hear man to say, `I believe in
Master Godfrey, but not in Master Matthew,' what shouldst reckon him to
signify? Think on it."
"I suppose," said Amphillis, after a moment's pause for consideration,
"I should account him to mean that he held Master Godfrey for a true
man, in whom man might safely affy him; but that he felt not thus sure
of Master Matthew."
"Thou wouldst not reckon, then, that he counted Master Matthew as a
fabled man that was not alive?"
"Nay, surely!" said Amphillis, laughing.
"Then seest not for thyself that there is a manner of belief far beside
and beyond the mere reckoning that man liveth? Phyllis, dost thou trust
Christ our Lord?"
"For what, Mistress? That He shall make me safe at last, if I do my
duty, and pay my dues to the Church, and shrive me [confess sins to a
priest] metely oft, and so forth? Ay, I reckon I do," said Amphillis,
in a tone which sounded rather as if she meant "I don't."
"Hast alway done thy duty, Amphillis?"
"Alack, no, Mistress. Yet meseemeth there be worser folks than I. I am
alway regular at shrift."
"The which shrift thou shouldst little need, if thou hadst never failed
in duty. But how shall our Lord make thee safe?"
"Why, forgive me my sins," replied Amphillis, looking puzzled.
"That saith what He shall do, not how He shall do it. Thy sins are a
debt to God's law and righteousness. Canst thou pay a debt without
cost?"
"But forgiveness costs nought."
"Doth it so? I think scarce anything costs more. Hast ever meditated,
Amphillis, what it cost God to forgive sin?"
"I thought it cost Him nothing at all."
"Child, it could only be done in one of two ways, at the cost of His
very self. Either He should forgive sin without propitiation--which
were to cost His righteousness and truth and honour. Could that be? In
no wise. Then it must be at the cost of His own bearing the penalty due
unto the sinner. Thy sins, Amphillis, thine every failure in duty,
thine every foolish thought or wrongful word, cost the Father His own
Son out of His bosom, cost the Son a human life of agony and a death of
uttermost terribleness. Didst thou believe that?"
A long look of mingled amazement and horror preceded the reply.
"Mistress Perrote, I never thought of no such thing! I thought--I
thought," said Amphillis, struggling for the right words to make her
meaning clear, "I thought our Lord was to judge us for our sins, and our
blessed Lady did plead with Him to have mercy on us, and we must do the
best we could, and pray her to pray for us. But the fashion you so put
it seemeth--it seemeth certain, as though the matter were settled and
done with, and should not be fordone [revoked]. Is it thus?"
If Perrote de Carhaix had not been gifted with the unction from the Holy
One, she would have made a terrible mistake at that juncture. All that
she had been taught by man inclined her to say "no" to the question.
But "there are a few of us whom God whispers in the ear," and those who
hear those whispers often go utterly contrary to man's teaching, being
bound only by God's word. So bound they must be. If they speak not
according to that word, it is because there is no light in them--only an
_ignis fatuus_ which leads the traveller into quagmires. But they are
often free from all other bonds. Perrote could not have told what made
her answer that question in the way she did. It was as if a soft hand
were laid upon her lips, preventing her from entering into any doctrinal
disputations, and insisting on her keeping the question down to the
personal level. She said--or that inward monitor said through her--
"Is it settled for thee, Amphillis?"
"Mistress, I don't know! Can I have it settled?"
"`He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' `I give unto
them eternal life.'" [John three verse 36; ten, verse 28.] Perrote
said no more.
"Then, if I go and ask at Him--?"
"`My Lord God, I cried unto Thee, and Thou madest me whole.' `All ye
that hope in the Lord, do manly, and your heart shall be comforted.'"
[Psalm thirty, verse 3; thirty-one, verse 25; Hereford and Purvey's
version.]
Once more it was as by a heavenly instinct that Perrote answered in
God's words rather than in her own. Amphillis drew a long breath. The
light was rising on her. She could not have put her convictions into
words; and it was quite as well, for had she done so, men might have
persuaded her out of them. But the one conviction "borne in upon her"
was--God, and not man; God's word, not men's words; God the Saviour of
men, not man the saviour of himself; God the Giver of His Son for the
salvation of men, not men the offerers of something to God for their own
salvation. And when man or woman reaches that point, that he sees in
all the universe only himself and God, the two points are not likely to
remain long apart. When the one is need longing for love, and the Other
is love seeking for need, what can they do but come close together?
