"And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as by want of heart."
Thomas Hood.
As I came forth of hall, after supper, that even, and we were entered
into the long gallery whereinto the Queen's degrees opened, I was aware
of a full slender and white-faced young maid, that held by the hand a
small [little child] of mayhap five or six years. She looked as though
she waited for some man. The Queen had tarried in hall to receive a
messenger, and Dame Joan de Vaux was in waiting, so Dame Elizabeth, Dame
Isabel, Dame Tiffany, and I were those that passed along the gallery.
Dame Isabel and Dame Tiffany the maid let pass, with no more than a
pitiful look at the former, that deigned her no word: but when Dame
Elizabeth came next, on the further side, I being betwixt, the maid
stepped forward into the midst, as if to stay her. Her thin hands were
clasped over her bosom, and the pitifullest look ever I saw was in her
eyes.
"_Dame, ayez pitie_!" was all she said; and it was rather breathed than
spoken.
"Bless us, Saint Mary!--art thou here again?" quoth Dame Elizabeth of a
testier fashion than she was wont. "Get thee gone, child; I have no
time to waste. Dear heart, what a fuss is here over a crown or twain!
Dost think thy money is lost? I will pay thee when it liketh me; I have
not my purse to mine hand at this minute."
And on she walked, brushing past the maid. I tarried.
"Are you Hilda la Vileyne?" I said unto her.
"Dame, that is my name, and here is my little sister Iolande. She hath
not tasted meat [food] this day, nor should not yesterday, had not a
kindly gentleman, given me a denier to buy soup. But truly I do not ask
for charity--only to be paid what I have honestly earned."
"And hadst thou some soup yesterday?"
"Yes--no--Oh, I am older; I can wait better than the little ones. The
mother is sick: she and the babes must not wait. It does not signify
for me."
Oh, how hungered were those great eyes, that looked too large for the
white face! The very name of soup seemed to have brought the craving
look therein.
I turned to the small. "Tell me, Iolande, had Hilda any of the soup
yesterday?"
"No," said the child; "I and Madeleine drank it, every drop, that our
mother left."
"And had Hilda nothing?"
"There was a mouldy crust in the cupboard," said the child. "It had
dropped behind the cup, and Hilda found it when she took the cup down.
We could not see it behind. We can only just reach to take the cup
down, and put it up again. That was what Hilda had, and she wiped the
cup with one end of it."
"The cup that had held the soup?"
"Yes, surely," said the child, with a surprised look. "We only have
one,--does not Madame know?"
"It is an esquelle [porringer; a shallow bowl], not a cup," said Hilda,
reddening a little: "the child hardly knows the difference."
I felt nearhand as though I could have twisted Dame Elizabeth's neck for
meat for those children.
"And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?" said I. "No meat, and
only one esquelle in all the house?"
"Dame," said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, "our father was long ill, and
now is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay the
apothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; and
my little sisters are not old enough to do much. But truly it is only
these last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have no
food, and I have been able to earn but a few deniers now and then--
enough to keep us alive, but no more."
"How much oweth you Dame Elizabeth?" said I.
"Dame, it is seven crowns for the hood I wrought, and three more for a
girdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it is
fourteen crowns in all. I should not need to ask charity if I could but
be paid my earnings. The apothecary said our mother was sick rather
from sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if the
good Dame would pay me, I might not only buy fresh matter for my work,
but perchance get food that would make my mother well--at least well
enough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead of
one. I do not beg, Dame!"
She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by the
hand. "Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting."
"But hast thou got no money?" pleaded the barne. "Thou saidst to
Madeleine that we should bring some supper back. Thou didst, Hilda!"
"I did, darling," allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed. "I
could not peace the babe else, and--I hoped we should."
I could bear no more. The truth of those maids' story was in the little
one's bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda's hungry eyes. Eyes
speak sooth, though lips be false.
"Come," said I. "I pray you, tarry but one moment more. You shall not
lose by it."
"We are at Madame's service," said Hilda.
I ran up degrees as fast as ever I could. As the saints would have it,
that very minute I oped the door, was Dame Elizabeth haling forth silver
in her lap, and afore her stood the jeweller's man awaiting to be paid.
