earth; He breaketh the bow, and snappeth the spear in sunder, and
burneth the chariot in the fire.' 'The Father of the age to come, the
Prince of Peace!' It is one of His fairest titles. But not till He
comes, Helena. Till then, earth will be red with the blood of her sons,
and moistened with the tears of her daughters. Let us pray for His
coming."
"But holy Mother, that is ages off!" said I.
"Is it?" she made answer. "Has the Lord told thee so much, Helena? Ah!
it may be--I know not, but I see nothing else to keep Him--it may be,
that if all the earth would come to Him to-day, He would come to us
to-morrow."
"Holy Mother, I do not know what you mean by 'coming' to Him!"
"Dear Helena," she said gently, "thou wilt not know, till thou art ready
to come."
"But I do not understand that," said I. "How am I to get ready?"
"'If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink.' 'If thou knewest
the gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He would have given
to thee water of life.' Art thou not athirst? and dost thou not know
the gift of God, dear maiden? Then ask Him to bestow on thee the
thirst, and the knowledge."
I really do not know whether it was right or wrong, but that night,
after I had finished my Credo, and Paters, and the holy Angelical
Salutation, I ventured to say, in my own words,--"Fair Father, Jesu
Christ, give me what Lady Judith and Marguerite talk about." I hope it
was not very wicked. I did so tremble! And I do not properly know what
this thing is, only that it seems to make them happy; and why should I
not be happy too? I suppose the good God will know all about it. And as
He appears to be so condescending as to listen to Marguerite, who is but
a villein, surely He will hear me, who am noble.
It is so odd that Amaury, who is such a simpleton himself, should be
perpetually calling me a simpleton. I do think, the more foolish people
are, the more fond they are of exhorting others not to be silly. It is
very funny. But this world is a queer place.
"It is, indeed, Lynette," says Guy, with mock gravity, when I make the
remark to him. "The queerest place I have been in these thirty years."
As Guy is scarcely twenty-seven, it may be supposed I cannot help
laughing.
But there is another queer thing. It does really seem as if
villeins--at least some villeins--had genuine feelings, just like us
nobles. I have always thought that it was because Marguerite had
associated so much with nobles, that she seemed a little different--just
as you might impart the rose-scent to a handkerchief, if you shut it in
a drawer with rose-leaves. But I know she did not become my mother's
nurse until after her husband was dead: so she must have had feelings
before that, while she was no better off than any other villein. It is
very incomprehensible. And I suppose, too, when one comes to think
about it, we are all children of Adam and Eva. How did the difference
come, to begin with?
It is very difficult to tell how things began. It is a great deal
easier to see how they end. Who would suppose, if men had never found
out, that the great river Danube, which rolls into the Black Sea, almost
like a sea itself in volume, came from the meltings of the ice and snow
upon the hills of Switzerland?
"Ha!" says Marguerite, when I repeat my thoughts to her, "the great God
is so rich that He can bring the large things out of the small. We
others, we can only bring the small out of the large."
"That sounds like spoiling things," said I.
"Men are very apt to spoil what they touch," she answered. "The good
Lord never touches anything that He does not leave more beautiful. Has
He not blessed childhood and manhood, by becoming Child and Man? Is not
the earth fairer since He dwelt on it? and the little children dearer,
since He took them in His arms and blessed them? Ah, He might have
cared for me, and felt with me, just as much, if He had never been a
Man: but it would not have been the same thing to me. And He knew it.
When we love one very much, Damoiselle, we love what he has touched: and
if he touch us, ourselves, it sends a delicious thrill through us. The
good Lord knew that when He took on Him our nature, with all its
sufferings and infirmities,--when He touched us every where--in sorrow,
and weariness, and poverty, and hunger, and pain, and death. We can
suffer nothing which He has not suffered first,--on which He has not
laid His hand, and blessed it for His chosen. Thanks be to His Name! It
is like honey sweetening everything. And the things that are bitter and
acid want the most sweetening. So the good Lord chose poverty and pain.
Ease and riches are sweet of themselves. I have heard Father Eudes read
of one or two feasts where He was: He blessed joy as well as
sorrow,--perhaps lest we should fancy that there was something holy in
pain and poverty in themselves, and something wicked in being
comfortable and happy. Some people do think so, after all. But I have
heard Father Eudes read a great deal more of funerals than feasts, where
the blessed Lord was. He seemed to go where people wanted comforting,
much oftener than where they were comfortable. He knew that many more
would sorrow than rejoice."