Sir Godfrey set forth for his tournament in magnificent style, and Lady
Foljambe and Mistress Margaret with him. Young Godfrey was already
gone. The old knight rode a fine charger, and was preceded by his
standard-bearer, carrying a pennon of bright blue, whereon were
embroidered his master's arms--sable, a bend or, between six scallops of
the second. The ladies journeyed together in a quirle, and were
provided with rich robes and all their jewellery. The house and the
prisoner were left in the hands of Matthew, Father Jordan, and Perrote.
Norman Hylton accompanied his master.
Lady Foljambe's mind had grown tolerably easy on the subject of Ivo, and
she only gave Perrote a long lecture, warning her, among other things,
never to leave the door unlocked nor the prisoner alone. Either Perrote
or Amphillis must sleep in the pallet bed in her chamber during the
whole time of Lady Foljambe's absence, so that she should never be left
unguarded for a single moment. Matthew received another harangue, to
which he paid little attention in reality, though in outward seeming he
received it with due deference. Father Jordan languidly washed his
hands with invisible soap, and assured his patrons that no harm could
possibly come to the prisoner through their absence.
The Tuesday evening was near its close. The sun had just sunk behind
the western hills; the day had been bright and beautiful in the extreme.
Amphillis was going slowly upstairs to her turret, carrying her little
work-basket, which was covered with brown velvet and adorned with silver
cord, when she saw Kate standing in the window of the landing, as if she
were waiting for something or some person. It struck Amphillis that
Kate looked unhappy.
"Kate, what aileth thee?" she asked, pausing ere ere she mounted the
last steps. "Dost await here for man to pass?"
"Nay, Mistress--leastwise--O Mistress Amphillis, I wis not what to do!"
"Anentis what, my maid?"
"Nay, I'd fain tell you, but--Lack-a-day, I'm all in a tumblement!"
"What manner of tumblement?" asked Amphillis, sitting down in the
window-seat. "Hast brake some pottery, Kate, or torn somewhat, that
thou fearest thy dame's anger?"
"Nay, I've brake nought saving my word; and I've not done that _yet_."
"It were evil to break thy word, Kate."
"Were it so?" Kate looked up eagerly.
"Surely, without thou hadst passed word to do somewhat thou shouldst
not."
Kate's face fell. She had thought she saw a way out of her difficulty;
and it was closing round her again.
"It's none so easy to tell what man shouldn't," she said, in a troubled
tone.
"What hast thou done, Kate?"
"Nay, I've done nought yet. I've only passed word to do."
"To do what?"
Before Kate could answer, Agatha whisked into the corner.
"Thank goodness they're all gone, the whole lot of them! Won't we have
some fun now! Kate, run down stairs, and bring me up a cork; and I want
a long white sheet and a mop. Now haste thee, do! for I would fain
cause Father Jordan to skrike out at me, and I have scarce time to get
my work done ere the old drone shall come buzzing up this gait. Be
sharp, maid! and I'll do thee a good turn next time."
And Agatha fairly pushed Kate down the stairs, allowing her neither
excuse nor delay--a piece of undignified conduct which would bitterly
have scandalised Lady Foljambe, could she have seen it. By the time
that Kate returned with the articles prescribed, Agatha had possessed
herself of a lighted candle, wherein she burnt the end of the cork, and
with it proceeded to delineate, in the middle of the sheet, a very
clever sketch of a ferocious Turk, with moustaches of stupendous length.
Then elevating the long mop till it reached about a yard above her
head, she instructed Kate to arrange the sheet thereon in such a manner
that the Turk's face showed close to the top of the mop, and gave the
idea of a giant about eight feet in height.
"Now then--quick! I hear the old bumble-bee down alow yonder. Keep as
still as mice, and stir not, nor laugh for your lives!"
Kate appeared to have quite forgotten her trouble, and entered into
Agatha's mischievous fun with all the thoughtless glee of a child.
