"Oh stay me not, thou holy friar!
Oh stay me not, I pray!
No drizzling rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."--Bishop Percy.
On entering the banquet-hall of Langley Palace, Maude the tire-maiden
found herself promoted to a very different position from that which had
been filled by Maude the scullion. Her former place had been near the
door, and far below that important salt-cellar which was then the
table-indicator of rank. She was directed now to take her seat as the
lowest of the Countess's maidens, on a form just opposite the
salt-cellar, which was more than half-way up the hall. Maude had hardly
sat down when her next neighbour below accosted her in a familiar voice.
"Why, little Maude! I looked for thee in vain at yon board end, and I
was but now marvelling what had befallen thee. How earnest up hither?"
Maude smiled back at Bertram Lyngern.
"It pleased the Lady's Grace to make me of her especial following."
"Long life to the Lady!--Now will I cause thee to wit who be all my
friends. This on my left hand is Master Hugh Calverley, Mistress Maude
(for thou art now of good degree, and must be spoken unto belike); he is
mine especial friend, and a very knight-errant in succour of all unceli
[distressed, unhappy] damsels."
"And who is he that is next unto the Lady Custance?"
"On her right hand, the Lord Edward, and the Lord Richard at her left--
her brethren both."
Lord Richard pleased Maude. He was a winning little fellow of eight
years old. But Edward she disliked instinctively:--a tall, handsome boy
of twelve, but completely spoiled by the supercilious curl of his lip
and the proud carriage of his head.
"And the Lord Earl?" she whispered to Bertram, who pointed out his royal
master.
He was very tall, and extremely slender; not exactly ungraceful, but he
gave the impression that his arms and legs were perpetually in his way.
In fact, he was a nervous man, always self-conscious, and therefore
never natural nor at ease. His hair was dark auburn; and in his lower
lip there was a tremulous fulness which denoted at once great
good-nature and great indecision.
It is a singular fact that the four English Princes who have borne the
name of Edmund have all shared this character, of mingled gentleness and
weakness; but in each the weakness was more and the amiability less,
until the dual character terminated in this last of our royal Edmunds.
He was the obedient servant of any person who chose to take the trouble
to be his master. And there was one person who found it worth his while
to take that trouble. This individual--the Earl's youngest brother--
will come across our path presently.
The dinner to-day was more elaborate than usual, for there were several
guests present. Since the host was a Prince, the birds presented were
served whole; had both he and his guests been commoners, they would have
been "chopped on gobbets." More interesting than any fictitious
delineation on my part will be a genuine _menu_ of the period, "The
purveyance made for King Richard, being with the Duke of Lancaster at
the Bishop's Palace of Durham at London," of course accompanied by their
suites. That the suites were of no small size we gather from the
provision made. It consisted of "14 oxen lying in salt, 2 oxen fresh,
120 heads of sheep fresh, 120 carcases of sheep fresh, 12 boars, 14
calves, 140 pigs; 300 marrow-bones, of lard and grease enough, 3 tons of
salt venison, 3 does of fresh venison. The poultry:--50 swans, 210
geese, 50 capons of grease (fat capons), 8 dozen other capons, 60 dozen
hens, 200 couple conies (rabbits), 4 pheasants, 5 herons and bitterns, 6
kids, 5 dozen pullets for jelly, 12 dozen to roast, 100 dozen peions
(peacocks), 12 dozen partridges, 8 dozen rabbits, 10 dozen curlews, 12
dozen brewes (doubtful), 12 cranes, wild fowl enough: 120 gallons milk,
12 gallons cream, 40 gallons of curds, 3 bushels of apples, eleven
thousand eggs."
This tremendous supply was served in the following manner:
"The first course:--Venison with furmety; a potage called viaundbruse
(broth made with pork and onions); heads of boars; great flesh (probably
roast joints); swans roasted, pigs roasted; crustade lumbard (custard)
in paste; and a subtlety." (The subtlety was an ornamental dish,
representing a castle, ship, human figures, etcetera.)
"The second course:--A potage called jelly (jellies of meat or fish were
served as entrees); a potage of blandesore (a white soup); pigs roasted;
cranes roasted; pheasants roasted; herons roasted; chickens roasted;
breme (possibly pork broth); tarts; brokebrawn; conies roasted; and a
subtlety.
