"I am too low for scorn to lower me,
And all too sorrow-stricken to feel grief."
Edwin Arnold.
Soft and balmy was the air, and the sunlight radiant, at an early hour
of a beautiful June morning; and fair was the landscape that met the
eyes of the persons who were gathered a few feet from the portcullis of
a grand stately old castle, crowning a wooded height near the Sussex
coast. There were two persons seated on horseback: the one a youth of
some twenty years, in a page's dress; the other a woman, who sat behind
him on the pillion. Standing about were two men and a woman, the last
holding a child in her arms. The woman on the pillion was closely
veiled, and much muffled in her wrappings, considering the season of the
year and the warmth of the weather; nor did she lift her veil when she
spoke.
"The child, Alina," she said, in a tone so soft and low that the words
seemed rather breathed than spoken.
The woman who stood beside the horse answered the appeal by placing the
child in the arms of the speaker. It was a pretty, engaging little girl
of three years old. The lady on the pillion, lifting the child
underneath her veil, strained it to her bosom, and bowed her head low
upon its light soft hair. Meanwhile, the horse stood still as a statue,
and the page sat as still before her. In respectful silence the other
three stood round. They knew, every one of them, that in that embrace
to one of the two the bitterness of death was passing; and that when it
was ended she would have nothing left to fear--only because she would
have nothing left to hope. At length, suddenly, the lady lifted her
head, and held forth the child to Alina. Turning her head away toward
the sea, from the old castle, from the child, she made her farewell in
one word.
"Depart!"
The three standing there watched her departure--never lifting her veil,
nor turning her head--until she was hidden from their sight among the
abundant green foliage around. They lingered a minute longer; but only
a minute--for a shrill, harsh voice from the portcullis summoned them to
return.
"Ralph, thou lither hilding! Alina, thou jade! Come hither at once,
and get you to work. My Lady's bower yet unswept, by the Seven
Sleepers! and ye lingering yonder as ye had leaden heels! By the holy
bones of Saint Benedict, our master shall con you light thanks when he
cometh!"
"That may be," said Alina, under her breath. "Get you in, Ralph and
Jocelyn, or she shall be after again."
And she turned and walked quickly into the castle, still carrying the
child.
Eleven hours later, a very different procession climbed the castle-hill,
and passed in at the portcullis. It was headed by a sumptuous litter,
beside which rode a gentleman magnificently attired. Behind came a
hundred horsemen in livery, and the line was closed by a crowd of
archers in Lincoln green, bearing cross-bows. From the litter, assisted
by the gentleman, descended a young lady of some three-and-twenty years,
upon whose lips hovered a smile of pleasure, and whose fair hair flowed
in natural ringlets from beneath a golden fillet. The gentleman was her
senior by about fifteen years. He was a tall, active, handsome man,
with a dark face, stern, set lips, and a pair of dark, quick, eagle-like
eyes, beneath which the group of servants manifestly quailed.
"Is the Lady's bower ready?" he asked, addressing the foremost of the
women--the one who had so roughly insisted on Alina's return.
"It is so, an't like your noble Lordship," answered she with a low
reverence; "it shall be found as well appointed as our poor labours
might compass."
He made no answer; but, offering his hand to the young lady who had
alighted from the litter, he led her up the stairs from the
banqueting-hall, into a suite of fair, stately apartments, according to
the taste of that period. Rich tapestry decorated the walls, fresh
green rushes were strewn upon the floor, all the painting had been
renewed, and above the fireplace stood two armorial shields newly
chiselled.
"Lady," he said, in a soft, courtly tone, "here is the bower. Doth it
like the bird?"
"It is beauteous," answered the lady, with a bright smile.
"It hath been anew swept and garnished," replied the master, bowing low,
as he took his leave. "Yonder silver bell shall summon your women."
The lady moved to the casement on his departure. It stood open, and the
lovely sea-view was to be seen from it.
"In good sooth, 'tis a fair spot!" she said half aloud. "And all new
swept and garnished!"
There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the words
might have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora--"Not only
garnished, but _swept_!"
My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered her
call. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the little
flaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events of
the morning.
