In His name was struck the blow
That hath laid thy old life low
In a garb of blood-red woe.
A very eventful year was 1291 in England and over all the civilised
world. It was the end of the Crusades, the Turks driving the Christians
from Acre, the last place which they held in Palestine. It opened with
the submission of the Scottish succession to the arbitrament of Edward
the First, and it closed with the funeral of his mother, Queen Eleonore
of Provence--a woman whom England was not able to thank for one good
deed during her long and stormy reign. She had been a youthful beauty,
she wrote poetry, and she had never scandalised the nation by any
impropriety of womanly conduct. But these three statements close the
list of her virtues. She was equally grasping, unscrupulous, and
extravagant. In her old age she retired to the Convent of Amesbury,
where her two granddaughters, Mary of England, and Alianora of Bretagne,
were nuns already, for the desirable purpose of "making her salvation."
Perhaps she thought she had made it when the summons came to her in the
autumn of 1291. No voice had whispered to her, all through her long
life of nearly eighty years, that if that ever were to be--
"Jesus Christ has done it all
Long, long ago."
Matters had settled down quietly enough in Whitehall Palace. Sir Fulk
de Chaucombe and Diana had been promoted to the royal household--the
former as attendant upon the King, the latter as Lady of the Bedchamber
to his eldest daughter, the Princess Alianora, who, though twenty-seven
years of age, was still unmarried. It was a cause of some surprise in
her household that the Countess of Cornwall did not fill up the vacancy
created among her maidens by the marriages of Clarice and Diana. But
when December came it was evident that before she did so she meant to
make the vacancy still more complete.
One dark afternoon in that cheerful month, the Lady Margaret marched
into the bower, where her female attendants usually sat when not engaged
in more active waiting upon her. It was Saturday.
"Olympias Trusbut, Roisia de Levinton," she said in her harsh voice,
which did not sound unlike the rasping of a file, "ye are to be wed on
Monday morning."
Olympias showed slight signs of going into hysterics, which being
observed by the Lady Margaret, she calmly desired Felicia to fetch a jug
of water. On this hint of what was likely to happen to her if she
imprudently screamed or fainted, Olympias managed to recover.
"Ye are to wed the two squires," observed their imperious mistress. "I
gave the choice to Reginald de Echingham, and he fixed on thee,
Olympias."
Olympias passed from terror to ecstasy.
"Thou, Roisia, art to wed Ademar de Gernet. I will give both of you
your gear."
And away walked the Countess.
"I wish she would have let me alone," said Roisia, in doleful accents.
"Too much to hope for," responded Felicia.
"Dost thou not like De Gernet?" asked Clarice, sympathisingly.
"Oh, I don't dislike him," said Roisia; "but I am not so fond of him as
that comes to."
An hour or two later, however, Mistress Underdone appeared, in a state
of flurry by no means her normal one.
"Well, here is a pretty tale," said she. "Not for thee, Olympias;
matters be running smooth for thee, though the Lord Earl did say," added
she, laughing, "that incense was as breath of life to Narcissus, and he
would needs choose the maid that should burn plenty on his altar. But--
the thing is fair unheard of!--Ademar de Gernet refuses to wed under
direction from the Lady."
"Why?" asked Roisia, looking rather insulted.
"Oh, it has nought to do with thee, child," said Mistress Underdone.
"Quoth he that he desired all happiness to thee, and pardon of thee for
thus dealing; but having given his heart to another of the Lady's
damsels, he would not wed with any but her."
"Why, that must be Felicia," said the other three together.
Felicia looked flattered and conscious.
"Well, I reckon so," answered Mistress Underdone. "Howbeit, the Lady
hath sent for him hither, to know of him in thy presence what he would
be at."
"_Ha, chetife_!" exclaimed Roisia. "I wish it had been somewhere else."
"Well, I cannot quite--. Hush! here she comes."
And for the second time that day in stalked the Countess, and sat down
on the curule chair which Mistress Underdone set for her, looking like a
judge, and a very stern one, too. In another minute the culprit made
his appearance, in charge of Sir Lambert Aylmer.
"Now, De Gernet, what means this?" irascibly demanded his mistress.
"Lady, it means not disobedience to you, nor any displeasance done to
this young damsel"--and De Gernet turned and bowed to Roisia. "This it
means, that I dearly love another of your Ladyship's damsels, and I do
most humbly and heartily crave your permission to wed with her."
"What, Felicia de Fay?" said the Countess.
"Under your Ladyship's pleasure and her pardon, no."
Felicia's face changed evilly.