"The third course:--Potage brewet of almonds (another white soup, made
with almonds and rabbit or chicken broth); sewde lumbarde (probably some
kind of stew); venison roasted; chickens roasted; rabbits roasted;
partridges roasted; peions roasted; quails roasted; larks roasted; payne
puff (a pudding); a dish of jelly; long fruits (a sweetmeat); and a
subtlety."
It must not be inferred that no vegetables were used, but simply that
they were not thought worth mention. Our forefathers ate, either in
vegetable or salad, almost every green thing that grew.
Before Maude had been many days in her new position, she made various
discoveries--not all pleasant ones, and some at complete variance with
her own preconceived fancies. In the first place she discovered that
her Fairy Queen, Constance, was neither more nor less than a spoiled
child. While the young Princess's affections were very warm, she had
been little accustomed to defer to any wishes but her own or those of
her two brothers. The pair of boys governed their sister, but they
swayed different sceptres. Edward ruled by fear, Richard by love.
"Ned" must be attended to, because his wont was to make himself very
disagreeable if he were not; but "Dickon" must have every thing he
wanted, because Constance could not bear to deny her darling any thing.
Bertram told Maude, however, that nobody could be more fascinating than
Edward when he liked: the unfortunate item being that the happy
circumstance very rarely occurred.
But Bertram's information was not exhausted.
"Hast heard that the Lady of Buckingham cometh hither?"
"When?" Maude whispered back.
"To-morrow, to sup and bide the night. So thou mayest search her
following for thy Mistress Hawise."
"But shall all her following follow her?" inquired Maude.
"Every one, for she goeth anon unto her place in London to tarry the
winter, and shall be here on her way thither. And hark thou, Maude! in
her train--as thou shalt see--is the fairest lady in all the world."
"And what name hath she?" was Maude's answer.
"The fair Lady de Narbonne, widow of Sir Robert de Narbonne, a good
knight and true, that fell in these late wars. She hath but some twenty
years e'en now, and 'tis full three summers sithence his death."
"And what like is she?"
"Like the angels in Paradise!" said Bertram enthusiastically. "I tell
thee, there is none like her in all the world."
Maude awaited the following evening with two-fold interest. She might
possibly see Hawise, and she should certainly see some one who was like
the angels in Paradise. The evening came, and with it the guests. One
look at the Countess of Buckingham was enough. She certainly did not
resemble the angels, unless they looked very cross and discontented.
Her good qualities were not apparent to Maude, for they consisted of two
coronets and an enormous fortune. Her ladies were much more interesting
to Maude than herself. The first who entered behind her was a stiff
middle-aged woman with dark hair.
"That is Dame Edusa," [A fictitious person] whispered Bertram, "the Lady
Mistress. Here is Mistress Polegna--yonder little damsel with the dark
locks; and the high upright dame is Mistress Sarah. She that cometh
after is the Lady de Say."
Not one of these was the golden-haired Cousin Hawise, whose years barely
numbered twenty. Maude's eyes had come back in disappointment, when
Bertram touched her arm.
"Now, Maude--look now! Look, the beauteous Lady de Narbonne! [A
fictitious person.] Sawest ever maiden meet to be her peer?"
Maude looked, and saw a young girlish figure, splendidly attired,--a
rich red and white complexion, beautiful blue eyes, and a sunny halo of
shining fair hair. But she saw as well, a cold, hard curve of the
delicate lips, a proud cynical expression in the handsome eyes, a bold,
forward manner. Yes, Maude admitted, the Lady de Narbonne was
beautiful; yet she did not care to look at her. Bertram was
disappointed. And so was Maude, for all hope of finding Hawise had
disappeared.
When supper was over, the tables were lifted. The festive board was at
this time literally a board or boards, which were simply set upon
trestles to form a table. At the close of a meal, the tables were
reduced to their primitive elements, and boards and trestles were either
carried away, or heaped in one corner of the hall. The dining-room was
thus virtually transmuted into the drawing-room, ceremony and precedence
being discarded for the rest of the evening--state occasions of course
excepted, and the royal persons present not being addressed unless they
chose to commence a conversation.