"Do you all speak French?" asked the Countess in that language--which,
be it remembered, was in the reign of Edward the Third the mother-tongue
of the English nobles.
She received an affirmative reply from all.
"That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gear
brought up hither.--What a pretty child! whose is it?"
Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. "The Lady
Philippa Fitzalan, my Lord's daughter."
"My Lord's daughter!" And a visible frown clouded the Countess's brow.
"I knew not he had a daughter--Oh! _that_ child! Take her away--I do
not want her. _Mistress_ Philippa, for the future. That is my
pleasure."
And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady of
Arundel seated herself at her tiring-glass. Alina caught up the child,
and took her away to a distant chamber in a turret of the castle, where
she set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the little
flaxen head.
"Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!" she cried. "Would to our
dear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, for
none other be like to do it save them and me."
And suddenly rising, she slipped down on her knees, holding the child
before her, beside a niche where a lamp made of pottery burned before a
blackened wooden doll.
"Lady of Pity, hast thou none for this little child? Mother of Mercy,
for thee to deceive me! This whole month have I been on my knees to
thee many times in the day, praying thee to incline the Lady's heart,
when she should come, to show a mother's pity to this motherless one.
And thou hast not heard me--thou hast not heard me. Holy Virgin, what
doest thou? Have I not offered candles at thy shrine? Have I not
deprived myself of needful things to pay for thy litanies? What could I
have done more? Is this thy pity, Lady of Pity?--this thy compassion,
Mother and Maiden?"
But the passionate appeal was lost on the lifeless image to which it was
made. As of old, so now, "there was neither voice, not any to answer,
nor any that regarded."
Nineteen years after that summer day, a girl of twenty-two sat gazing
from the casement in that turret-chamber--a girl whose face even a
flatterer would have praised but little; and Philippa Fitzalan had no
flatterers. The pretty child--as pretty children often do--had grown
into a very ordinary, commonplace woman. Her hair, indeed, was glossy
and luxuriant, and had deepened from its early flaxen into the darkest
shade to which it was possible for flaxen to change; her eyes were dark,
with a sad, tired, wistful look in them--a look
"Of a dumb creature who had been beaten once,
And never since was easy with the world."
Her face was white and thin, her figure tall, slender, angular, and
rather awkward. None had ever cared to amend her awkwardness; it
signified to nobody whether she looked well or ill. In a word, _she_
signified to nobody. The tears might burn under her eyelids, or
overflow and fall,--she would never be asked what was the matter; she
might fail under her burdens and faint in the midst of them,--and if it
occurred to any one to prevent material injury to her, that was the very
utmost she could expect. Not that the Lady Alianora was unkind to her
stepdaughter: that is, not actively unkind. She simply ignored her
existence. Philippa was provided, as a matter of course, with necessary
clothes, just as the men who served in the hall were provided with
livery; but anything not absolutely necessary had never been given to
her in her life. There were no loving words, no looks of pleasure, no
affectionate caresses, lavished upon her. If the Lady Joan lost her
temper (no rare occurrence), or the Lady Alesia her appetite, or the
Lady Mary her sleep, the whole household was disturbed; but what
Philippa suffered never disturbed nor concerned any one but herself. To
these, her half-sisters, she formed a kind of humble companion, a
superior maid-of-all-work. All day long she heard and obeyed the
commands of the three young ladies; all day long she was bidden, "Come
here", "Go there", "Do this", "Fetch that." And Philippa came, and
went, and fetched, and did as she was told. Just now she was off duty.
Their Ladyships were gone out hawking with the Earl and Countess, and
would not, in all probability, return for some hours.
And what was Philippa doing, as she sat gazing dreamily from the
casement of her turret-chamber--hers, only because nobody else liked the
room? Her eyes were fixed earnestly on one little spot of ground, a few
feet from the castle gate; and her soul was wandering backward nineteen
years, recalling the one scene which stood out vividly, the earliest of
memory's pictures--a picture without text to explain it--before which,
and after which, came blanks with no recollection to fill them. She saw
herself lifted underneath a woman's veil--clasped earnestly in a woman's
arms,--gazing in baby wonder up into a woman's face--a wan white face,
with dark, expressive, fervent eyes, in which a whole volume of agony
and love was written. She never knew who that woman was. Indeed, she
sometimes wondered whether it were really a remembrance, or only a
picture drawn by her own imagination. But there it was always, deep
down in the heart's recesses, only waiting to be called on, and to come.
