"Who hears the falling of the forest leaf?
Or who takes note of every flower that dies?"
Longfellow.
The morning after Blanche and the arras had thus roughly dispelled
Philippa's dream, the Lady Alianora sat in her bower, looking over a
quantity of jewellery. She put some articles aside to be reset,
dismissed others as past amendment, or not worth it, and ordered some to
be restored to the coffer whence they had been taken. The Lady Alesia
was looking on, and Philippa stood behind with the maids. At last only
one ornament was left.
"This is worth nothing," said the Countess, lifting from the table an
old bracelet, partly broken. "Put it with the others--or stay: whence
came it?"
"Out of an ancient coffer, an't like your Ladyship," said Blanche, "that
hath been longer in the castle than I."
"I should think so," returned the Countess. "It must have belonged to
my Lord's grandmother, or some yet more ancient dame. 'Tis worth
nothing. Philippa, you may have it."
Not a very gracious manner of presenting a gift, it must be confessed;
but Philippa well knew that nothing of any value was likely to be handed
to her. Moreover, this was the first present that had ever been made to
her. And lastly, a dim notion floated through her mind that it might
have belonged to her mother; and anything connected with that dead and
unknown mother had a sacred charm in her eyes. Her thanks, therefore,
were readily forthcoming. She put the despised bracelet in her pocket;
and as soon as she received her dismissal, ran with a lighter step than
usual to her turret-chamber. Without any distinct reason for doing so,
she drew the bolt, and sitting down by the window, proceeded to examine
her treasure.
It was a plain treasure enough. A band of black enamel, set at
intervals with seed-pearl and beryls, certainly was not worth much;
especially since the snap was gone, one of the beryls and several pearls
were missing, and from the centre ornament, an enamelled rose, a
portrait had apparently been torn away. Did the rose open? Philippa
tried it; for she was anxious to reach the device, if there were one to
reach. The rose opened with some effort, and the device lay before her,
written in small characters, with faded ink, on a scrap of parchment
fitting into the bracelet.
Philippa's one accomplishment, which she owed to her old friend Alina,
was the rare power of reading. It was very seldom that she found any
opportunity of exercising it, yet she had not lost the art. Alina had
been a priest's sister, who in teaching her to read had taught her all
that he knew himself; and Alina in her turn had thus given to Philippa
all that she had to give.
But the characters of the device were so small and faint, that Philippa
consumed half an hour ere she could decipher them. At length she
succeeded in making out a rude rhyme or measure, in the Norman-French
which was to her more familiar than English.
"Quy de cette eaw boyra
Ancor soyf aura;
Mais quy de cette eaw boyra
Que moy luy donneray,
Jamais soif n'aura
A l'eternite."
Devices of the mediaeval period were parted into two divisions--
religious and amatory. Philippa had no difficulty in deciding that this
belonged to the former category; and she guessed in a moment that the
meaning was a moral one; for she was accustomed to such hidden
allegorical allusions. And already she had advanced one step on the
road to that Well; she knew that "whosoever drinketh of this water shall
thirst again." Ay, from her that weary thirst was never absent. But
where was this Well from which it might be quenched? and who was it that
could give her this living water?
Philippa's memory was a perfect storehouse of legends of the saints, and
above all of the Virgin, who stood foremost in her pantheon of gods.
She searched her repertory over and over, but in vain. No saint, and in
particular not Saint Mary, had ever, in any legend that she knew, spoken
words like these. And what tremendous words they were! "Whosoever
drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst."
There were long and earnest prayers offered that night in the little
turret-chamber. Misdirected prayers--entreaties to be prayed for,
addressed to ears that could not hear, to hands that could not help.
But perhaps they reached another Ear that could hear, another Hand that
was almighty. The unclosing of the door is promised to them that ask.
Thanks be to God, that while it is not promised, it does sometimes in
His sovereign mercy unclose to them that know not how to ask.
The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castle
lavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. She
was a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her present
place longer than Philippa could recollect.
Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages--for a period of many centuries,
closing only about the time of the accession of the House of Hanover--
laundress was a name of evil repute, and the position was rarely assumed
by any woman who had a character to lose. The daughters of the Lady
Alianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any lavender; but no one
had cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and she was therefore free
to converse with whom she pleased. And a sudden thought had struck her.
She called back the lavender.
"Agnes!"
The woman stopped, came to Philippa's door, and louted--the
old-fashioned reverence which preceded the French courtesy.
"Agnes, how long hast thou been lavender here?"
"Long ere you were born, Lady."
"Canst thou remember my mother?"
Philippa was amazed at the look of abject terror which suddenly took
possession of the lavender's face.
"Hush, Lady, Lady!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.
Philippa laid her hand on the woman's arm.
"Wilt thou suffer aught if thou tarry?"
