"Woe to the eye that sheds no tears -
No tears for God to wipe away!"
"G.E.M."
"And is it so hard to forgive?" asked the soft voice of Isabel.
"I will try, but it seems impossible," responded Philippa. "How can any
forgive injuries that reach down to the very root of the heart and
life?"
"My child," said Isabel, "he that injureth followeth after Satan; but he
that forgiveth followeth after God. It is because our great debt to God
is too mighty for our bounded sight, and we cannot reach to the ends
thereof, that we are so ready to require of our fellow-debtors the small
and sorry sum owed to ourselves. `He that loveth not his brother whom
he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' And can any
love and yet not forgive?"
"It is sometimes easier to love one ere he be seen than after," said
Philippa, sarcastically.
Isabel smiled rather sadly, for the latent thought in her daughter's
mind was only too apparent to her. Had Philippa known as little of her
father as of her mother, her feeling towards him would have been far
less bitter. But there was no other answer. Even though twenty-seven
years lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quitted
Arundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan.
She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to see
whether it had healed.
"Mother," said Philippa suddenly, "thou wilt come with me to Kilquyt?"
"For a time," answered Isabel, "if thine husband assent thereto."
"I shall not ask him," said Philippa, with a slight pout.
"Then I shall not go," replied Isabel quietly. "I will not enter his
house without his permission."
Philippa's surprise and disappointment were legible in her face.
"But, mother, thou knowest not my lord," she interposed. "There is not
in all the world a man more wearisome to dwell withal. Every thing I
do, he dislikes; and every thing I wish to do, he forbids. I am
thankful for his absence, for when he is at home, from dawn to dusk he
doth nought save to find fault with me."
But, notwithstanding her remonstrance, Philippa had fathomed her
mother's motive in thus answering. Sir Richard possessed little of his
own; he was almost wholly dependent on the Earl her father; and had it
pleased that gentleman to revoke his grant of manors to herself and her
husband, they would have been almost ruined. And Philippa knew quite
enough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings would
be so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel's
presence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from saying
more.
"Hush, my daughter!" said the low voice. "Repay not thou by finding
fault in return. `What glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for your
faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well and suffer
for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God.'"
"I am not so patient as you, mother," answered Philippa, shaking her
head. "Perhaps it were better for me if I were. But dost thou mean
that I must really ask my lord's leave ere thou wilt come with me?"
"I do mean it."
"And thou sayest, `for a time'--wilt thou not dwell with me?"
"The vows of the Lord are upon me," replied Isabel, gravely. "I cannot
forsake the place wherein He hath set me, the work which He hath given
me to do. I will visit thee, and my sister also; but that done, I must
return hither."
"But dost thou mean to live and die in yonder cell?"
It was in the recreation-room of the Convent that they were conversing.
"Even so, my daughter." [See Note 1.]
Philippa's countenance fell. It seemed very hard to part again when
they had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must be
difficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed than
surprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past.
"My child," said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, "if I err in
thus speaking, I pray God to pardon me. I can but follow what I see
right; and `to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it is
unclean.' How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for help
throughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst always
come, or send for me."
This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, because
she felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescended
to make it.
The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippa
was unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen had
formed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabel
had been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, under
the superintendence of the King's Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also a
Predicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random,--to
"Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster's following, at
Bordeaux, or wherever he may be found." Fortunately for Philippa, the
Prior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer to
London on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter to
the Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatches
sent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written,
requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she and
Isabel meant to proceed at once.
The spring was in its full beauty when they reached Shaftesbury.
Philippa had not found an opportunity to let the Abbess know of her
coming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame.
The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and at
Philippa's desire the Abbess sent for Mother Joan to the guest-chamber.
Sister Senicula led her in.
"How is it with you, Aunt?" said Philippa affectionately. "I have
returned hither, as you may hear."
"Ah! Is it thou, child?" said the blind nun in answer. "I fare
reasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hither
again."
It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister from
whom she had parted in such painful circumstances, thirty-seven years
before. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippa
waited for her. At last Isabel said in a choked voice--"Sister Joan!"
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the blind woman; "who called me that?"
"One that thou knewest once," answered Isabel's quivering voice.
"From Heaven?" cried Joan almost wildly. "Can the dead come back
again?" And she stretched forth her hands in the direction from which
the sound of her sister's voice had come.
"No, but the living may," said Isabel, kneeling down by her, and
clasping her arms around her.
"Isabel!" And Joan's trembling hands were passed over her face, as if
to assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. "It can be no
voice but thine. Holy Virgin, I thank thee!"
The Abbess broke in, in a manner which, though well-meant, was
exceedingly ill-timed and in bad taste. She was kindly-disposed, but
had not the faintest trace of that delicate perception of others'
feelings, and consideration for them, which constitutes the real
difference between Nature's ladies and such as are not ladies.