"But who, then? There is none other."
"Let my Lady be pleased to pardon me. There is one other--Heliet
Pride."
The faces in the bower just then might have furnished a study for an
artist. Those of Clarice and Olympias expressed surprise mixed with
some pleasure; so did Mistress Underdone's, but the degree of both was
intense. The Countess looked half vexed and wholly astonished, with a
little contempt superadded. Felicia's face foreboded nothing but ill to
either Ademar or Heliet.
"Heliet Pride!" cried the Countess sharply. "Why, man, she goes on
crutches!"
"They will carry her to the chapel, with my Lady's leave," answered De
Gernet, coolly.
"Gramercy, but thou wilt have a lovely wife! There'll be no pride in
her outside her name," said the Countess, with a grim smile at her own
joke. Indeed, she was so much amused that she forgot to be angry.
"I will see about that, if my Lady will grant me her grace," responded
De Gernet, in the same tone.
"Eh, thou shalt have her," said the Countess. "I shall get Roisia
disposed of a sight easier than Heliet. So be it. Roisia, thou canst
still prepare for thy bridal; I will find somebody by Monday morning."
The Countess was rising from her chair, when Sir Lambert, after a glance
at Roisia, observed that if her Ladyship found any difficulty in that
selection, he had no particular objection to be chosen.
"You!" said the Countess. "Oh, very good; it will save trouble. Let it
be so."
Roisia appeared to be, if anything, rather gratified by the exchange.
But Clarice, looking into the dark, passionate eyes of Felicia, felt
troubled for the happiness of Heliet.
Olympias, like Clarice, was promoted to a vacancy among the ladies of
the bedchamber. But Sir Lambert and Roisia passed away from the life at
Whitehall. The new Maids of Honour were speedily appointed. Their
names proved to be Sabina Babingell, Ada Gresley, and Filomena Bray.
The Countess declared her intention of keeping four only in the future.
The summer of 1292 saw the King on the Scottish border, and in his train
the Earl and Countess of Cornwall, with their household, moved north as
far as Oakham. The household had been increased by one more, for in the
April previous Clarice Barkeworth became the mother of a little girl.
This was the first event which helped to reconcile her to her lot. She
had been honestly trying hard to do her duty by Vivian, who scarcely
seemed to think that he had any duty towards her, beyond the obvious one
of civility in public. All thought of Piers Ingham had been resolutely
crushed down, except when it came--as it sometimes did--in the form of a
dream of bliss from which she awoke to desolation. A miserable day was
sure to follow one of those dreams. The only other moment when she
allowed herself to think of him was in her evening prayer.
It was a relief to Clarice that she had never heard a word of Piers
since he left Whitehall. Her work would have been harder if his name
had remained a household word. And yet in another sense it was hard
never to know what had become of him, whether he were as sad as herself,
or had been comforted elsewhere.
Vivian's manners in public were perfect to every one, and Clarice shared
with the rest. In private she was terribly snubbed whenever he was in a
bad temper, and carelessly ignored when he was in a good one. The baby
daughter, who was such a comfort to Clarice, was a source of bitter
vexation to Vivian. In his eyes, while a son would have been an
undoubted blessing, a daughter was something actively worse than a
disappointment. When Clarice timidly inquired what name he wished the
child to bear, Vivian distinctly intimated that the child and all her
belongings were totally beneath his notice. She could call the nuisance
what she liked.
Clarice silently folded her insulted darling to her breast, and tacitly
promised it that its mother at least should never think it a nuisance.
"What shall I call her?" she said to Mistress Underdone and Olympias,
both of whom were inclined to pet the baby exceedingly.
"Oh, something pretty!" said Olympias. "Don't have a plain, common
name. Don't call her Joan, or Parnel, or Beatrice, or Margery, or Maud,
or Isabel. You meet those at every turn. I am quite glad I was not
called anything of that sort."
"I wouldn't have it too long," was Mistress Underdone's recommendation.
"I'd never call her Frethesancia, or Florianora, or Aniflesia, or
Sauncelina. Let her have a good, honest name, Dame, one syllable, or at
most two. You'll have to clip it otherwise."
"I thought of Rose," said Clarice, meditatively.
"Well, it is not common," allowed Olympias. "Still, it is very short.
Couldn't you have had it a _little_ longer?"
"That'll do," pronounced Mistress Underdone. "It is short, and it means
a pretty, sweet, pleasant thing. I don't know but I should have called
my girl Rose, if I'd chosen her name; but her father fancied Heliet, and
so it had to be so."
"Well, we can call her Rosamond," comfortingly suggested Olympias.