Maude kept pretty strictly to her corner all that evening. She was
generally shy of strangers, and none of these were sufficiently
attractive to make her break through her usual habits. Least attractive
of all, to her, was the lovely Lady de Narbonne. Her light, airy ways,
which seemed to enchant the Earl's knights and squires, simply disgusted
Maude. She was the perpetual centre of a group of frivolous idlers, who
dangled round her in the hope of leading her to a seat, or picking up a
dropped glove. She laughed and chatted freely with them all,
distributing her smiles and frowns with entire impartiality--except in
one instance. One member of the Earl's household never came within her
circle, and he was the only one whom she seemed at all desirous to
attract. This was Hugh Calverley. He held aloof from the bright lamp
around which all the other moths were fluttering, and Maude fancied that
he admired the queen of the evening as little as she did herself.
All at once, by no means to Maude's gratification, the lady chose to
rise and walk across the room to her corner.
"And what name hast thou, little maid?" she asked, with a light swing of
her golden pomander--the vinaigrette of the Middle Ages.
Maude had become very tired of being asked her name, the more so since
it was the manner in which strangers usually opened negotiations with
her. She found it the less agreeable because she was conscious of no
right to any surname, her mother's being the only one she knew. So she
answered "Maude" rather shortly.
"Maude--only Maude?"
"Only Maude. Madam, might it like your Ladyship to tell me if you wit
of one Hawise Gerard anything?"
If the Lady de Narbonne would talk to her, Maude resolved to utilise the
occasion; though she felt there could be little indeed in common between
her gentle, modest cousin, and this far from retiring young widow. That
they could not have been intimate friends Maude was sure; but
acquaintances they might be--and must be, unless the Lady de Narbonne
had been too short a time at Pleshy to know Hawise. As Maude in
speaking lifted her eyes to the lady's face, she saw the smiling lips
grow suddenly grave, and the cold bright light die out of the beaming
eyes.
"Child," said the Lady de Narbonne seriously, "Hawise Gerard is dead."
"Woe is me! I feared so much," answered Maude sorrowfully. "And might
it please you, Madam, to arede [tell] me fully when she died, and how,
and where?"
"She died to thee, little maid, when she went to the Castle of Pleshy,"
was the unsatisfactory answer.
"May I wit no more, Madam? Your Ladyship knew her, trow?"
"Once," said the lady, with a slight quiver of her lower lip,--"long,
long ago!" And she suddenly turned her head, which had been for a
moment averted from Maude, round towards her. "`When, and how, and
where?'" she repeated. "Little maid, some dying is slower than men may
tell the hour, and there be graves that are not dug in earth. Thy
cousin Hawise is dead and gone. Forget her."
"That can I never!" replied Maude tenderly, as the memory of her dead
came fresh and warm upon her.
The Lady de Narbonne rose abruptly, and walked away, without another
word, to the further end of the room. Half an hour later, Maude saw her
in the midst of a gay group, laughing and jesting in the cheeriest
manner. Of what sort of stuff could the woman be made?
The Countess of Buckingham did not leave Langley until after dinner the
next day--that is to say, about eleven a.m. A little before dinner, as
Maude, not being wanted at the moment, stood alone at the window of the
hall, leaning her arms on the wide window-ledge, a voice asked behind
her,--"Art yet thinking of Hawise Gerard?"
"I was so but this moment, Madam," replied Maude, turning round to meet
the eyes of the Lady de Narbonne, now quiet and grave enough. "'Tis
little marvel, for I loved her dear."
"And love lasteth with thee--how long time?"
"Till death, assuredly," said Maude. "What may lie beyond death I wis
nothing."
"Till what manner of death? The resurrection, men say, shall give back
the dead. But what shall give back a dead heart or a lost soul? Can
thy love pass such death as this, Maude Gerard?"
"Madam, I said never unto your Ladyship that Hawise Gerard was kinswoman
of mine. How wit you the same?"
A faint, soft smile, very unlike her usual one, so bright and cold,
flickered for a moment on the lips of the Lady de Narbonne.
"Not too far gone for that, Cousin Maude," she said.
"`Cousin'--Madam! You are--"
"I am Avice de Narbonne, waiting-dame unto my Lady of Buckingham's
Grace. I was Hawise Gerard, David Gerard's daughter."
"Hawise! Thou toldest me she was dead!" cried Maude confusedly.
