"God's very kindest answers to our prayers
Come often in denials or delays."
S.W. Partridge.
Lord Basset turned back into his house with a sensation akin to relief.
Not that he allowed the thought of his wife's unhappiness to deter him
from any course on which he had set his heart, but that he felt the
pressure of her atmosphere, and could not enjoy his transgressions with
the full _abandon_ which he would have liked. Her stately, cold,
unbending reserve was like a constant chill and blight. How much more
happy they might have been if they had chosen! The world held many a
worse man than Lord Basset; he was rather idle and careless than wicked,
though idleness and carelessness are very often the seed of wickedness,
when left to go to flower. If she would only have dropped that haughty
coldness, he thought, he could have felt interest in her, and have taken
some pleasure in her society; while her conviction was that if he would
only have shown some interest, she could have loved him and returned it.
Would both have done it together, the result might have been attained.
Mr Godfrey Foljambe was meditating, not on this, but on his own
personal wrongs, as he led the little cavalcade in an easterly
direction. First, he had been deprived of that glass of Malvoisie--
which would probably have been plural rather than singular--and of a
conversation with Lord Basset, which might have resulted in something of
interest: and life was exceedingly devoid of interest, thought Mr
Godfrey, in a pessimistic spirit. He had not discovered that, to a
great extent, life is to every man what he chooses to make it; that he
who keeps his eyes fixed on street mud need not expect to discover
pearls, while he who attentively scans the heavens is not at all
unlikely to see stars. Let a man set himself diligently to hunt for
either his misfortunes or his mercies, and he will find plenty of the
article in request. Misfortunes were the present object of Mr
Godfrey's search, and he had no difficulty in discovering them. He was
disgusted with the folly of Lady Basset in thus setting off at once, and
making him set off, without so much as an hour's rest. It was just like
a woman! Women never had a scrap of patience. This pleasing illusion
that all patience was masculine was kept up in popular literature just
so long as men were the exclusive authors; when women began to write,
otherwise than on kingly sufferance of the nobler half of creation, it
was seen that the feminine view of that and similar subjects was not
quite so restricted. Last and worst to young Godfrey was the
expectation of his father's displeasure. Sir Godfrey's anger was no
passing cloud, as his son well knew. To be thought to have failed in
his mission--as assuredly he would be--by his own fault, would result in
considerable immediate discomfort, and might even damage his worldly
prospects in future. He would gladly have prolonged the journey; for
his instinct always led him to put off the evil day rather than to face
it and put it behind him--which last is usually the wiser course; but
Lady Basset would brook no delay, and on the afternoon of the second day
after leaving Drayton they rode up to Hazelwood Manor.
Godfrey hastily despatched the porter's lad to inform his mother of Lady
Basset's arrival; and Lady Foljambe met her on the steps of the hall.
The latter was scandalised to find that the former saw no need for
secrecy, or at any rate had no intention of preserving it.
"Dame," said Lady Foljambe, "I am honoured by your Ladyship's visit.
Pray you, suffer me to serve you with hypocras and spice in your privy
chamber."
This was intended as a gentle hint to the visitor that secrets were not
to be talked in the hall; but the hint was not accepted.
"How fares my Lady and mother?" was the response.
"Dame, much worse than when my son departed," said Lady Foljambe, in a
fluttered manner.
"Then I pray you to break my coming, and lead me to her forthwith," said
Lady Basset, in her style of stately calm.
A curtain was drawn aside, and Perrote came forward.
"Damoiselle Jeanne!" she said, greeting Lady Basset by the old youthful
title unheard for years. "My darling, mine own dear child!"
A smile, not at all usual there, quivered for a moment on the calm fixed
lips.
"Is this mine ancient nurse, Perrote de Carhaix?" she said. "I think I
know her face."
The smile was gone in a moment, as she repeated her wish to be taken
immediately to the Countess.
Lady Foljambe felt she had no choice. She led the way to the chamber of
the royal prisoner, requesting Lady Basset to wait for a moment at the
door.
The Countess sat no longer in her cushioned chair by the window. She
was now confined to her bed, where she lay restlessly, moaning at
intervals, but always on one theme. "My children! my lost children!
Will not God give me back _one_?"
Lady Foljambe signed to Perrote--she scarcely knew why--to break the
news to the suffering mother.
"Lady, the Lord hath heard your moaning, and hath seen your tears," said
Perrote, kneeling by the bed. "He hath given you back--"
"My son?"
