"If from Thine ordeal's heated bars,
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
Thy will be done!"--Whittier.
Heliet's penetration had not deceived her. The mean, narrow, withered
article which Vivian Barkeworth called his soul, was unable to pardon
Clarice for having shown herself morally so much his superior. That his
wife should be better than himself was in his eyes an inversion of the
proper order of things. And as of course it was impossible that he
should be to blame, why, it must be her fault Clarice found herself most
cruelly snubbed for days after her interference in behalf of her
graceless husband. Not in public; for except in the one instance of
this examination, where his sense of shame and guilt had overcome him
for a moment, Vivian's company manners were faultless, and a surface
observer would have pronounced him a model husband. Poor Clarice had
learned by experience that any restraint which Vivian put upon himself
when inwardly vexed, was sure to rebound on her devoted head in the form
of after suffering in private.
To Clarice herself the reaction came soon and severely. On the evening
before Rosie's funeral, Heliet found her seated by the little bier in
the hall, gazing dreamily on the face of her lost darling, with dry eyes
and strained expression. She sat down beside her. Clarice took no
notice. Heliet scarcely knew how to deal with her. If something could
be said which would set the tears flowing it might save her great
suffering; yet to say the wrong thing might do more harm than good. The
supper-bell rang before she had made up her mind. As they rose Clarice
slipped her hand into Heliet's arm, and, to the surprise of the latter,
thanked her.
"For what?" said Heliet.
"For the only thing any one can do for me--for feeling with me."
After supper Clarice went up to her own rooms; but Heliet returned to
the hall where Rosie lay. To her astonishment, she found a sudden and
touching change in the surroundings of the dead child. Rosie lay now
wreathed round in white rosebuds, tastefully disposed, as by a hand
which had grudged neither love nor labour.
"Who has done this?" Heliet spoke aloud in he surprise.
"I have," said a voice beside her. It was no voice which Heliet knew.
She looked up into the face of a tall man, with dark hair and beard, and
eyes which were at once sad and compassionate.
"You! Who are you?" asked Heliet in the same tone.
"You may not know my name. I am--Piers Ingham."
"Then I do know," replied Heliet, gravely. "But, Sir Piers, _she_ must
not know."
"Certainly not," he said, quietly. "Tell her nothing; let her think, if
she will, that the angels did it. And--tell me nothing. Farewell."
He stooped down and kissed the cold white brow of the dead child.
"That can hurt no one," said Piers, in a low voice. "And she may be
glad to hear it--when she meets the child again."
He glided out of the hall so softly that Heliet did not hear him go, and
only looked up and found herself alone. She knelt for a few minutes by
the bier and then went quietly to her own room.
The next morning there were abundance of conjectures as to who could
have paid this tender and graceful tribute. The Earl was generally
suspected, but he at once said that it was no doing of his. Everybody
was asked, and all denied it. Father Bevis was appealed to, as being
better acquainted with the saints than the rest of the company, to state
whether he thought it probable that one of them had been the agent. But
Father Bevis's strong common sense declined to credit any but human
hands with the deed.
Clarice was one of the last to appear. And when the sweet, fair tribute
to her darling broke suddenly upon her sight, the result was attained
for which all had been more or less hoping. That touch of nature set
the floodgates open, and dropping on her knees beside the bier, Clarice
poured forth a rain of passionate tears.
When all was over, and Rosie had been hidden away from sight until the
angel-trump should call her, Clarice and Heliet went out together on the
Castle green. They sat down on one of the seats in an embrasure. The
Earl, with his thoughtful kindness, seeing them, sent word to the
commandant to keep the soldiers within so long as the ladies chose to
stay there. So they were left undisturbed.
Heliet was longing intensely to comfort Clarice, but she felt entirely
at a loss what line to take. Clarice relieved her perplexity by being
the first to speak.
"Heliet!" she said, "what does God mean by this?"
"I cannot tell, dear heart, except that He means love and mercy. `All
the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth unto the lovers of His will and
testimony.' Is not that enough?"