"That Hawise Gerard whom thou knewest is dead and gone, long ago. Thou
wilt never see her again. Thy mother Eleanor is not more dead than she;
but the one may return to thee on the resurrection morrow, and the other
never can. Tell me now whether I could arede thee, as thou wouldst have
had it, how, or where, or when, thy cousin Hawise died?"
"Our dear Lady be thine aid, Hawise! What has changed thee so sore?"
asked Maude, the tears running down her cheeks.
"Call me Avice, Maude. Hawise is old-fashioned," said the lady coolly.
Maude seized her cousin's hands, and looking into her eyes, spoke as
girls of her age rarely speak, though they think frequently.
"Come back to me, Hawise Gerard!--from the dead, if thou wilt have it
so. Cousin Hawise--fair, gent, shamefaced, loving, holy!--come back to
me, and speak with the olden voice, and give me to wit what terrible
thing hath been, to take away thyself, and leave but this instead of
thee!"
Maude's own earnestness was so intense, that she felt as if her
passionate words must have moved a granite mountain; but they fell cold
and powerless upon Avice de Narbonne.
"Look out into the dark this night, Maude, and call thy mother, and see
whether she will answer. The dead _cannot_ come back. I have no more
power to call back to thee the maiden I was of old, than thou. Rest,
maid; and do what thou wilt and canst with that which is."
"What can I?" said Maude bitterly. "At least thou canst tell me what
hath wrought this fearful change in thee."
"Can I?" replied Avice, seating herself on the window-seat, and
motioning her cousin to do the same. "And what shall I say it were--
call it light or darkness, love or hate? For six months after I left
home I was right woesome. (It is all gone, Maude--the old cottage, and
the forge, and the elms--they razed them all!) And then there came into
my life a fair false face, and a voice that spake well, and an heart
that was black as night. And I trusted him, for I loved him. Loved
him--ay, better than all the saints in Heaven! I could have died to
save a pang of pain to him, and smiled in doing it. But he was false,
false, false! And on the day that I knew it--O that horrible day!--my
love turned to black hate within me. I knelt and prayed that my wrong
should be avenged--that some sorrow should befal him. But I never meant
that. Holy Mary, Lady of Sorrows, thou knewest I never meant that! And
that very night I knelt and prayed, he died on the field of battle far
away. I knew not he was in danger till four days after. When I so did,
I prayed as fervently for his safety. The old love came back upon me,
and I could have rent the heavens if my weak hands had reached them, to
undo that fearful prayer. But she heard me not--she, the Lady of Pity!
She had heard me once too well. And fifteen days later, I knew that I
was a widow--that he had died that night, with none to pillow his head
or wipe the death-dews from his brow--died unassoiled, unatoned with
either God or me! And I had done it. Child, my heart was closed up
that day as with a wall of stone. It will never open again. It is not
my love that is dead--it is my heart."
"But, Hawise, hadst no masses sung for his soul?" asked Maude in loving
pity.
"Too late," she said, dropping her face upon her hands. "Too late!"
"Too late for what?" softly inquired a third voice--so gently and
compassionately that no annoyance could be felt.
Avice was silent, and Maude answered for her.
"For the winning of a soul from Purgatory that hath passed thither
without housel ne chrism."
"Too late for the mercy of God?" replied Hugh Calverley gently. "For
the housel and the chrism, they be mercies of man. But the mercies of
God are infinite and unchangeable unto all such as grip hold on Jesu
Christ."
"Unto them that die in mortal sin?" said Avice, not lifting her head.
"All sin is mortal," said Hugh in the same quiet manner; "but for His
people, He hath made an end of sin, and hath `distreiede [destroyed]
deeth, and lightnide [brought to light] lyf.'"
"That is, for the saints?" said Maude sadly.
"Mistress, an' it had not been for the sinners, you and I must needs
have fared ill. Who be saints saving they that were once sinners?"
"Soothly, Master Calverley, these be matters too high for me. I am no
saint, God wot."
"Doth God wot that, Mistress Maude? Then of a surety I am sorry for
you."
Maude was silent, though she thought it strange doctrine. But Avice
said in a low voice, recurring to her former subject,--"You believe,
Master Calverley, that God can raise the dead; but think you that He can
quicken again to life an heart that is dead, and cold, and hard as
yonder stone? Is there any again rising for such?"