The cry was a pitiful one. Then, as ever, the boy was the dearest to
his mother's heart.
"Very dear Lady, no. Your daughter."
It was painful to see how the sudden gleam died out of the weary eyes.
"Ah, well!" she said, after an instant's pause. "Well! I asked but for
one, and when man doth that, he commonly gets the lesser of the twain.
Well! I shall be glad to see my Jeanne. Let her come in."
Lady Basset came forward and bent over the dying woman.
"Dame!" she said.
"Come, now!" was the answer. "There be folks enough call me Dame. Only
two in all this world can call me Mother."
"Mother!" was the response, in a tremulous voice. And then the icy
stateliness broke up, and passionate sobs broke in, mingled with the
sounds of "O Mother! Mother!"
"That's good, little lass," said the Countess. "It's good to hear that,
but once, _ma fillette_. But wherefore tarrieth thy brother away? It
must be King Edward that will not suffer him to come."
It was piteous to hear her cling thus to the old illusion. All the time
of her imprisonment, though now and then in a fit of anger she could
hurl bitter names at her son, yet, when calm, she had usually maintained
that he was kept away from her, and refused to be convinced that his
absence was of his own free will. The longer the illusion lasted, the
more stubbornly she upheld it.
"'Tis not always the best-loved that loveth back the best," said
Perrote, gently, "without man's best love be, as it should be, fixed on
God. And 'tis common for fathers and mothers to love better than they
be loved; the which is more than all other true of the Father in
Heaven."
"Thou mayest keep thy sermons, old woman, till mass is sung," said the
Countess, in her cynical style. "Ah me! My Jean would come to the old,
white-haired mother that risked her life for his--he would come if he
could. He must know how my soul hungereth for the sight of his face. I
want nothing else. Heaven would be Purgatory to me without him."
"Ah, my dear Lady!" tenderly replied Perrote. "If only I might hear you
say that of the Lord that laid down His life for you!"
"I am not a nun," was the answer; "and I shall not say that which I feel
not."
"God forbid you should, Lady! But I pray Him to grant you so to feel."
"I tell thee, I am not a nun," said the Countess, rather pettishly.
Her idea was that real holiness was impossible out of the cloister, and
that to love God was an entirely different type of feeling from the
affection she had for her human friends. This was the usual sentiment
in the Middle Ages. But Perrote had been taught of God, and while her
educational prejudices acted like coloured or smoked glass, and dimmed
the purity of the heavenly light, they were unable to hide it
altogether.
"Very dear Lady," she said, "God loveth sinners; and He must then love
other than nuns. Shall they not love Him back, though they be not in
cloister?"
"Thou hadst better win in cloister thyself, when thou art rid of me,"
was the answer, in a tone which was a mixture of languor and sarcasm.
"Thou art scarce fit to tarry without, old woman."
"I will do that which God shall show me," said Perrote, calmly. "Dame,
were it not well your Grace should essay to sleep?"
"Nay, not so. I have my Jeanne to look at, that I have not seen for
five-and-twenty years. I shall sleep fast enough anon. Daughter, art
thou a happy woman, or no?"
Lady Basset answered by a shake of the head. "Why, what aileth thee?
Is it thy baron, or thy childre?"
"I have no child, Mother."
The Countess heard the regretful yearning of the tone.
"Thank the saints," she said. "Thou wert better. Soothly, to increase
objects for love is to increase sorrow. If thou have no childre,
they'll never be torn from thee, nor they will never break thine heart
by ill behaving. And most folks behave ill in this world. _Ha,
chetife_! 'tis a weary, dreary place, this world, as ever a poor woman
was in. Hast thou a good man to thy baron, child?"
"He might be worser," said Lady Basset, icily.
"That's true of an handful of folks," said the Countess. "And I reckon
he might be better, eh? That's true of most. Good lack, I marvel
wherefore we all were made. Was it by reason God loved or hated us?
Say, my Predicant Friaress."
"Very dear Lady, the wise man saith, `God made a man rightful, and he
meddled himself with questions without, number.' [Ecclesiastes eight,
verse 29.] And Saint Paul saith that `God commendeth His charity in us,
for when we were sinners, Christ was dead for us.' [Romans five, verse
8.] Moreover, Saint John--"
"Hold! There be two Scriptures. Where is the sermon?"