"It might be if one could see it."
"Is it not enough, without seeing?"
"O Heliet, Heliet, she was all I had!"
"I know it, beloved. But how if He would have thee to make Him all thou
hast?"
"Could I not have loved God and have had Rosie?"
"Perhaps not," said Heliet, gently.
"I hope He will take me soon," said Clarice. "Surely He can never leave
me long now!"
"Or, it may be, make thee content to wait His will."
Clarice shook her head, not so much with a negative air as with a
shrinking one. Just in that first agony, to be content with it seemed
beyond human nature.
Heliet laid her hand on that of her friend. "Dear, would you have had
Rosie suffer as you have done?"
For a moment Clarice's mental eyes ran forward, over what would most
likely, according to human prevision, have been the course of Rosie's
after life. The thought came to her as with a pang, and grew upon her,
that the future could have had no easy lot in store for Vivian
Barkeworth's daughter. He would have disposed of her without a thought
of her own wish, and no prayers nor tears from her would have availed to
turn him from his purpose. No--it was well with the child.
"Thou art right," she said, in a pained voice. "It is better for Rosie
as it is. But for me?"
"Leave that with God. He will show thee some day that it was better for
thee too."
Clarice rose from her seat; but not till she had said the one thing
which Heliet had been hoping that she would not say.
"Who could have laid those flowers there? Heliet, canst thou form any
idea? Dost thou think it _was_ an angel?"
Heliet had an excuse in settling her crutches for delaying her reply for
a moment. Then she said in a low tone, the source of whose tenderness
it was well that Clarice could not guess--"I am not sure, dear, that it
was not."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
If Clarice's sufferings had been passive before, they began to be active
now. Vivian made her life a torment to her by jealousy on the one hand,
and positive cruelty on the other; yet his manners in public were so
carefully veiled in courtesy that not one of her friends guessed how
much she really suffered. As much time as she could she spent in her
oratory, which was the only place where Vivian left her at peace, under
a vague idea that it would bring him ill luck to interrupt any one's
prayers. Unfortunately for Clarice, he had caught a glimpse of Piers,
and, having no conscientiousness in his own composition, he could not
imagine it in that of another. That Piers should be at Berkhamsted
without at least making an effort to open communication with Clarice,
was an idea which Vivian would have refused to entertain for a moment.
For what other earthly purpose could he be there? Vivian was a man who
had no faith in any human being. In his belief, the only possible means
to prevent Clarice from running away with Piers was to keep her either
in his sight or locked up when out of it. The idea of trusting to her
principles would have struck him as simply ridiculous.
Sir Piers, however, had completely disappeared, as completely as though
he had never been seen. And after a while Vivian grew more confident,
and not so particular about keeping the key turned. Clarice knew
neither why he locked her in, nor why he gave over doing so. Had she
had a suspicion of the reason, her indignation would not have been
small.
Public affairs meanwhile maintained their interest. The King marched
his army to Scotland, and routed Wallace's troops in the battle of
Falkirk; but his success was somewhat counterbalanced by the burning of
Westminster Palace and Abbey before he left home. It was about this
time that Piers Gavestone began to appear at Court, introduced by his
father with a view to making his fortune; and to the misfortune of the
young Prince Edward, their musical tastes being alike, they became fast
friends. The Prince was now only fourteen years of age; and, led by
Gavestone, he was guilty--if indeed the charge be true--of a mischievous
boyish frolic, in "breaking the parks" of the Bishop of Chester, and
appropriating his deer. The boy was fond of venison, and he was still
more fond of pets; but neither of these facts excused the raid on the
Bishop of Chester, who chose to take the offence far more seriously than
any modern bishop would be likely to do, and carried his complaint to
the King. The royal father, as his wont was, flew into a passion, and
weighted the boys' frolic with the heavy penalty of banishment for
Gavestone, and imprisonment for the Prince. In all probability young
Edward had never looked on his action in any other light than as a piece
of fun. Had his father been concerned about the sin committed against
God--exactly the sin of a boy who robs an orchard--he might, with less
outward severity, have produced a far more wholesome impression on his
son; but what he considered appears to have been merely the dignity of
the Prince, which was outraged by the act of the boy who bore the title.