"Madam, if no, there had been never none for neither you nor me. We be
all dead souls by nature."
"Ay, afore baptism, so wit I; but what of mortal sin done after
baptism?"
"I speak but as I am learned, Madam," said Hugh modestly. "I am younger
even than you, methinks, and far more witless. But I have heard them
say that have been deep skilled, as methinks, in the ministeries
[mysteries] of God, that wherein it is said that `He mai save withouten
ende,' it scarce signifieth only afore baptism."
"Ah!" said Maude, with a sigh, "to do away sin done after baptism is a
mighty hard and grievous matter. Good sooth, at my first communion,
this last summer, so abashed [nervous] was I, and in so painful bire
[confused haste], that I let drop the holy wafer upon the ground; and
for all I gat it again unbroke, and licked well with my tongue the stide
[spot] where it had fallen, Father Dominic [a fictitious person] said I
had done dreadful sin, and he caused me to crawl upon my knees all
around the church, and to say an hundred Ave Marys and ten Paternosters
at every altar. And in very deed I was right sorrowful for mine ill
mischance; nor could I help the same, for I saw not the matter rightly.
But Father Dominic said our Lord should be right sore offenced with me,
and mine only hope lay in moving the mercy of our dear worthy Lady to
plead with Him. If it be not wicked to say the same," added she
timidly, "I would God were not angered with us for such like small gear.
But I count our Lady heard me, sith Father Dominic was pleased to
absolve me at last."
"Will you give me leave to say a thing, Mistress Maude?"
"I pray you so do, Master Calverley."
"Then if the same hap should chance unto you again, I counsel you to
travail [trouble] yourself neither with Father Dominic nor our Lady, but
to go straight to our Lord Himself. Maybe He were pleased to absolve
you something sooner than Father Dominic. Look you, the priest died not
to atone God for your sins, neither our Lady did not. And if it be, as
men do say, that commonly the mother is more fond [foolishly indulgent]
unto the child than any other, by reason she hath known more travail and
pain [labour] with him, then surely in like manner He that hath borne
death for our sins shall be more readier to assoil them than he that no
did."
These were bold words to speak in the year of grace 1385. But the
Queen's squire, John Calverley, was one of those advanced Lollards of
whom there were very few, and his son had learned of him. Even Wycliffe
himself would scarcely have dared to venture so far as this, until the
latter years of his life. It takes long to convince men that no lesser
advocate is needed between them and the one Mediator with God. And
where they are taught that "Mary is the human side of Jesus," the result
generally is that they lose sight of the humanity of Jesus altogether.
It was not, therefore, unnatural that Maude's answer should have
been,--"But, Master Calverley! so saying you should have no need of our
Lady." She expected Hugh to reply by an indignant denial; and it
astounded her no little to hear him quietly accept the unheard-of
alternative.
"Do you as you list, Mistress Maude," he answered. "For me, I am
content with our Lord."
"Well-a-day! methought all pity [piety] lay in worship of our Lady!"
said Maude, in that peculiar constrained tone which implies that the
speaker feels himself the infinitely distant superior of his antagonist.
"Mistress," was Hugh's answer, "I never said that I was content without
our Lord. I lack an advocate, to the full as well as any; but Saint
Paul saith that `oo [one] God and a mediatour is of God and of men, a
man, Christ Jesu.' And methinks he should be a sorry mediator that
lacked an advocate himself."
Avice had lifted her head, and had fixed her eyes intently on Hugh. She
had said nothing more; she was learning.
"Likewise saith He," resumed Hugh, "that `no man cometh to the Fadir but
by me.' Again, `no man may come to me but if the Fadir that hath sente
me drawe him:' yet `all thing that the Fadir gyueth me schal come to
me.'"
Avice spoke at last.
"`All thing given' and none other? Then without we be given, we may not
come. And how shall a man wit so much?"
"Methinks, Madam," said Hugh, thoughtfully, "that if a man be willing to
come, and to give himself, he hath therein witness that he was given of
the Father."
"But to give himself wholly unto God," added Maude, "signifieth that he
shall take no more pleasure in this life?"
"Try it," responded Hugh, "and see if it signifieth not rather that a
man shall enter into joys he never knew aforetime. God's gifts to us
prevent our gifts to Him."