So, in the course of that evening, Father Bevis baptised little Rose
Barkeworth in the chapel of the palace, the Earl standing sponsor for
her, with the Lady de Chaucombe and the Lady de Echingham. The Countess
had been asked, but to Clarice's private satisfaction had declined, for
she would much rather have had the Earl, and the canon law forbade
husband and wife being sponsors to the same infant.
Something was the matter with the Countess. Every one agreed upon this,
but nobody could guess what it was. She was quieter than her wont, and
was given to long, silent reveries, which had not been usual with her.
Filomena, who was of a lively turn of mind, declared that life at
Whitehall was becoming absolutely intolerable, and that she should be
thankful to go to Oakham, for at least it would be something new.
"Thou wilt be thankful to come away again," said Mistress Underdone,
with a smile.
They reached Oakham about the middle of July, and found Heliet, leaning
on her crutches, ready to welcome them with smiles in the hall. No news
had reached her of their proceedings, and there was a great deal to tell
her; but Heliet and the baby took to one another in an instant, as if by
some unseen magical force.
The item of news which most concerned herself was not told to Heliet
that night. The next morning, when all were seated at work, and baby
Rose, in Heliet's lap, was contentedly sucking her very small thumb,
Mistress Underdone said rather suddenly, "We have not told thee all,
Heliet."
"I dare say not," replied Heliet, brightly. "You must have all done a
great deal more in these two years than you have told me."
"Well, lass, 'tis somewhat I never looked I should have to tell thee.
There's somebody wants to wed thee."
"Me!" cried Heliet, in large capitals.
"Ay, thee--crutches and all," said her mother laughing. "He said he did
not care for thy crutches so they carried thee safe to chapel; and he
ran the risk of offending the Lady to get thee. So I reckon he sets
some store by thee, lass."
"Who is it?" said Heliet, in a low voice, while a bright red spot burned
in each cheek.
"Ademar de Gernet." Two or three voices told her. The bright spots
burned deeper.
"Is it to be?" was the next question.
"Ay, the Lady said so much; and I reckon she shall give thee thy gear."
"God has been very good to me," said Heliet, softly, rocking little Rose
gently to and fro. "But I never thought He meant to give me _that_!"
Clarice looked up, and saw a depth of happy love in the lame girl's
eyes, which made her sigh for herself. Then, looking further, she
perceived a depth of black hate in those of Felicia de Fay, which made
her tremble for Heliet.
It appeared very shortly that the Countess was in a hurry to get the
wedding over. Perhaps she was weary of weddings in her household, for
she did not seem to be in a good temper about this. She always thought
Heliet would have had a vocation, she said, which would have been far
better for her, with her lameness, than to go limping into chapel to be
wed. She wondered nobody saw the impropriety of it. However, as she
had promised De Gernet, she supposed it must be so. She did not know
what she herself could have been thinking about to make such a foolish
promise. She was not usually so silly as that. However, if it must be,
it had better be got over.
So got over it was, on an early morning in August, De Gernet receiving
knighthood from the Earl at the close of the ceremony.
Mistress Underdone had petitioned that her lame and only child might not
be separated from her, and the Countess--according to her own authority,
in a moment of foolishness--had granted the petition. So Heliet was
drafted among the Ladies of the Bedchamber, but only as an honorary
distinction.
The manner of the Countess continued to strike every one as unusual.
Long fits of musing with hands lying idle were becoming common with her,
and when she rose from them she would generally shut herself up in her
oratory for the remainder of the day. Clarice thought, and Heliet
agreed with her, that something was going to happen. Once, too, as
Clarice was carrying Rose along the terrace, she was met by the Earl,
who stopped and noticed the child, as in his intense and unsatisfied
love for little children he always did. Clarice thought he looked even
unwontedly sorrowful.
From the child, Earl Edmund looked up into the pleased eyes of the young
mother.
"Dame Clarice," he asked, gently, "are you happier than you were?"
Her eyes grew suddenly grave.
"Thus far," she said, touching the child. "Otherwise--I try to be
content with God's will, fair Lord. It is hard to bear heart-hunger."
"Ah!" The Earl's tone was significant. "Yes, it is hard to bear in any
form," he said, after a pause. "May God send you never to know, Dame,
that there is a more terrible form than that wherein you bear it."
And he left her almost abruptly.
