"She only said,--`The day is dreary,
He will not come,' she said:
She wept,--`I am aweary, weary,--
O God, that I were dead!'"
Tennyson.
"What, ho! Gate, ho! Open unto my Lord elect of York!"
The cry startled the porter at Hazelwood Manor from an afternoon nap.
He sprang up and hurried out, in utter confusion at his negligence. To
keep a priest waiting would have been bad manners enough, and an abbot
still worse; but an archbishop was, in the porter's estimate, a
semi-celestial being. True, this Archbishop was not yet consecrated,
nor had he received his pallium from Rome, both which considerations
detracted from his holiness, and therefore from his importance; but he
was the Archbishop of the province, and the shadow of his future dignity
was imposing to an insignificant porter. Poor Wilkin went down on his
knees in a puddle, as soon as he had got the gate open, to beg the
potentate's pardon and blessing, and only rose from them summarily to
collar Colle, who had so little notion of the paramount claims of an
archbishop that he received the cavalcade with barks as noisy as he
would have bestowed on any worldly pedlar. Nay, so very unmannerly was
Colle, that when he was let go, he marched straight to the Archbishop,
and after a prolonged sniff at the archiepiscopal boots, presumed so far
as to wag his very secular tail, and even to give an uninvited lick to
the archiepiscopal glove. The Archbishop, instead of excommunicating
Colle, laid his hand gently on the dog's head and patted him; which so
emboldened that audacious quadruped that he actually climbed up the
prelate, with more decided wagging than before.
"Nay, my son!" said the Archbishop, gently, to an officious young priest
in his suite, who would have dragged the dog away--"grudge me not my
welcome. Dogs be honest creatures, and dissemble not. Hast thou never
heard the saw, that `they be ill folks that dogs and children will not
go withal'?"
And with another pat of Colle's head, the Archbishop dismissed him, and
walked into the hall to meet a further welcome from the whole family and
household, all upon their knees. Blessing them in the usual priestly
manner, he commanded them to rise, and Sir Godfrey then presented his
sons and squire, while Lady Foljambe did the same for the young ladies.
"Mistress Margaret Foljambe, my son's wife, an' it please your Grace;
and Mistress Perrote de Carhaix, my head chamberer. These be my
bower-women, Agatha de La Beche and Amphillis Neville."
"Neville!" echoed the Archbishop, instantly. "Of what Nevilles comest
thou, my maid?"
"Please it you, holy Father," said the confused Amphillis, more
frightened still to hear a sharp "your Grace!" whispered from Lady
Foljambe; "I know little of my kin, an' it like your Grace. My father
was Walter Neville, and his father a Ralph, but more know I not, under
your Grace's pleasure."
"How comes it thou wist no more?"
"May it please your Grace, my father dwelt in Hertfordshire, and he
wedded under his estate, so that his family cast him off, as I have
heard," said Amphillis, growing every moment more hot and confused, for
it was no light ordeal for one in her position to be singled out for
conversation by an archbishop, and she sorely feared an after ebullition
of Lady Foljambe's wrath.
"My child!" said the Archbishop with great interest, and very gently,
"did thy father wed one Margery Altham, of London, whose father dwelt in
the Strand, and was a baker?"
"He did so, under your Grace's pardon," said poor Amphillis, blushing
for the paternal shortcomings; "but, may it please your Grace, he was a
master-pastiller, not a baker."
A little smile of amusement at the delicate distinction played about the
Archbishop's lips.
"Why, then, Cousin Amphillis, I think thy cousin may ask thee for a
kiss," said he, softly touching the girl's cheek with his lips. "My
Lady Foljambe, I am full glad to meet here so near a kinswoman, and I do
heartily entreat you that my word may weigh with you to deal well with
this my cousin."
Lady Foljambe, with a low reverence, assured his Grace that she had been
entirely unaware, like Amphillis herself, that her bower-woman could
claim even remote kindred with so exalted a house and so dignified a
person; and that in future she should assume the position proper to her
birth. And to her astonishment, Amphillis was passed by her Ladyship up
the table, above Agatha, above even Perrote--nay, above Mistress
Margaret--and seated, not by any means to her comfort, next to Lady
Foljambe herself. From that day she was no more addressed with the
familiar _thou_, but always with the _you_, which denoted equality or
respect. When Lady Foljambe styled her Mistress Amphillis, she endured
it with a blush. But when Perrote substituted it for the affectionate
"Phyllis" usual on her lips, she was tearfully entreated not to make a
change.
The Archbishop was on his way south for the ceremony of consecration,
which required a dispensation if performed anywhere outside the
Cathedral of Canterbury, unless bestowed by the Pope himself. His visit
set Sir Godfrey thinking. Here was a man who might safely be allowed to
visit the dying Countess--being, of course, told the need for secrecy--
and if he requested it of him, Perrote must cease to worry him after
that. No poor priest, nor all the poor priests put together, could be
the equivalent of a live Archbishop.