"Lady Avice! Dame Edusa hath asked twice where you be," said Polegna,
running into the hall. "The bell shall sound in an other minute, and
our Lady maketh no tarrying after dinner."
So the trio were parted. There was no opportunity after dinner for
anything beyond a farewell, and Maude, with her heart full of many
thoughts, went back to her sewing in the antechamber.
About an hour after Maude had resumed her work, Constance strolled into
the room in search of amusement. She looked at the crimson tunic and
black velvet skirt which were in making for her own wear at the coming
Easter festival; gazed out of the window for ten minutes; sat and
watched Maude work for about five; and at last, a bright idea striking
her, put it into action.
"Dona Juana! lacked you Maude a season?"
Half an hour previous, Juana had been urging on her workwomen with
reminders that very little time was left before the dresses must be
ready; but Maude had learned now that in the eyes of the Mistress,
Constance's will was law, and she therefore received with little
surprise the order to "sue the Senorita." Resigning her work into the
hands of Sybil, Maude followed her imperious little lady into the
chamber of Dame Agnes de La Marche, who was busy arranging fresh flax
for her spinning.
"Your fingers be busy, Dame Agnes," observed the little Princess. "Is
your tongue at leisure?"
"Both be alway at your service, Damosel," replied the courtly old lady.
"Then, I pray you, tell to me and Maude your fair story of the
Lyonesse."
"With a very good will."
"Then, prithee, set about it," said Constance, ensconcing herself in the
big chair. "Sit thou on that stool, Maude."
The old lady took her distaff, now ready, and sat down, smiling at the
impatience of the capricious child.
"Once upon a time," she began, "the ending of the realm of England was
not that stide [place] which men now call the Land's End in Cornwall.
Far beyond, even as far as the Isles of Scilly, stretched the fair green
plains: a kingdom lay betwixt the two, and men called it La Lyonesse.
And in the good olden days, when Arthur was king, the Lyonesse had her
prince, and on her plains and hills were fair rich cities, and through
her forests pricked good knights on the quest of the Holy Grail, [see
note 2] that none, save unsinning eyes, might ever see. For of all the
four-and-twenty Knights of the Round Table, none ever saw the Holy Grail
save one, and that was Sir Galahad, that was pure of heart and clean of
life. Howbeit, one night came a mighty tempest. The sea raged and
roared on the Cornish coast, and dashed its waters far up the rocks,
washing the very walls of the Castle of Tintagel. And they that saw
upon that night told after, that there came one wild flash of lightning
that lightened sky and earth; and men looked and saw by its light,
statelily standing, the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse;
and then came black darkness, and a roar, and a crash, and a rending, as
though all the rocks and the mountains should be torent [violently torn
asunder]; and then another wild flash lightened sky and earth, and men
looked, and the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse were
gone."
Maude was listening entranced, with parted lips; Constance carelessly,
as if she knew all about it beforehand, and were chiefly amusing herself
by watching the rapt face of her fellow-listener.
"Long years thereafter," resumed Dame Agnes, "ay, and even now, men said
and say, that at times ye may yet hear the sound and see the sight of
the drowned cities of the Lyonesse. Ever sithence that tempestuous
night, the deep green sea lies heavy on the bosom of the lost land; and
no man of unpure heart, nor of evil life, ne unbaptised, ne unshriven,
may see nor hear. But if one of Christian blood, a christened man, pure
of heart and clean in life, that is newly shriven, whether man or maid,
will sail forth at midnight over the green sea, and when he cometh to
the place where lieth the Lyonesse, will bend him down from the boat,
and look and listen, then shall come up around his ears soft weird music
from the church bells in the silver steeples of the doomed cities: yea,
and there have been so pure, and our Lady hath shown them such grace,
that they have seen the very self streets down at the bottom of the sea,
where the dead walk and speak as they did of old--the knights and the
ladies, as in the days gone by, when Arthur was King, a thousand years
ago, when he held his court in the palaces of the lost land. And the
Islands of Scilly, as men say, be the summits of the mountains, that
towered once hoary and barren over the green forests and the rich
cities." [This story is a veritable legend of the Middle Ages.]
The story was being told to an uncritical and unchronological audience,
or Dame Agnes might have received a gentle intimation that she was
antedating the reign of King Arthur by the short period of two hundred
years.