A quiet, grave exhortation might have done him good, but imprisonment
did none, and left on many minds the impression that the boy had been
hardly used.
One striking feature in the conduct of Edward the Second is the
remarkable meekness and submission with which he bore his father's angry
outbursts and severe punishments--often administered for mere youthful
follies, such as most fathers would think amply punished by a strong
lecture, and perhaps a few strokes of the cane. Edward the First seems
to have been one of those men who entirely forget their own childhood,
and are never able in after life to enter into the feelings of a child.
His Majesty, however, had other matters to attend to beside the
provocation received from his heir; for in the month of September
following (1299) he was married at Canterbury to the Princess Marguerite
of France. It was a case approaching that of Rachel and Leah, for it
was the beautiful Princess Blanche for whom the King had been in treaty,
and Marguerite was foisted on him by a process of crafty diplomacy not
far removed from treachery. However, since Marguerite, though not so
fair as her sister, proved the better woman of the two, the King had no
reason to be disappointed in the end.
The Council of Regency established in Scotland, discontented with
Edward's arbitration, referred the question of their independence to the
Pope, and that wily potentate settled the matter in his own interests,
by declaring Scotland a fief of the Holy See. The King was still
warring in that vicinity; the young Queen was left with her baby boy in
Yorkshire to await his return.
It was a hot July day, and Vivian, who highly disapproved of the
stagnation of Berkhamsted, declared his intention of going out to hunt.
People hunted in all weathers and seasons in the Middle Ages. Ademar
declined to accompany him, and he contented himself by taking two of the
Earl's squires and a handful of archers as company. The Earl did not
interfere with Vivian's proceedings. He was quite aware that the quiet
which he loved was by no means to everybody's taste; and he left his
retinue at liberty to amuse themselves as they pleased.
Vivian did not think it necessary to turn the key on Clarice; but he
gave her a severe lecture on discreet behaviour which astonished her,
since her conscience did not accuse her of any breach of that virtue,
and she could not trace the course of her husband's thoughts. Clarice
meekly promised to bear the recommendation in mind; and Vivian left her
to her own devices.
The day dragged heavily. Mistress Underdone sat with Heliet and Clarice
at work; but not much work was gone through, for in everybody's opinion
it was too hot to do anything. The tower in which they were was at the
back of the Castle, and looked upon the inner court. The Earl's
apartments were in the next tower, and there, despite the heat, he was
going over sundry grants and indentures with Father Bevis and his
bailiff, always considering the comfort and advantage of his serfs and
tenants. The sound of a horn outside warned the ladies that in all
probability Vivian was returning home; and whether his temper were good,
bad, or indifferent was likely to depend on the condition of his
hunting-bags. Good, was almost too much to hope for. With a little
smothered sigh Clarice ventured to hope that it might not be worse than
indifferent. Her comfort for the next day or two would be much affected
by it.
They looked out of the window, but all they saw was Ademar crossing the
inner court with rapid steps, and disappearing within the Earl's tower.
There was some noise in the outer court, but no discernible solution of
it. The ladies went back to their work. Much to their surprise, ten
minutes later, the Earl himself entered the chamber. It was not at all
his wont to come there. When he had occasion to send orders to Clarice
concerning his household arrangements, he either sent for her or
conveyed them through Vivian. These were the Countess's rooms which
they were now occupying, and the Earl had never crossed the threshold
since she left the Castle.
They looked up, and saw in his face that he had news to tell them. And
all at once Clarice rose and exclaimed--"Vivian!"
"Dame, I grieve to tell you that your knight has been somewhat hurt in
his hunting."
Clarice was not conscious of any feeling but the necessity of knowing
all. And that she had not yet been told all she felt certain.
"Much hurt?" she asked.
"I fear so," answered the Earl.
"My Lord, will you tell me all?"