Blame me who will, I fell straight on those gold pieces and silver
crowns.
"Fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth!" quoth I, all scant of breath.
"Quick! give me them--for Hilda la Vileyne--and if no, may God forgive
you, for I never will!"
Soothly, had the Archangel Raphael brake into the chamber and demanded
fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth could have gazed on him no more astonied
than she did on me, Cicely, that she had seen nearhand every day of her
life for over a dozen years. I gave her leave to look how it listed
her. From the coins in her lap I counted forth nine nobles and a French
crown, and was half-way down degrees again ere she well knew what I
would be at. If I had had to pay her back every groat out of mine own
purse--nay, verily, if I had stood to be beheaden for it--I would have
had that money for Hilda la Vileyne that night.
They stood where I had left them, by the door of the long gallery, near
the _porte-cochere_, but now with them was a third--mine own Jack, that
had but now come in from the street, and the child knew him again, as
she well showed.
"O Hilda!"
I heard her say, as I came running down swiftly--for I was dread afraid
Dame Elizabeth should overtake me and snatch back the money--and I might
have spared my fears, for had I harried the Queen's crown along with her
crowns, no such a thing should ever have come in her head--"O Hilda!"
saith the child, "see here the good Messire who gave us the denier to
buy soup."
I might have guessed it was Jack. He o'erheard the child, and stayed
him to pat her on the head.
"Well, little one, was the soup good?"
"So good, Messire! But Hilda got none--not a drop."
"Hush!" saith Hilda; but the child would go on.
"None at all! why, how was that?" saith Jack, looking at Hilda.
I answered for her. "The sick mother and helpless babes had the soup,"
said I; "and this brave maid was content with a mouldy crust. Jack, a
word in thine ear."
"Good!" saith he, when I had whispered to him. "Go thy ways,
sweetheart, and so do."
"Nay, there is no need to go any ways," said I, "for here cometh Meliora
down degrees, and of a truth I somewhat shrink from facing Dame
Elizabeth after my robbery of her, any sooner than must be--Meliora,
child, wilt run above an instant, and fetch my blue mantle and the
thicker of mine hoods?"
Meliora ran up straightway; for though she was something too forward,
and could be pert when she would, yet was she good-natured enough when
kindly used. I turned to Hilda.
"Hold thy palm, my maid," said I. "Here is the money the lady ought
[owed] thee." And I haled into her hand the gold pieces and the silver
crown.
Verily, I could have greeted mine eyes sore to see what then befell.
The barne capered about and clapped her hands, crying, "Supper! supper!
now we shall have meat!" but Hilda covered her eyes with her void hand,
and sobbed as though her heart should break.
"God Almighty bless you, kind Dame!" said she, when as she could speak
again. "I was nearhand in utter mishope [nearly in despair]. Now my
mother can have food and physic, and maybe, if it please God, she shall
recover. May I be forgiven, but I was beginning to think the good God
cared not for poor folks like us, or maybe that there was no God to care
at all."
Down came Meliora with my hood and mantle, which I cast all hastily
about me, and then said I to Hilda--
"My maid, I would fain see thy mother; maybe I could do her some good;
and mine husband here will go with us for a guard. Lead on."
"God bless you!" she said yet again. "He _must_ have heard me." The
last words were spoken lowly, as to herself.
We went forth of the great gates, and traversed the good streets, and
came into divers little alleys that skirt the road near Saint Denis'
Gate. In one of these Hilda turned into an house--a full poor hut it
was--and led me up degrees into a poor chamber, whither the child ran
gleefully afore. Jack left me at the door, he and I having covenanted,
when we whispered together, what he should do whilst I visited Hilda's
mother.
Little Iolande ran forward into the chamber, crying, "Supper! supper!
Mother and Madeleine, Hilda has money for supper!"
What I then beheld was a poor pallet, but ill covered with a thin
coverlet, whereon lay a pale, weak woman, that seemed full ill at ease,
yet I thought scarce so much sick of body as sick at heart and faint
with fasting and sorrow. At the end of the pallet sat a child something
elder than Iolande, but a child still. There was no form in the
chamber, but Hilda brought forward an old box, whereon she cast a clean
apron, praying me to sit, and to pardon them that this should be the
best they had to offer. I sat me down, making no matter thereof, for in
very deed I was full of pity for these poor creatures.