The silence which followed--for both the little girls were meditating on
the story, and Dame Agnes's flax was just then entangled in a
troublesome knot--was broken, suddenly and very thoroughly, by the
unexpected entrance, quiet though it were, of the Countess herself.
Dame Agnes gave no heed to her broken thread, but rose instantly,
distaff in hand, with a low reverence; Constance rubbed her sleepy eyes
and slowly descended from her great chair; while Maude, recalled to the
present, dropped her lowest courtesy and stood waiting.
There was a peculiar air about the Countess Isabel, which suggested to
bystanders the idea of a tired, worn-out woman. It was not discontent,
not irritability, not exactly even sadness; it was the tone of one who
had never fitted rightly into the place assigned to her, and who never
felt at home. Though it disappeared when she spoke, yet as soon as her
features were at rest it came again. It was little wonder that her face
wore such an expression, for she was the daughter of a murdered father
and a slandered mother, and the wife of a man who valued her very highly
as the Infanta of Castilla, but as Isabel his wife not at all. During
her early years, she had sought rest and comfort in the world. She
plunged wildly into every manner of dissipation and pleasure; like
Solomon, she withheld not her heart from any good; and like Solomon's,
her verdict at the close was "Vanity and vexation of spirit." And
then--just when she had arrived at the conclusion that there was nothing
upon earth worth living for--when she had "come to the end of
everything, and cared for nothing," she met with an old priest of
venerable aspect, a trusted servant of King Edward, whose first words
touched the deepest chord in her heart, while his second brought the
healing balm. His name was John de Wycliffe. Was it any wonder that
she accepted him as a very angel of God?
For he showed her where rest was, not within, but without; not from
beneath, nor from around, but from above. So the tired heart rested in
Jesus here, looking forward to its perfected rest in the presence of
Jesus hereafter.
For so far as the world was concerned, there was no rest any longer. It
was fearfully up-hill work for Isabel to aim at such a walk as should
please God. Her husband did not oppose her; he was as profoundly
indifferent to her new opinions and practices as he had been to her old
ones, as he was to herself. So far as her life was concerned, of the
two he considered that she had altered for the better. There had never
been but one heart which had loved Isabel, and that heart she pierced as
with a sword when she entered her new path on the narrow way.
To Constanca of Castilla, the sister who had shared with her their
"heritage of woe," this younger sister was inexpressibly dear. The two
sisters had married two brothers, and they saw a good deal of each other
until that time; but after Isabel cast in her lot with Wycliffe, very
little. The Gospel parted these loving sisters as with a sword; the
magnet was received by each at an opposite end. It attracted Isabel,
and repelled Constanca. The elder wanted nothing more than she had
always had; the gorgeous ceremonies and absolving priests of the old
Church satisfied her, and she demanded no further comfort. She was "a
woman devout above all others" in the eyes of the monkish chroniclers.
And that usually meant that in this world she never awoke to her soul's
uttermost need, and she was therefore content with the meagre supply she
found. So the difference between the sisters was that Constanca slept
peacefully while Isabel had awoke.
It was because Isabel had awoke, that she was unsatisfied with the round
of ritual observances which were all in all to her sister. She could
confess to man, and be absolved by man; but how could she wrestle
against the conviction that she rose from the confessional with a soul
none the cleaner, with a heart just as disinclined to go and sin no
more? The branches might be lopped; but what mattered that while the
root of bitterness remained? It is only when we hear God say, "Thy sins
are forgiven thee," that it is possible to go in peace. And Isabel
never heard it until she came to Him. Then, when she came empty-handed,
He filled her hands with gifts; He breathed into the harassed soul rest
and hope.
This was what God gave her. But men gave her something very different.
They had nothing better for this woman that had been a sinner, than the
old comment of Simon the Pharisee. They were not ready to cast the
remembrance of her iniquities into the depths of the sea--far from it.
What they gave her was a scorned and slandered name, a character
sketched in words that dwelt gloatingly on her early devotion to the
world, the flesh, and the Devil, and left unwritten the story of her
subsequent devotion to God. The later portion of her life is passed
over in silence. We see something of its probable character in the
supreme contempt of the monkish chroniclers; in the heretical epithet of
"pestilent" applied to her; in the Lollard terms of her last will; in
her choice of eminent Lollards as executors; in her bosom friendship
with the Lollard Queen.
