monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the
rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights
of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused
with that one ape in particular."
Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.
Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a
woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is
nobody.
I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it
as a personal insult--as though every spark of intellect added to our
brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is, _of
course_, to please the men,--not to make the most of herself as an
individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.
They will see what they will see. _I_ can live without them. And I
mean to do.
*CHAPTER VI.*
_*THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE*_*.*
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?
Now do let me grumble and groan:
It is all very well other folks should have fun;
But why can't they let me alone?"
Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out
dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this
land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,--of which one
variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system
and purify the blood,--and garlic, which they consider an antidote to
poison,--and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,--and
hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two
curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one
is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums
or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on
trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the
eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of
ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and
showed them to Marguerite.
[#] Senna.
[#] Colocynth.
[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.
"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and
found out what sort of thing it was.
"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this
country, and only in one particular spot."
"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit,
my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running
after it all their lives."
Then I saw what she meant.
They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not
unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and
pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden
apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise
the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy
Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious
figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts,
and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children
clever. They make no hay in this country.
[#] Oranges.
As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave
byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes
from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the
fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in
Europe,--especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I
have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other
blue.
[#] Cotton.
Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in
Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night,
they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once.
It seems to me rather a good idea.
Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of
course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black
art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his
approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars
louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that
is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the
machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic
could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.
[#] All mediaeval Christians thought this.
[#] The first drum on record.
We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three,
on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to
Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!--how I pity her! I would not marry
Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on
Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.
I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,--Oh, so much!
She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.
"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.
"Very much indeed," said I,--"if you love him, Lady."
"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O
Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded
to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never
chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful
wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as
concerned him. Never, till _he_ came hither."
Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But--shall I own to having been the
least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?
I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises
women--I have noticed that brainless men always do--and I should not
have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy.
Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather
disappointed me.
Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too
high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady
Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.
I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day.
We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of
which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep
red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel
will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose
damask.
I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I
had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no
colour in particular; she is not beautiful--nor ugly: she is not
agreeable--nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely
indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.
Well!--we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I
the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green
leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady
Judith and I were left alone.
"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."
"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."
"Then, holy Mother,--do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you
fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which
you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from
him?"
Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.
"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"
"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy?
_Loyaute d'amour_ forbid! "But I mean in general."
"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy
question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."
"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I.
"Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"
"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up
the man too high."
"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.
"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which
he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can
understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire
it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very
complicated thing."
"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"
"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a
double one.--Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift
are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."
"But where the temperaments are alike--?" said I; for I always think Guy
and I were cast in the same mould.
"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two
brothers, there is always a difference."
"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"
"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one
mould,--yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."
"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"
"Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.
"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of
that sort."
"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."
"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."
Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her
grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.
"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"
"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."
"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the
words of the Master--thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and
learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest
unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him?
He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."
Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.
"I don't know how!" I said.
"No, dear heart; He knows _how_," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou
art willing to learn of Him--if thou art willing, Helena."
"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But--I
could not leave Guy."
"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into
the cloister?"
"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in
the world,--can one?"
"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out.
Its root is in thine own heart, little one."
"But--your pardon, holy Mother!--you yourself have chosen the cloister."
"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact,
it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I
was five years old."
"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a
wife?"[#]
[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express
any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an
unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no
woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these
early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as
religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later
years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women
could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of
learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different
places at the date of the dissolution.
"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,--yes, I think so."
"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I,
laughing.
"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But
Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without
marriage."
"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun?
Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get
leave from my superiors to live with Guy."
"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy
never disappoint thee, my child?"
It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"--but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I
did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw
it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle
Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something
else.
I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.
"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered,
turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to
think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I
am afraid she will be disappointed."
"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to
do?"
"Does one always know what is right? As to why,--there are the world,
the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace
of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."
The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,--that is other people;
and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes.
But the flesh,--why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right.
Marguerite must be mistaken.
Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never
properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can
see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts
into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite.
Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of
sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with
nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the
blood must remain the same.
I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been
puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were
something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I
should never think of calling her sweet--at least, not sweet like her
sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to
think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because
it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only
what _she_ wants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of
every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one
never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of
that sort. But I do not like them.
As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do
not wonder at Guy.
Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too
busy to attend to any thing.
"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"
"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"
I nodded.
"I think it is help," she answered.
"But what sort of help?"
"The sort we need at the minute."
"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive
the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"
"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the
reason why she does not get it."
"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and
not receive grace?"
"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"
"Margot! Is not that heresy?"
"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."
"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread,
the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]
[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare
transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years
later.
"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully.
"But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set
on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."
I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep
feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort,
whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that
man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help
fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into
England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of
doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a
very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I
suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could
not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in
their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter
word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment
that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up
and down the snowy streets in company, singing--only fancy, singing!
And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped
snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could
give; and then they went on, singing,--always singing. I asked
Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,--it was she who told me,--what they
sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity
Song of the angels,--"Glory to God in the highest,--on earth peace
towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the
snow but one,--one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on
alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,--I think it was Lincoln,
but I am not sure,--and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught
his thin, quavering voice, still singing,--"Glory to God in the
highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not
singing,--dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have
worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as
if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his
song.[#]
[#] Vulgate version.
[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing
Christians, by professing Christians.
Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies
the difference from truth and holiness?
I must ask Lady Judith.
Oh dear, why _will_ people?--I do think it is too bad. I never thought
of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,--But that Guy, of all
people in all this world--
Come, I had better tell my story straight.
I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the
Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I
might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt
myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had
caught me.
"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"
"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How
many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"
"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."
"What wouldst thou say to four?"
"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."
"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"
"Cry my eyes out, I think."
Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.
"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest
hither for that object."
"_I_ came hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.
"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone.
"Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure
thee."
"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it
of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.
For that was the bitterest drop--that Guy should be willing to part with
me.
"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou
shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not
like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it
would be an excellent match,--and of course I should be glad to see thee
comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."
Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever
understand women?
"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is
there about me that is unsettled?"
"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no
woman is considered settled till she marries."
"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world,"
said I.
"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in
what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."
"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"
"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"--I think Guy saw that had hurt
me--"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear
foolish child?"
I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary.
I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't,
generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you
scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.
"My dear little sister," said Guy again,--and very lovingly he said
it,--"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy
leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be
married."
Ah, that was it. He did not understand!
"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"
"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more
hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou
wilt."
"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.
It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the
bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I
might have guessed what was coming.
[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.
"No," said I; "none."
"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"
"I dare say it will piece again," said I.
Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"
And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.
Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.
I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry.
Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went
down to my embroidery.
Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind
smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant
to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.
I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any
warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?
'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,
Be at rest.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,
If He be my Guide?'
'In His feet and hands are wound-prints,
And His side.'
"'Is there diadem, as monarch,
That His brow adorns?'
'Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns.'
"If I find Him, if I follow,
What His guerdon here?'
'Many a sorrow, many a labour,
Many a tear.'
"'If I still hold closely to Him,
What hath He at last?'
'Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,
Jordan past.'
"'If I ask Him to receive me,
Will He say me nay?'
'Not till earth, and not till heaven,
Pass away.'"
"Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said Damoiselle
Melisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask when
the Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."
Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's gold
diapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had so
touched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judith
answered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ran
off again.
"Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy with
the diaper.
"Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could.
"Did it please thee now?"
"It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse.
"They had not far to come, had they, little one?"
I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And--it was very silly of me,
but--I burst into tears once more.
"It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wilt
feel better for it, my child."
"But I had--had it out--once," sobbed I.
"Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, little
one."
"It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do not
exactly know why I was crying."
"Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimes
it means that we dare not look and see why."
I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredient
in my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put into
words, even to myself.
It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was not
even that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield that
place to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready had
it been to any one else. But--there was the sting--he did not love me as
I loved him. He could do without me.