He consulted Lady Foljambe, and found her of the same mind as himself.
It would be awkward, she admitted, if the Countess died, to find
themselves censured for not having supplied her with spiritual
ministrations proper for her rank. Here was a perfect opportunity. It
would be a sin to lose it.
It was, indeed, in a different sense to that in which she used the
words, a perfect opportunity. The name of Alexander Neville has come
down to us as that of the gentlest man of his day, one of the most
lovable that ever lived. Beside this quality, which rendered him a
peculiarly fit ministrant to the sick and dying, he was among the most
prominent Lollards; he had drunk deep into the Scriptures, and,
therefore, while not free from superstition--no man then was--he was
very much more free than the majority. Charms and incantations, texts
tied round the neck, and threads or hairs swallowed in holy water, had
little value to the masculine intellect of Alexander Neville. And along
with this masculine intellect was a heart of feminine tenderness, which
would enable him to enter, so far as it was possible for a celibate
priest to enter, into the sad yearnings of the dying mother, whose
children did not care to come to her, and held aloof even in the last
hour of her weary life. In those times, when worldliness had eaten like
a canker into the heart of the Church, almost as much as in our own--
when preferment was set higher than truth, and Court favour was held of
more worth than faithfulness, one of the most unworldly men living was
this elect Archbishop. The rank of his penitent would weigh nothing
with him. She would be to him only a passing soul, a wronged woman, a
lonely widow, a neglected mother.
After supper, Sir Godfrey drew the Archbishop aside into his private
room, and told him, with fervent injunctions to secrecy, the sorrowful
tale of his secluded prisoner. As much sternness as was in Archbishop
Neville's heart contracted his brows and drew his lips into a frown.
"Does my Lord Duke of Brittany know his mother's condition?"
"Ay, if it please your Grace." Sir Godfrey repeated the substance of
the answer already imparted to Perrote.
"Holy saints!" exclaimed the Archbishop. "And my Lady Basset, what
saith she?"
"An' it like your Grace, I sent not unto her."
"But wherefore, my son? An' the son will not come, then should the
daughter. I pray you, send off a messenger to my Lady Basset at once;
and suffer me to see your prisoner. Is she verily nigh death, or may
she linger yet a season?"
"Father Jordan reckoneth she may yet abide divers weeks, your Grace; in
especial if the spring be mild, as it biddeth fair. She fadeth but full
slow."
Sir Godfrey's tone was that of an injured man, who was not properly
treated, either by the Countess or Providence, through this very gradual
demise of the former. The Archbishop's reply--"Poor lady!" was in
accents of unmitigated compassion.
Lady Foljambe was summoned by her husband, and she conducted the prelate
to the turret-chamber, where the Countess sat in her chair by the
window, and Amphillis was in attendance. He entered with uplifted hand,
and the benediction of "Christ, save all here!"
Amphillis rose, hastily gathering her work upon one arm. The Countess,
who had heard nothing, for she had been sleeping since her bower-maiden
returned from supper, looked up with more interest than she usually
showed. The entrance of a complete stranger was something very
unexpected and unaccountable.
"Christ save you, holy Father! I pray you, pardon me that I arise not,
being ill at ease, to entreat your blessing. Well, Avena, what has
moved thee to bring a fresh face into this my dungeon, prithee? It
should be somewhat of import."
"Madame, this is my Lord's Grace elect of York, who, coming hither on
his way southwards, mine husband counted it good for your Grace's soul
to shrive you of his Grace's hand. My Lord, if your Grace have need of
a crucifix, or of holy water, both be behind this curtain. Come,
Mistress Amphillis. His Grace will be pleased to rap on the door, when
it list him to come forth; and I pray you, abide in your chamber, and
hearken for the same."
"I thank thee, Avena," said the Countess, with her curt laugh. "Sooth
to say, I wist not my soul was of such worth in thine eyes, and still
less in thine husband's. I would my body weighed a little more with the
pair of you. So I am to confess my sins, forsooth? That shall be a
light matter, methinks; I have but little chance to sin, shut up in this
cage. Truly, I should find myself hard put to it to do damage to any of
the Ten Commandments, hereaway. A dungeon's all out praisable for
keeping folks good--nigh as well as a sick bed. And when man has both
together, he should be marvellous innocent. There, go thy ways; I'll
send for thee when I lack thee."
Lady Foljambe almost slammed the door behind her, and, locking it,
charged Amphillis to listen carefully for the Archbishop's knock, and to
unlock the door the moment she should hear it.