"The Scriptures, Lady, preach a better sermon than I can."
"That's but a short one. Man's ill, and God is good; behold all thine
homily. That man is ill, I lack no preaching friar to tell me. As to
God being good, the Church saith so, and there I rest. Mary, Mother! if
He were good, He would bring my Jean back to me."
"Very dear Lady, God is wiser than men, and He seeth the end from the
beginning."
"Have done, Perrotine! I tell thee, if God be good, He will bring my
Jean to me. There I abide. I'll say it, if He do. I would love any
man that wrought that: and if He will work it, I will love Him--and not
otherwise. Hold! I desire no more talk."
The Countess turned her face to the wall, and Perrote retired, with
tears in her eyes.
"Lord, Thou art wise!" she said in her heart; "wiser than I, than she,
than all men. But never yet have I known her to depart from such a word
as that. Oh, if it be possible,--if it be possible!--Thou who camest
down from Heaven to earth, come down once more to the weak and stubborn
soul of this dying woman, and grant her that which she requests, if so
she may be won to love thee! Father, the time is very short, and her
soul is very dark. O fair Father, Jesu Christ, lose not this soul for
which Thou hast died!"
Perrote's next move was to await Lady Basset's departure from her
mother's chamber, and to ask her to bestow a few minutes' private talk
on her old nurse. The Princess complied readily, and came into the
opposite chamber where Amphillis sat sewing.
"Damoiselle Jeanne," said Perrote, using the royal title of Lady
Basset's unmarried days; "may I pray you tell me if you have of late
seen the Lord Duke your brother?"
"Ay, within a year," said Lady Basset, listlessly.
"Would it please you to say if King Edward letteth his coming?"
"I think not so."
"Would he come, if he were asked yet again, and knew that a few weeks--
maybe days--would end his mother's life?"
"I doubt it, Perrotine."
"Wherefore? He can love well where he list."
"Ay, where he list. But I misdoubt if ever he loved her--at the least,
sithence she let him from wedding the Damoiselle de Ponteallen."
"Then he loved the Damoiselle very dearly?"
"For a month--ay."
"But wherefore, when the matter was by--"
Lady Basset answered with a bitter little laugh, which reminded Perrote
of her mother's.
"Because he loved Jean de Montfort, and she thwarted _him_, not the
Damoiselle. He loved Alix de Ponteallen passionately, and passion dies;
'tis its nature. It is not passionately, but undyingly, that he loves
himself. Men do; 'tis their nature."
Perrote shrewdly guessed that the remark had especial reference to one
man, and that not the Duke of Bretagne.
"Ah, that is the nature of all sinners," she said, "and therefore of all
men and women also. Dame, will you hearken to your old nurse, and grant
her one boon?"
"That will I, Perrotine, if it be in my power. I grant not so many
boons, neither can I, that I should grudge one to mine old nurse. What
wouldst?"
"Dame, I pray you write a letter to my Lord Duke, the pitifullest you
may pen, and send one of your men therewith, to pray him, as he loveth
you, or her, or God, that he will come and look on her ere she die.
Tell him his old nurse full lovingly entreateth him, and if he will so
do, I will take veil when my Lady is gone hence, and spend four nights
in the week in prayer for his welfare. Say I will be his bedes-woman
for ever, in any convent he shall name. Say anything that will bring
him!"
"I passed thee my word, and I will keep it," said Lady Basset, as she
rose. "But if I know him, what I should say certainly to bring him
would be that Sir Oliver de Clisson lay here in dungeon, and that if he
would come he should see his head strake off in yonder court. He is a
fair lover, my brother; but he is a far better hater."
Perrote sighed.
"Amphillis!" came faintly up the stairs and along the gallery.
"Am-phil-lis!"
"Go, child," said Perrote, replying to a look from Amphillis. "'Tis
Agatha calling thee. What would the foolish maid?"
Amphillis left her work upon the bench and ran down.
"Well, it is merry matter to catch hold of thee!" said Agatha, who was
waiting at the foot of the stairs, and who never could recollect, unless
Lady Foljambe were present, that Amphillis was to be addressed with more
reverence than before. "Here be friends of thine come to visit thee."
"Friends!--of mine!" exclaimed Amphillis, in surprise. "Why, I haven't
any friends."
"Well, enemies, then," said Agatha, with a giggle. "Come, go into hall
and see who they be, and then tell me."