The winter of 1292 dragged slowly along. Filomena declared that her
body was as starved as her mind, and she should be frozen to death if
she stayed any longer. The next day, to everybody's astonishment, the
Countess issued orders to pack up for travelling. Sir Vivian and
Clarice were to go with her--where, she did not say. So were Olympias,
Felicia, and Ada. Mistress Underdone, Sir Reginald, Sir Ademar and
Heliet, Filomena and Sabina, were left behind at Oakham.
Olympias grumbled extremely at being separated from her husband, and
Filomena at being left behind. The Countess would listen to neither.
"When shall we return, under my Lady's leave?" asked Olympias,
disconsolately.
"_You_ can return," was the curt answer, "when I have done with you. I
doubt if Sir Vivian and his dame will return at all. Ada certainly will
not."
"_Ha, jolife_!" said Ada, under her breath. She did not like Oakham.
Clarice, on the contrary, was inclined to make an exclamation of horror.
For never to return to Oakham meant never to see Heliet again. And
what could the Countess mean by a statement which sounded at least as if
_she_ were not intending to return?
Concerning Felicia the Countess said nothing. That misnamed young lady
had during the past few months been trying her best to make Heliet
miserable. She began by attempting to flirt with Sir Ademar, but she
found him completely impervious material. Her arrows glanced upon his
shield, and simply dropped off without further notice. Then she took to
taunting Heliet with her lameness, but Heliet kept her temper. Next she
sneered at her religious views. Heliet answered her gently, gravely,
but held her own with undiminished calmness. This point had been
reached when the Countess's order was given to depart from Oakham.
Even those least disposed to note the signs of the times felt the
pressure of some impending calamity. The strange manner of the
Countess, the restless misery of the Earl, whom they all loved, the
busy, bustling, secretly-triumphant air of Father Miles--all denoted
some hidden working. Father Bevis had been absent for some weeks, and
when he returned he wore the appearance of a baffled and out-wearied
man.
"He looks both tired and disappointed," remarked Clarice to Heliet.
"He looks," said Heliet, "like a man who had been trying very hard to
scale the wall of a tower, and had been flung back, bruised and
helpless, upon the stones below."
During the four months last spent at Oakham, Clarice had been absolutely
silent to Heliet on the subject of her own peculiar trouble. Perhaps
she might have remained so, had it not been for the approaching
separation. But her lips were unsealed by the strong possibility that
they might never meet again. It was late on the last evening that
Clarice spoke, as she sat rocking Rose's cradle. She laid bare her
heart before Heliet's sympathising eyes, until she could trace the whole
weary journey through the arid desert sands.
"And now tell me, friend," Clarice ended, "why our Lord deals so
differently with thee and with me. Are we not both His children? Yet
to thee He hath given the desire of thine heart, and on mine He lays His
hand, and says, `No, child, thou must not have it.'"
"I suppose, beloved," was Heliet's gentle answer, "that the treatment
suitable for consumption will not answer for fever. We are both sick of
the deadly disease of sin; but it takes a different development in each.
Shall we wonder if the Physician bleeds the one, and administers
strengthening medicines to the other?"
Clarice's lip quivered, but she rocked Rose's cradle without answering.
"There is also another consideration," pursued Heliet. "If I mistake
not--to alter the figure--we have arrived at different points in our
education. If one of us can but decline `_puer_,' while the other is
half through the syntax, is it any wonder if the same lesson be not
given to us to learn? Dear Clarice, all God's children need keeping
down. I have been kept down all these years by my physical sufferings.
That is not appointed to thee; thou art tried in another way. Shall we
either marvel or murmur because our Father sees that each needs a
different class of discipline?"
"Oh, Heliet, if I might have had thine! It seems to me so much the
lighter cross to carry."
"Then, dear, I am the less honoured--the further from the full share of
the fellowship of our Lord's sufferings."
Clarice shook her head as if she hardly saw it in that light.
"Clarice, let me tell thee a parable which I read the other day in the
writings of the holy Fathers. There were once two monks, dwelling in
hermits' cells near to each other, each of whom had one choice tree
given him to cultivate. When this had lasted a year, the tree of the
one was in flourishing health, while that of the other was all stunted
and bare. `Why, brother,' said the first, `what hast thou done to thy
tree?' `Now, judge thou, my brother,' replied the second, `if I could
possibly have done more for my tree than I have done. I watched it
carefully every day. When I thought it looked dry, I prayed for rain;
when the ground was too wet, I prayed for dry weather; I prayed for
north wind or south wind, as I saw them needed. All that I asked, I
received; and yet look at my poor tree! But how didst thou treat thine?
for thy plan has been so much more successful than mine that I would
fain try it next year.' The other monk said only, `I prayed God to make
my tree flourish, and left it to Him to send what weather He saw good.'"