The Archbishop, meanwhile, had seated himself in the only chair in the
room corresponding to that of the Countess. A chair was an object of
consequence in the eyes of a mediaeval gentleman, for none but persons
of high rank might sit on a chair; all others were relegated to a form,
styled a bench when it had a back to it. Stools, however, were allowed
to all. That certain formalities or styles of magnificence should have
been restricted to persons of rank may be reasonable; but it does seem
absurd that no others should have been allowed to be comfortable. "The
good old times" were decidedly inconvenient for such as had no handles
to their names.
"I speak, as I have been told, to the Lady Marguerite, Duchess of
Brittany, and mother to my Lord Duke?" inquired the Archbishop.
"And Countess of Montfort," was the answer. "Pray your Grace, give me
all my names, for nought else is left me to pleasure me withal--saving a
two-three ounces of slea-silk and an ell of gold fringe."
"And what else would you?"
"What else?" The question was asked in passionate tones, and the dark
flashing eyes went longingly across the valley to the Alport heights.
"I would have my life back again," she said. "I have not had a fair
chance. I have done with my life not that I willed, but only that which
others gave leave for me to do. Six and twenty years have I been
tethered, and fretted, and limited, granted only the semblance of power,
the picture of life, and thrust and pulled back whensoever I strained in
the least at the leash wherein I was held. No dog has been more penned
up and chained than I! And now, for eight years have I been cabined in
one chamber, shut up from the very air of heaven whereunto God made all
men free--shut up from every face that I knew and loved, saving one of
mine ancient waiting-maids--verily, if they would use me worser than so,
they shall be hard put to it, save to thrust me into my coffin and
fasten down the lid on me. I want my life back again! I want the
bright harvest of my youth, which these slugs and maggots have devoured,
which I never had. I want the bloom of my dead happiness which men tare
away from me. I want my dead lord, and mine estranged children, and my
lost life! Tell me, has God no treasury whence He pays compensation for
such wrongs as mine? Must I never see my little child again, the baby
lad that clung to me and would not see me weep? My pillow is wet now,
and no man careth for it--nay, nor God Himself. I was alway true woman;
I never wronged human soul, that I know. I paid my dues, and shrived me
clean, and lived honestly. Wherefore is all this come upon me?"
"Lady Marguerite, if you lost a penny and gained a gold noble, would you
think you were repaid the loss or no?"
"In very deed I should," the sick woman replied, languidly; the fire had
spent itself in that outburst, and the embers had little warmth left in
them.
"Yet," said the Archbishop, significantly, "you would not have won the
lost thing back."
"What matter, so I had its better?"
"We will return to that. But first I have another thing to ask. You
say you never wronged man to your knowledge. Have you always paid all
your dues to Him that is above men?"
"I never robbed the Church of a penny!"
"There be other debts than pence, my daughter. Have you kept, to the
best of your power, all the commandments of God?"
"In very deed I have."
"You never worshipped any other God?"
"I never worshipped neither Jupiter nor Juno, nor Venus, nor Diana, nor
Mars, nor Mercury."
"That can I full readily believe. But as there be other debts than
money, so there be other gods than Jupiter. Honoured you no man nor
thing above God? Cared you alway more for His glory than for the fame
of Marguerite of Flanders, or the comfort of Jean de Bretagne?"
"Marry, you come close!" said the Countess, with a laugh. "Fame and
ease be not gods, good Father."
"They be not God," was the significant answer. "`Ye are servants to him
whom ye obey,' saith the apostle, and man may obey other than his lawful
master. Whatsoever you set, or suffer to set himself, in God's place,
that is your god. What has been your god, my daughter?"
"I am never a bit worse than my neighbours," said the Countess, leaving
that inconvenient question without answer, and repairing, as thousands
do, to that very much broken cistern of equality in transgression.
"You must be better than your neighbours ere God shall suffer you in His
holy Heaven. You must be as good as He is, or you shall not win
thither. And since man cannot be so, the only refuge for him is to take
shelter under the cross of Christ, which wrought righteousness to cover
him."
"Then man may live as he list, and cover him with Christ's
righteousness?" slily responded the Countess, with that instant recourse
to the Antinomianism inherent in fallen man.
"`If man say he knoweth Him, and keepeth not His commandments, he is a
liar,'" quoted the Archbishop in reply. "`He that saith he abideth in
Him, ought to walk as He walked.' Man cannot abide in Christ, and
commit sin, for He hath no sin. You left unanswered my question, Lady:
what has been your god?"
"I have paid due worship to God and the Church," was the rather stubborn
answer. "Pass on, I pray you. I worshipped no false god; I took not
God's name in vain no more than other folks; I always heard mass of a
Sunday and festival day; I never murdered nor stole; and as to telling
false witness, beshrew me if it were false witness to tell Avena
Foljambe she is a born fool, the which I have done many a time in the
day. Come now, let me off gently, Father. There are scores of worser
women in this world than me."