"Verily, to think that this holy Mother and our Mother Joan be sisters!"
cried she, "I remember somewhat of your history, my holy Sister: are you
not she that was sometime Countess of Arundel?"
Philippa saw how Isabel trembled from head to foot; but she knew not
what to say. Joan La Despenser was equal to the emergency.
"Holy Mother," she said quietly, "would it please you, of your great
goodness, to permit me to remain here during the recreation-hour with my
sister? I am assured we shall have much to say each to other, if we may
have your blessed allowance to speak freely after this manner."
"Be it so, Sister," said the Abbess, smiling genially; "I will see to
our sisters in the recreation-chamber."
A long conversation followed the departure of the Abbess. Joan took up
the history where she had parted from Isabel, and told what had been her
own lot since then; and Isabel in her turn recounted her story--neither
a long nor an eventful one; for it told only how she had been taken to
Sempringham by the page, and had there settled herself, in the hermit's
cell which happened to be vacant.
When Philippa was lying awake that night, her thoughts were troublous
ones. Not only did she very much doubt Sir Richard's consent to her
mother's visit to Kilquyt; but another question was puzzling her
exceedingly. How far was it desirable to inform Isabel of the death of
Alianora? She had noticed how the unfortunate remark of the Abbess had
agitated her mother; and she also observed that when Joan came to speak
to Isabel herself, she was totally silent concerning Earl Richard. The
uncomplimentary adjectives which she had not spared in speaking to
Philippa were utterly discarded now. Would it not do at least as much
harm as good to revive the old memories of pain by telling her this?
Philippa decided to remain silent.
The summer was passing away, and the autumn hues were slowly creeping
over the forest, when Sir Richard's answer arrived at Shaftesbury. It
was not a pleasing missive; but it would have cost Philippa more tears
if it had made her less angry. That gentleman had not written in a good
temper; but he was not without excuse, for he had suffered something
himself. He had not dared to reply to Philippa's entreaty, without
seeking in his turn the permission of the Earl of Arundel, in whose
hands his fortune lay to make or mar. And, by one of those
uncomfortable coincidences which have led to the proverb that
"Misfortunes never come single," it so happened that the news of the
Countess's death had reached the Earl on the very morning whereon Sir
Richard laid Philippa's letter before him. The result was that there
broke on the devoted head of Sir Richard a tempest of ungovernable rage,
so extremely unpleasant in character that he might be excused for his
anxiety to avoid provoking a second edition of it. The Earl was
grieved--so far as a nature like his could entertain grief--to lose his
second wife; but to find that the first wife had been discovered, and by
her daughter, possessed the additional character of insult. That the
occurrence was accidental did not alter matters. Words would not
content the aggrieved mourner: his hand sought the hilt of his sword,
and Sir Richard, thinking discretion the better part of valour, made his
way, as quickly as the laws of matter and space allowed him, out of the
terrible presence whereinto he had rashly ventured. Feeling himself
wholly innocent of any provocation, it was not surprising that he should
proceed to dictate a letter to his wife, scarcely calculated to gratify
her feelings. Thus ran the offending document:--
"Dame,--Your epistle hath reached mine hands, [see Note 2] wherein it
hath pleased you to give me to know of your finding of the Lady Isabel
La Despenser, your fair mother, [see Note 3] and likewise of your
desire that she should visit you at my Manor of Kilquyt. Know
therefore, that I can in no wise assent to the same. For I am assured
that it should provoke, and that in no small degree, the wrath of your
fair father, my gracious Lord of Arundel: and I hereby charge you, on
your obedience, so soon as you shall receive this my letter, that you
return home, and tarry no longer at Shaftesbury nor Sempringham. Know
that I fare reasonably well, and Eustace my squire; and your fair
father likewise, saving that he hath showed much anger towards you and
me. And thus, praying God and our blessed Lady, and Saint Peter and
Saint Paul, to keep you. I rest.
"R. Sergeaux."
The entire epistle was written by a scribe, for Sir Richard was as
innocent of the art of calligraphy as Philippa herself; and the
appending of his seal was the only part of the letter achieved by his
own hand.
Philippa read the note three times before she communicated its contents
to any one. The first time, it was with feelings of bitter anger
towards both her father and her husband; the second, her view of her
father's conduct remained unchanged, but she began to see that Sir
Richard, from his own point of view, was not without reasonable excuse
for his refusal, and that considering the annoyance he had himself
suffered, his letter was moderate and even tolerably kind,--kind, that
is, for him. After the third perusal, Philippa carried the letter to
Joan, and read it to her--not in Isabel's presence.