But at another Table from that of Simon the Pharisee, "many that are
first shall be last, and the last first."
We have kept Maude standing for a long while, before her mistress,
seated in the great chair in Dame Agnes de La Marche's chamber.
"And how lovest thy new fashion of life, my maid?" demanded the
Countess, when she had taken her seat.
"Right well, an' it like your Grace."
"Thou art here welsomer [more comfortable] than in the kitchen?"
"Surely so, Madam."
"Dame Joan speaketh well of thy cunning." [Skill.]
Maude smiled and courtesied. She was gradually learning Court manners.
"And hast thou yet thy book-leaf, the which I read unto thee?"
"Oh ay, Madam!"
"`Thy book-leaf!'" interjected Constance. "What book hast thou?"
"A part of God's Word, my daughter," replied her mother gravely;
"touching His great City, the holy Jerusalem, which shall come down from
God out of Heaven, and is lightened with His glory."
"When will it come?" said Constance, with unwonted gravity.
"God wot. To all seeming, not ere thou and I be either within the same,
or without His gates for ever."
The Countess turned back to Maude.
"My maid, thou wouldst fain know at that time whether I had any dwelling
in that city. Wist thou that an' thou wilt, there thou mayest dwell?"
"I, Madam! In very sooth, should it like your Grace to take me?" And
Maude's eyes sparkled with delight.
"I cannot take thee, my child!" was the reply, spoken in a tone so grave
that it was almost sad. "If thou wouldst go, it is Another must bear
thee thither."
"The Lady Custance?" inquired Maude, glancing at her.
"The Lord Jesus Christ."
Agnes mechanically crossed herself. Maude's memory ran far back.
"Sister Christian, that was a nun at Pleshy," she observed, dreamily,
"was wont to say, long time agone, unto Mother and me, that holy Mary's
Son did love us and die for us; but I never wist nought beyond that.
Would your Grace, of your goodness, tell me wherefore it were?"
"Wherefore He died? It was in the stead of thee, my maid, if thou wilt
have it so: He died that thou mightest never die withouten end.--Or
wherefore He loved, wouldst know? Truly, I can but bid thee ask that of
Himself, for none wist that mystery save His own great heart. There was
nought in us that He should love us; but there was every cause in
Himself wherefore He should love."
Maude was silent; but the thought which she was revolving in her mind
was whether any great saint had ever asked such a question of Him who to
her was only "holy Mary's Son." Of course it would have to be asked
through Mary. No one, not even the greatest saint, considered Maude,
had ever spoken direct to Him, except in a vision. The next remark of
the Countess rather startled her.
"My maid, dost ever pray?"
"An' it like your Grace, I do say every even the Hail Mary, and every
morrow the Credo; and of Sundays and holy days likewise the
Paternoster."
"And didst never feel no want ne lack, for the which thou findest not
words in the Hail Mary ne in the Credo, if it be not an holy day?"
Ay, many a want, as Maude well knew, but what had Credo or Angelus to do
with wants? Prayer, in her eyes, meant either long repetitions imposed
as penances by the priest, or else the daily use of a charm, the
omission of which might entail evil consequences. Of prayer as a real
means of procuring something about which she cared, she had no more
notion than Dame Agnes's squirrel, at that moment running round his
cage, had of the distance and extent of Sherwood Forest. Maude looked
up in the face of her mistress with an expression of deep perplexity.
"Child," said the Countess, "when Dame Joan would send word touching
some matter unto Dame Agnes here, falleth she a-saying unto herself of
Dan Chaucer's brave Romaunt of The Flower and the Leaf?"
"Surely, no, Madam."
"Then what doth she?"
"She cometh unto her," said Maude, immediately adding, in a
matter-of-fact way, "without she should send Mistress Sybil or some
other."
"Good. Then arede [inform] me wherefore thou shouldst fall a-saying the
Credo when thou wouldst send word of thy need unto God, any more than
Dame Joan should fall a-saying the Romaunt?"
"But God heareth us, and conceiveth us, Madam," said Maude timidly, "and
Dame Agnes no doth."
"Truth, my maid. Therein faileth my parable. But setting this aside,
tell me,--how shall the Credo give to wit thy need?"