The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began to
thank me for having paid my debts--at long last, she might have said.
But afore I could gainsay it, Hilda saith warmly--
"Oh no, Mother! This is not the lady that ought the money. Madame here
is good--so good! and that lady--she has no heart in her, I think."
"Not very good, Hilda," said I, laughing, "when I fell on the dame that
ought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she would
or no. Howbeit," I continued to the poor woman, "_I_ will be good to
you, if I can."
By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth. It was no
uncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband,--a deserted,
struggling wife and mother--and then a penniless widow, with no friends
and poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soul
together, whether for herself or the children. The husband had come
home at last but to be a burden and sorrow--to be nursed through a
twelve months' sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness and
lack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, and
Hilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, ever
sithence.
I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I would
give Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would come
and see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but that
when she went away must I go likewise, and it might be all suddenly,
that I could not give her to wit. Hilda had sent the children forth to
buy food, and there were but her and her mother. Mine husband was
longer in return than I looked for.
"My maid," said I to Hilda, "prithee tell me a thing. What didst thou
signify by saying to thyself, right as we set forth from the Palace,
that God must have heard thee?"
A great wave of colour passed over her face and neck.
"Dame," she said, "I will speak soothliness. It was partly because I
had prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because I
was afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it away
from me. When you said that you and Messire would condescend to come
with me, it delivered me from my fear. The good God must have heard me,
for nobody else knew."
"Afraid!" said I. "Whereof, my maid? Was it the porter's great dog?
He is a gentle beast as may be, and would never touch thee. What could
harm thee in the Queen's Palace?"
The wave of colour came again. "Madame does not know," she said, in a
low voice. "There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies do
not see it. One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore. I was
afraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the good
Lord. So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and I
think He sent two of His angels with me."
Mine own eyes were full, no less than Hilda's.
"May the good Lord guard thee ever, poor maid!" said I. "But in very
sooth, I am far off enough from an angel. Here cometh one something
nearer thereto"--for I heard Jack's voice without. "But tell me, dost
thou know who it was of whom thou wert afraid?"
"I only know," she said, "that his squire bare a blue and white livery,
guarded in gold. I heard not his name."
"Verily!" said I to myself, "such gentlemen be fair company for Dame
Isabel the Queen!"
For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda's enemy was that bad man, Sir
Roger de Mortimer. Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, and
in came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket. Jack's own
arms were full of fardels [parcels], which he set down in a corner of
the chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was charged
with firewood, "There!" saith he, "they be not like to want for a day or
twain, poor souls! Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night's rest."
"Messire!" cried the faint voice of the poor woman. "Messire is good as
an angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself to
carry burdens--and for us!"
She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.
"Nay, good woman," saith Jack, merrily--"no more than the angel that
carried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securely
I can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might never
do a worse deed."
"Amen!" said I, "for both of us."
We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed by
blessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would I
say--
"Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a little
more care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon had
seen thee!"
"Well?" saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow. "Suppose they had."
"Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn."
"Suppose they did?"
"Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"
"Certes. I regard thine full diligently."
"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say."
"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be of
import? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep the
sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if
man laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the
Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss
that--yea, so much as one of them--out of regard for that which is,
saith Solomon, `_sonitum spinarum sub olla_'? [Ecclesiastes chapter
seven, verse 6]. _Ha, jolife_! let the thorns crackle away, prithee;
they shall not burn long."
"Jack," said I, "thou _art_ the best man ever lived!"
"Rhyme on, my fair _trouvere_," quoth he. [Troubadour. Their lays were
usually legends and fictitious tales.] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I
will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps
from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after
many a flower sown of Satan in my path."
"Do tell me, Jack," said I.
"There be few days in my life," saith he, "that there cometh not up
afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book
out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And I
have some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day,
rather than this. Many a time--ay, many a time twice told--in early
morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the
thought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze--`What if our Lord be
coming this minute?' Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such
thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the
alebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not."
"But, Jack!" cried I, letting all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"
"Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life."