"What a fool wert thou, child," said Joan, with her usual bluntness, "to
send to thy lord concerning this matter! Well, what is done, is done.
I had looked for no better had I known of it."
Philippa did not read the letter to her mother. She merely told her the
substance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her at
Kilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lip
quivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled.
"I am not surprised, my child," she said. "Take heed, and obey." It
was hard work to obey. Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leave
Isabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the as
lonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night in
the recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat by
themselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of her
daughter.
"But how do you account for all the sorrow that is in the world?"
Philippa had been saying. "Take my life, for instance, or your own,
mother. God could have given us very pleasant lives, if it had pleased
Him; why did He not do so? How can it augur love, to take out of our
way all things loved or loving?"
"My daughter," answered Isabel, "I am assured--and the longer I live the
more assured I am--that the way which God marketh out for each one of
His chosen is the right way, the best way, and for that one the only
way. Every pang given to us, if we be Christ's, is a pang that could
not be spared. `As He was, so are we in this world;' and with us, as
with Him, `thus it _must_ be.' All our Lord's followers wear His crown
of thorns; but theirs, under His loving hand, bud and flower; which His
never did, till He could cry upon the rood, `It is finished.'"
"But could not God," said Philippa, a little timidly, "have given us
more grace to avoid sinning, rather than have needed thus to burn our
sins out of us with hot irons?"
"Thou art soaring up into the seventh Heaven of God's purposes, my
child," answered Isabel with a smile; "I have no wings to follow thee so
far."
"Thou thinkest, then, mother," replied Philippa with a sigh, "that we
cannot understand the matter at all."
"We can understand only what is revealed to us," replied Isabel; "and
that, I grant, is but little; yet it is enough. `As many as I love, I
rebuke and chasten.' `What son is he whom the father chasteneth not?'
How could it be otherwise? He were no wise father nor loving, who
should teach his son nothing, or should forbear to rebuke him for such
folly as might hereafter be his ruin."
Isabel was silent, and Philippa's memory went back to those old loveless
days at Arundel, when for her there had been no chastening, no rebuke,
only cold, lifeless apathy. That was not love. And she thought also of
her half-sister Alesia, whom she had visited once since her marriage,
and who brought up her children on the principle of no contradiction and
unlimited indulgence; and remembering how discontented and hard to
please this discipline had made them, she began to see that was not love
either.
"Thou hast wrought arras, my daughter," said Isabel again. "Thou
knowest, therefore, that to turn the arras the backward way showeth not
the pattern. The colours are all mixed out of proportion, as the
fastenings run in and out. So our life is in this world. The arras
shall only be turned the right way above, when the angels of God shall
see it, and marvel at the fair proportions and beauteous colours of that
which looked so rough and misshapen here below.
"Moreover, we are thus tried, methinks, not only for our own good. We
are sent into this world to serve: to serve God first, and after to
serve man for God's sake. And every blow of the chisel on the stone
doth but dress it for its place. God's chisel never falleth on the
wrong place, and never giveth a stroke too much. Every pang fitteth us
for more service; and I think thou shouldst find, in most instances,
that the higher and greater the service to which the varlet is called,
the deeper the previous suffering which fitteth him therefor. And God's
greatnesses are not ours. In His eyes, a poor serving-maiden may have a
loftier and more difficult task than a lord of the King's Council, or a
Marshal of the army.
"And after all, every sorrow and perplexity, be it large or small, doth
but give God's child an errand to his Father. Nothing is too little to
bear to His ear, if it be not too little to distress and perplex His
servant. To Him all things pertaining to this life are small--the cloth
of estate no less than the blade of grass; and all things pertaining to
that other and better life in His blessed Home, are great and mighty.
Yet we think the first great, and the last little. And therefore things
become great that belong to the first life, just in proportion as they
bear upon the second. Nothing is small that becomes to thee an occasion
of sin; nothing, that can be made an incentive to holiness."
"O mother, mother!" said Philippa, with a sudden sharp shoot of pain,
"to-morrow I shall be far away from you, and none will teach me any
more!"
"God will teach thee Himself, my child," said Isabel tenderly. "He can
teach far better than I. Only be thou not weary of His lessons; nor
refuse to learn them. Maybe thou canst not see the use of many of them
till they are learned; but `thou shalt know hereafter.' Thou shalt find
many a thorn in the way; but remember, it is not set there in anger, if
thou be Christ's; and many a flower shall spring up under thy feet, when
thou art not looking for it. Only do thou never loose thine hold on
Him, who has promised never to loose His on thee. Not that thou
shouldst be lost in so doing; He will have a care of that: but thou
mightest find thyself in the dark, and so far as thou couldst see,
alone. It is sin that hides God from man; but nothing can hide man from
God."