"He has sent a bitter blast from the north-east," answered Clarice, with
trembling lips.
"And a hedge to shelter the root of the tree," said Heliet, pointing to
Rose.
"Oh, my little Rosie!" exclaimed Clarice, kissing the child
passionately. "But if God were to take her, Heliet, what would become
of me?"
"Do not meet trouble half way, dear," said Heliet, gently. "There is no
apparent likelihood of any such thing."
"I do not meet it--it comes!" cried poor Clarice.
"Then wait till it comes. `Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.'"
"Yet when one has learned by experience that evil is perpetually coming,
how can one help looking forward to the morrow?"
"Look forward," said Heliet. "But let it be to the day after
to-morrow--the day when we shall awake up after Christ's likeness, and
be satisfied with it--when the Lord our God shall come, and all the
saints with Him. Dear, a gem cannot be engraved without the
cutting-tools. Wouldst thou rather be spared the pain of the cutting
than have Christ's likeness graven upon thee?"
"Oh, could it not be done with less cutting?"
"Yes--and more faintly graven then."
Clarice sobbed, without speaking.
"If the likeness is to be in high relief, so that all men may see it,
and recognise the resemblance, and applaud the graver, Clarice, the tool
must cut deep."
"If one could ever know that it was nearly done, it would be easier to
bear it."
"Ay, but how if the vision were granted us, and we saw that it was not
nearly done by many a year? It is better not to know, dear. Yet it is
natural to us all to think that it would be far easier if we could see.
Therefore the more `blessed is he that hath not seen, and yet hath
believed.'"
"I do think," said poor Clarice, drearily, "that I must be the worst
tried of all His people."
"Clarice," answered Heliet, in a low voice, "I believe there is one in
this very castle far worse tried than thou--a cross borne which is ten
times heavier than thine, and has no rose-bud twined around it. And it
is carried with the patience of an angel, with the unselfish
forgetfulness of Christ. The tool is going very deep there, and already
the portrait stands out in beautiful relief. And that cross will never
be laid down till the sufferer parts with it at the very gate of Heaven.
At least, so it seems to me. As the years go on it grows heavier, and
it is crushing him almost into the dust now."
"Whom dost thou mean, Heliet?"
"The Lord Earl, our master."
"I can see he is sorely tried; but I never quite understand what his
trouble is."
"The sorrow of being actively hated by the only one whom he loves. The
prospect of being left to die, in wifeless and childless loneliness--
that terrible loneliness of soul which is so much worse to bear than any
mere physical solitude. God, for some wise reason, has shut him up to
Himself. He has deprived him of all human relationship and human love;
has said to him, `Lean on Me, and walk loose from all other ties.' A
wedded man in the eyes of the world, God has called him in reality to be
an anchorite of the Order of Providence, to follow the Lamb
whithersoever He goeth. And unless mine eyes see very wrongly into the
future--as would God they did!--the Master is about to lead this dear
servant into the Gethsemane of His passion, that he may be fashioned
like Him in all things. Ah, Clarice, that takes close cutting!"
"Heliet, what dost thou mean? Canst thou guess what the Lady is about
to do?"
"I think she is going to leave him."
"Alone?--for ever?"
"For earth," said Heliet, softly. "God be thanked, that is not for
ever."
"What an intensely cruel woman she is!" cried Clarice, indignantly.
"Because, I believe, she is a most miserable one."
"Canst thou feel any pity for _her_?"
"It is not so easy as for him. Yet I suspect she needs it even more
than he does. Christ have mercy on them both!"
"I cannot comprehend it," said Clarice.
"I will tell thee one thing," answered Heliet. "I would rather change
with thee than with Sir Edmund the Earl; and a hundred times rather with
thee than with the Lady Margaret. It is hard to suffer; but it is worse
to be the occasion of suffering. Let me die a thousand times over with
Saint Stephen, before I keep the clothes of the persecutors with Saul."
Clarice stooped and lifted the child from the cradle.
"It is growing late," she said. "I suppose we ought not to be up
longer. Good-night, sweetheart, and many thanks for thy counsel. It is
all true, I know; yet--"
"In twenty years, may be--or at the longest, when thou hast seen His
Face in righteousness--dear Clarice, thou wilt know it, and want to add
no _yet_."
The soft tap of Heliet's crutches had died away, but Clarice stood still
with the child in her arms.
"It must be _yet_ now, however," she said, half aloud. "Do Thy will
with me--cut me and perfect me; but, O God, leave me, leave me Rosie!"