"Agatha," said Amphillis, "my Lady Foljambe should be heavy angered if
she wist thy dealing. Prithee, work not thus. If Father Jordan verily
believed thou wert a ghost, it were well-nigh enough to kill him, poor
sely old man. And he hath ill deserved such treatment at thine hands."
In the present day we should never expect an adult clergyman to fall
into so patent a trap; but in the Middle Ages even learned men were
credulous to an extent which we can scarcely imagine. Priests were in
the habit of receiving friendly visits from pretended saints, and
meeting apparitions of so-called demons, apparently without the faintest
suspicion that the spirits in question might have bodies attached to
them, or that their imaginations might be at all responsible for the
vision.
"Thank all the Calendar she's away!" was Agatha's response. "Thee hold
thy peace, and be not a spoil-sport. I mean to tell him I'm a soul in
Purgatory, and none save a priest named Jordan can deliver me, and he
only by licking of three crosses in the dust afore our Lady's altar
every morrow for a month. That shall hurt none of him! and it shall
cause me die o' laughter to see him do it. Back! quick! here cometh he.
I would fain hear the old snail skrike out at me, `Avaunt, Sathanas!'
as he surely will."
Amphillis stepped back. Her quicker ear had recognised that the step
beginning to ascend the stairs was not that of the old priest, and she
felt pretty sure whose it was--that healthy, sturdy, plain-spoken Meg,
the cook-maid, was the destined victim, and was likely to be little
injured, while there was a good chance of Agatha's receiving her
deserts.
Just as Meg reached the landing, a low groan issued from the uncanny
thing. Agatha of course could not see; she only heard the steps, which
she still mistook for those of Father Jordan. Meg stood calmly gazing
on the apparition.
"Will none deliver an unhappy soul in Purgatory?" demanded a hollow
moaning voice, followed by awful groans, such as Amphillis had not
supposed it possible for Agatha to produce.
"I rather reckon, my Saracen, thou'rt a soul out o' Purgatory with a
body tacked to thee," said Meg, in the coolest manner. "Help thee? Oh
ay, that I will, and bring thee back to middle earth out o' thy pains.
Come then!"
And Meg laid hands on the white sheet, and calmly began to pull it down.
"Oh, stay, Meg! Thou shalt stifle me," said the Turk, in Agatha's
voice.
"Ay, I thought you'd somewhat to do wi' 't, my damsel; it were like you.
Have you driven anybody else out o' her seven senses beside me wi' yon
foolery?"
"You've kept in seventy senses," pouted Agatha, releasing herself from
the last corner of her ghostly drapery. "Meg, you're a spoil-sport."
"My dame shall con you but poor thanks, Mistress Agatha, if you travail
folks o' this fashion while she tarrieth hence. Mistress Amphillis,
too! Marry, I thought--"
"I tarried here to lessen the mischief," said Amphillis.
"It wasn't thee I meant to fright," said Agatha, with a pout. "I
thought Father Jordan was a-coming; it was he I wanted. Never blame
Amphillis; she's nigh as bad as thou."
"Mistress Amphillis, I ask your pardon. Mistress Agatha, you're a bad
un. 'Tis a burning shame to harry a good old man like Father Jordan.
Thee hie to thy bed, and do no more mischief, thou false hussy! I'll
tell my dame of thy fine doings when she cometh home; I will, so!"
"Now, Meg, dear, sweet Meg, don't, and I'll--"
"You'll get you abed and 'bide quiet. I'm neither dear nor sweet; I'm a
cook-maid, and you're a young damsel with a fortin, and you'd neither
`sweet' nor `dear' me without you were wanting somewhat of me.
Forsooth, they'll win a fortin that weds wi' the like of you! Get abed,
thou magpie!"
And Meg was heard muttering to herself as she mounted the upper stairs
to the attic chamber, which she shared with Joan and Kate.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Understood. The word _understand_ was then restricted to an
original idea; _conceive_ was used in the sense of understanding another
person.
Note 2. The term "middle earth" arose from the belief then held, that
the earth was in the midst of the universe, equidistant from Heaven
above it and from Hell beneath.