Whoever this mysterious woman were, it was some one who had loved her--
her, Philippa, whom no one ever loved. For Alina, who had died in her
childhood, she scarcely recollected at all. And at the very core of the
unseen, unknown heart of this quiet, undemonstrative girl, there lay one
intense, earnest, passionate longing for love. If but one of her
father's hawks or hounds would have looked brighter at her coming, she
thought it would have satisfied her. For she had learned, long years
ere this, that to her father himself, or to the Lady Alianora, or to her
half-brothers and sisters, she must never look for any shadow of love.
The "mother-want about the world," which pressed on her so heavily, they
would never fill. The dull, blank uniformity of simple apathy was all
she ever received from any of them.
Her very place was filled. The Lady Joan was the eldest daughter of the
house--not Mistress Philippa. For the pleasure of the Countess had been
fulfilled, and Mistress Philippa the girl was called. And when Joan was
married and went away from the castle (in a splendid litter hung with
crimson velvet), her sister Alesia stepped into her place as a matter of
course. Philippa did not, indeed, see the drawbacks to Joan's lot.
They were not apparent on the surface. That the stately young noble who
rode on a beautiful Barbary horse beside the litter, actually hated the
girl whom he had been forced to marry, did not enter into her
calculations: but as Joan cared very little for that herself, it was the
less necessary that Philippa should do so. And Philippa only missed
Joan from the house by the fact that her work was so much the lighter,
and her life a trifle less disagreeable than before.
More considerations than one were troubling Philippa just now. Blanche,
one of the Countess's tire-women, had just visited her turret-chamber,
to inform her that the Lady Alesia was betrothed, and would be married
six months thence. It did not, however, trouble her that she had heard
of this through a servant; she never looked for anything else. Had she
been addicted (which, fortunately for her, she was not) to that most
profitless of all manufactures, grievance-making,--she might have wept
over this little incident. But except for one reason, the news of her
sister's approaching marriage was rather agreeable to Philippa. She
would have another tyrant the less; though it was true that Alesia had
always been the least unkind to her of the three, and she would have
welcomed Mary's marriage with far greater satisfaction. But that one
terrible consideration which Blanche had forced on her notice!
"I marvel, indeed, that my gracious Lord hath not thought of your
disposal, Mistress Philippa, ere this."
Suppose he should think of it! For to Philippa's apprehension, love was
so far from being synonymous with marriage, that she held the two barely
compatible. Marriage to her would be merely another phase of Egyptian
bondage, under a different Pharaoh. And she knew this was her probable
lot: that (unless her father's neglect on this subject should continue--
which she devoutly hoped it might) she would some day be informed by
Blanche--or possibly the Lady Alianora herself might condescend to make
the communication--that on the following Wednesday she was to be married
to Sir Robert le Poer or Sir John de Mountchenesey; probably a man whom
she had never seen, possibly one whom she just knew by sight.
Philippa scarcely knew how, from such thoughts as these, her memory
slowly travelled back, and stayed outside the castle gate, at that June
morning of nineteen years ago. Who was it that had parted with her so
unwillingly? It could not, of course, be the mother of whom she had
never heard so much as the name; she must have died long ago. On her
side, so far as Philippa knew, she had no relations; and her aunts on
the father's side, the Lady Latimer, the Lady de l'Estrange, and the
Lady de Lisle, never took the least notice of her when they visited the
castle. And then came up the thought--"Who am I? How is it that nobody
cares to own me? There must be a reason. What is the reason?"
"Mistress Philippa! look you here: the Lady Mary left with me this piece
of arras, and commanded me to give it unto you to be amended, and
beshrew me but I clean forgot. This green is to come forth, and this
blue to be set instead thereof, and clean slea-silk for the yellow.
Haste, for the holy Virgin's love, or I shall be well swinged when she
cometh home!"