Agnes shook her head.
"Then come in hither." And she pulled her into her own room, and shut
the door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: and
I will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of my
mother?"
Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hath
been forbidden, Lady."
"Who forbade it?"
The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did not
mean to answer that question.
"Why was it forbidden?"
The continued silence replied.
"When died she? Thou mayest surely tell me so much."
"I dare not, Lady," replied Agnes in a scarcely audible whisper.
"How died she?"
"Lady, I dare not answer,--I must not. You weary yourself to no good."
"But I will know," said Philippa, doggedly.
"Not from me, Lady," answered the lavender with equal determination.
"What does it all mean?" moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self.
"Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?"
"Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poor
lavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfort
us when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel."
A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa.
"Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?"
The lavender's heart was reached, and her tongue loosed.
"No, no, Lady, no!" she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had not
imagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honey
no sweeter than her soul!"
"Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of more
bewilderment than ever.
But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settled
on the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippa
knew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been her
mother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother of
whom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child was
not allowed to know?
"That is too poor for you, Alesia," said the Lady Alianora.
"'Tis but thin, in good sooth," observed that young lady.
"I suppose Philippa must have a gown for the wedding," resumed the
Countess, carelessly. "It will do for her."
It was cloth of silver. Philippa had never had such a dress in her
life. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she was
intended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage?
"You may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets," said the Countess
condescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your own
gowns after you are wedded, so you may as well begin now."
"Will Philippa be wed when I am?" yawned Alesia.
"The same day," said the Lady Alianora.
The day was about sixty hours off; and this was the first word that
Philippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed over
after this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakable
goodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; she
had not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty for
her, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decided
between them.
As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longer
wanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deer
to her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face in
the coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forth
at last.
"O Mother, Mother, Mother!"
The door opened, but Philippa did not hear it.
"Lady, I cry you mercy," said the voice of Agnes in a compassionate
tone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was coming
up the stairs, I thought I heard a scream. I feared you were sick."
Philippa looked up, with a white, woe-begone face and tearless eyes.
"I wish I were, Agnes!" she said in a hopeless tone. "I would I were
out of this weary and wicked world."
"Ah, I have wished that ere now," responded the lavender. "'Tis an ill
wish, Lady. I have heard one say so."
"One that never felt it, I trow," said Philippa.
"No did, Lady? Ay, one whose lot was far bitterer than yours."
"Verily, I would give something to see one whose lot were so," answered
the girl, bitterly enough. "I have no mother, and as good as no father;
and none would care were I out of the world this night. Not a soul
loveth me, nor ever did."
"She used to say One did love us," said Agnes in a low voice; "even He
that died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it is
long, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet I
do mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mind
what. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. It
was the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what was
coming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he that
drank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither,
whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died on
the rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him."
"But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?" cried Philippa.
"She said He could hear, if we asked," replied the lavender.
"Who said?"
"She--that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be."
"My mother?"
Agnes nodded. "And the water that He should give should bring life and
peace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But there
never was a voice like hers--never."
Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess what
that bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Ages
than in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usually
a love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this?
Was it broken, too, like the bracelet?
She read the device to Agnes.
"It was something like that," said Agnes. "But she read the story
touching it, out of a book."
"What was she like?" asked Philippa in a low tone.
"Look in the mirror, Lady," answered Agnes.
Philippa began to wonder whether this were the mysterious reason for her
bitter lot.
"Dost thou know I am to be wed?"
"Ay, Lady."
So the very lavenders had known it before herself! But finding Agnes,
as she thought, more communicative than before, Philippa returned to her
former subject.
"What was her name?"
Agnes shook her head.
"Thou knowest it?"
The lavender nodded in answer.
"Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her at
the font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?"
Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sank
her voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she just
caught the words.
"The Lady Isabel."
Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go.
"Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it more
bitter?"
Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where the
tiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in a
small wicker cage.
"Is his lot sweet, Lady?"
"I trow not, in good sooth," said Philippa; "but his is like mine."
"I cry you mercy," answered the lavender, shaking her head. "He hath
known freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot--not
yours, Lady."
Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor caged wings were beating
vainly against the wicker-work, until he wearily gave up the attempt,
and sat quietly on the perch, drooping his tired head.
"He is not satisfied," resumed Agnes in a low tone. "He is only weary.
He is not happy--only too worn-out to care for happiness. Ah, holy
Virgin! how many of us women are so! And she was wont to say that there
was happiness in this life, yet not in this world. It lay, she said, in
that other world above, where God sitteth; and if we would ask for Him
that was meant by the better water, it would come and dwell in our
hearts along with Him. Our sweet Lady help us! we seem to have missed
it somehow."
"I have, at any rate," whispered Philippa, her eyes fixed dreamily on
the weary lark.