Amphillis obeyed, and to her still greater surprise, found herself in
the presence of Mr Altham and Regina.
"Ah, here she cometh!" was her uncle's greeting. "Well, my maid, I am
fain to see thee so well-looking, I warrant thee. Can'st love a new
aunt, thinkest?"
"That am I secure," replied Amphillis, smiling, and kissing the
goldsmith's daughter.
"And an old uncle belike?" pursued Mr Altham, kissing her in his turn.
"Assuredly, dear Uncle; but I pray, how came you hither?"
"Dat shall I tell you," said Mrs Altham, "for oderwise you shall not
know what good uncle you have. He promise to take me to mine own home
in Dutchland, to see my greatmoder and mine aunts; and when we nigh
ready were, he say, `See you, now! shall we not go round by Derbyshire,
to see Amphillis, and sail from Hull?' So we come round all dis way; he
miss you so, and want to make him sure you be well and kindly used. See
you?"
"How kind and good are you both!" said Amphillis, gratefully. "Pray
you, good Aunt Regina, came Ricarda home safe?"
"She came safe, and she had but de scold well, tanks to your message; if
not, she had de beat, beat, I ensure you, and she deserve dat full well.
She was bad girl, bad. Said I not to you, De mans is bad, and de
womans is badder? It is true."
"She's a weary hussy!" said Mr Altham; "but she's been a sight better
maid sithence she came back. She saith 'tis thy doing, Phyllis."
"Mine?" exclaimed Amphillis.
"She saith so. I wis not how. And art happy here, my maid? Doth thy
dame entreat thee well? and be thy fellows pleasant company? Because if
no, there's room for thee in the patty-shop, I can tell thee.
Saundrina's wed, and Ricarda looks to be, and my wife and I should be
full fain to have thee back for our daughter. Howbeit, if thou art here
welsome and comfortable, we will not carry thee off against thy will.
What sayest?"
"Truly, dear Uncle, I am here full welsome, saving some small matters of
little moment; and under your good pleasure, I would fain not go hence
so long as one liveth that is now sore sick in this house, and nigh to
death. Afterward, if it like you to dispose of me otherwise, I am alway
at your bidding."
"Well said. But what should best like thee?"
Amphillis felt the question no easy one. She would not wish to leave
Perrote; but if Perrote took the veil, that obstacle would be removed;
and even if she did not, Amphillis had no certain chance of accompanying
her wherever she might go, which would not improbably be to Drayton
Manor. To leave the rest of her present companions would be no hardship
at all, except--
Amphillis's heart said "except," and her conscience turned away and
declined to pursue that road. Norman Hylton had shown no preference for
her beyond others, so far as she knew, and her maidenly instinct warned
her that even her thoughts had better be kept away from him. Before she
answered, a shadow fell between her and the light; and Amphillis looked
up into the kindly face of Archbishop Neville.
The Archbishop had delayed his further journey for the sake of the dying
Countess, whom he wished to see again, especially if his influence could
induce her son to come to her. He now addressed himself to Mr Altham.
"Master Altham, as I guess?" he asked, pleasantly.
Mr Altham rose, as in duty bound, in honour to a priest, and a priest
who, as he dimly discerned by his canonicals, was not altogether a
common one.
"He, and your humble servant, holy Father."
"You be uncle, I count, of my cousin Amphillis here?"
"Sir! Amphillis your cousin!"
"Amphillis is my cousin," was the quiet answer; "and I am the Archbishop
of York."
To say that Mr Altham was struck dumb with amazement would be no figure
of speech. He stared from the Archbishop to Amphillis, and back again,
as if his astonishment had fairly paralysed his powers, that of sight
only excepted; and had not Regina roused him from his condition of
helplessness by an exclamation of "_Ach, heilige, Maria_!" there is no
saying how long he might have stood so doing.
"Ay, Uncle," said Amphillis, with a smile; "this is my Lord elect of
York, and he is pleased to say that my father was his kinsman."
"And if it serve you, Master Altham," added the Archbishop, "I would
fain have a privy word with you touching this my cousin."
Mr Altham's reply was two-fold. "Saints worshipped might they be!" was
meant in answer to Amphillis. Then, to the Archbishop, he hastily
continued, "Sir, holy Father, your Grace's most humble servant! I hold
myself at your Grace's bidding, whensoever it shall please your Grace."
"That is well," said the Archbishop, smiling. "We will have some talk
this evening, if it serve you."