"God will not judge you, Lady, for the sins of other women; neither will
He let you go free for the goodness of other. There is but One other
for whose sake you shall be suffered to go free, and that only if you be
one with Him in such wise that your deeds and His be reckoned as one,
like as the debts of a wife be reckoned to her husband, and his honours
be shared by her. Are you thus one with Jesu Christ our Lord?"
"In good sooth, I know not what you mean. I am in the Church: what more
lack I? The Church must see to it that I come safe, so long as I shrive
me and keep me clear of mortal sin: and little chance of mortal sin have
I, cooped up in this cage."
"Daughter, the Church is every righteous man that is joined with Christ.
If you wist not what I mean, can you be thus joined? Could a woman be
wedded to a man, and not know it? Could two knights enter into
covenant, to live and die each with other, and be all unsure whether
they had so done or no? It were far more impossible than this, that you
should be a member of Christ's body, and not know what it meaneth so to
be."
"But I am in Holy Church!" urged the Countess, uneasily.
"I fear not so, my daughter."
"Father, you be marvellous different from all other priests that ever
spake to me. With all other, I have shrived me and been absolved, and
there ended the matter. I had sins to confess, be sure; and they looked
I should so have, and no more. But you--would you have me perfect
saint, without sin? None but great saints be thus, as I have been
taught."
"Not the greatest of saints, truly. There is no man alive that sinneth
not. What is sin?"
"Breaking the commandments, I reckon."
"Ay, and in especial that first and greatest--`Thou shalt love the Lord
thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy
soul, and with all thy strength.' Daughter, hast thou so loved Him--so
that neither ease nor pleasure, neither fame nor life, neither earth nor
self, came between your love and Him, was set above Him, and served
afore Him? Speak truly, like the true woman you are. I wait your
answer."
It was several moments before the answer came.
"Father, is that sin?"
"My daughter, it is the sin of sins: the sin whence all other sins
flow--this estrangement of the heart from God. For if we truly loved
God, and perfectly, should we commit sin?--could we so do? Could we
desire to worship any other than Him, or to set anything before Him?--
could we bear to profane His name, to neglect His commands, to go
contrary to His will? Should we then bear ill-will to other men who
love Him, and whom He loveth? Should we speak falsely in His ears who
is the Truth? Should we suffer pride to defile our souls, knowing that
He dwelleth with the lowly in heart? Answer me, Lady Marguerite."
"Father, you are sore hard. Think you God, that is up in Heaven, taketh
note of a white lie or twain, or a few cross words by nows and thens?
not to name a mere wish that passeth athwart man's heart and is gone?"
"God taketh note of sin, daughter. And sin is _sin_--it is rebellion
against the King of Heaven. What think you your son would say to a
captain of his, which pleaded that he did but surrender one little
postern gate to the enemy, and that there were four other strong portals
that led into the town, all whereof he had well defended?"
"Why, the enemy might enter as well through the postern as any other.
To be in, is to be in, no matter how he find entrance."
"Truth. And the lightest desire can be sin, as well as the wickedest
deed. Verily, if the desire never arose, the deed should be ill-set to
follow."
"Then God is punishing me?" she said, wistfully.
"God is looking for you," was the quiet answer. "The sheep hath gone
astray over moor and morass, and the night is dark and cold, and it
bleateth piteously: and the Shepherd is come out of the warm fold, and
is tracking it on the lonely hills, and calling to it. Lady, will the
sheep answer His voice? will it bleat again and again, until He find it?
or will it refuse to hear, and run further into the morass, and be
engulfed and fully lost in the dark waters, or snatched and carried into
the wolf's den? God is not punishing you now; He is loving you; He is
waiting to see if you will take His way of escape from punishment. But
the punishment of your sins must be laid upon some one, and it is for
you to choose whether you will bear it yourself, or will lay it upon Him
who came down from Heaven that He might bear it for you. It must be
either upon you or Him."
The face lighted up suddenly, and the thin weak hands were stretched
out.
"If God love me," she said, "let Him give me back my children! He
would, if He did. Let them come back to me, and I shall believe it.
Without this I cannot. Father, I mean none ill; I would fain think as
you say. But my heart is weak, and my life ebbs low, and I cannot bleat
back again. O God, for my children!--for only one of them! I would be
content with one. If Thou lovest me--if I have sinned, and Thou wouldst
spare me, give me back my child! `Thou madest far from me friend and
neighbour'--give me back _one_, O God!"
"Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently.
"Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weakness
and misery, and helps our unbelief. May He grant your petition! And
now, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough. I will see
you again ere I depart. _Benedicite_!"