What strange eyes Marguerite has! She can look at nothing, but she sees
the good God. And the strangest thing is, that it seems to make her
happy. It always makes me miserable. To think of God, when I am bright
and joyous, is like dropping a black curtain over the brightness. Why
cannot I be like Marguerite? I ought to be a great deal happier than
she. There is something wrong, somewhere.
Then of course there must be something holy in poverty--voluntary
poverty, that is--or why do monks and nuns take the vow of poverty? I
suppose there is nothing holy in simply being poor, like a villein. And
if our Lord really were poor, when He was on earth, that must have been
voluntary poverty. I said as much to Margot.
"Damoiselle," said she, "every man who follows our Lord must carry his
cross. His own cross,--not somebody else's. And that means, I think,
the cross which the good God lays on His shoulders. The blessed Christ
Himself did not cut His own cross. But we others, we are very fond of
cutting our crosses for ourselves, instead of leaving the good God to
lay them on us. And we always cut them of the wrong wood. We like them
very light and pretty, with plenty of carving and gilding. But when the
good Lord makes the crosses, He puts no carving on them; and He often
hews out very rough and heavy ones. At least, He does so for the
strong. He makes them light, sometimes, for the weak; but there is no
gilding--only the pure gold of His own smile, and that is not in the
cross itself, but in the sunlight which He sends upon it. But my
Damoiselle will find, when men sort out the crosses, the strong walk
away with the light ones, and the rough and heavy fall to the weak. The
good Lord knows better than that."
"But we don't all carry crosses, Margot," said I; "only religious
persons."
Marguerite shook her head decidedly.
"Damoiselle, all that learn of the good Lord must bear the cross. He
said so. 'If any man serve Me, let him follow Me'--and again, 'If any
man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and
follow Me.' Father Eudes read them both. My Damoiselle sees--'_any_
man.' That must mean all men."
Well, I cannot understand it I only feel more puzzled than ever. I am
sure it would not make me happier to carry a heavy cross. Yet Lady
Judith and Marguerite are happy; I can see they are. Religion and good
people seem to be full of contradictions. How is one to understand
them?
*CHAPTER X.*
_*PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE*_*.*
"He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare,
And he that hath one enemy shall find him every where."
I have thought, and thought, about Lady Judith's question concerning
perfection, and, as I expected, I cannot see my way through it at all.
And what is more, I do not see how to reconcile it with what she said
herself of Sister Eudoxia. So this morning I took the liberty of asking
her what she meant.
Lady Judith smiled, and replied, "Wert thou puzzled, Helena?"
"Yes, holy Mother," said I, "very much."
"I am glad of it," she answered. "I wanted to puzzle thee, and make
thee think."
"I have been thinking a great deal," I said, "but I cannot think my way
out of the labyrinth."
"We must take counsel of Holy Writ to find our way out," answered Lady
Judith; and she laid her hand on her Greek Bible, which is a very
handsome book, bound in carved wood, and locked with a golden clasp.
She unlocked it with the little key which hangs from her girdle, and
said, "Now listen, Helena. In the days when our Lord dwelt on middle
earth, there were certain men amongst the Jews, called Pharisees, who
were deemed exceedingly holy persons. So exact were they in the
fulfilment of all duties, that they did not reckon their tithes paid,
unless they taxed the very pot-herbs in their gardens. Yet our Lord
said to His disciples,--'If your righteousness surpass not that of the
Pharisees, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven.'"
"Likely enough," said I. "Surely any christened man could easily be
better than heathen Jews."
"But He said more, Helena. 'Be ye then perfect, even as your Father, He
in the heavens, is perfect.'"
"Perfect as the good God is perfect!" I exclaimed.
"That is our standard," she responded. "We are not to rest short of
that."
"But we cannot! You yourself said it, holy Mother, when we were talking
of Sister Eudoxia."
"I did, my child. Let us take two more passages from Holy Writ, and see
if they cast any light upon it. 'The end of the law is Christ, unto
righteousness, to every believer.' 'And ye are in Him complete.'"
"I do not understand them, holy Mother."
"I have heard thee speak, Helena, of thy favourite legend of the two
good knights of Greece. What was it that Sir Pythias agreed to do for
Sir Damon?"
"To suffer death in his stead, if he did not return home at the
appointed time."
"Suppose that Sir Pythias had suffered death before Sir Damon's return,
and that when Sir Damon came back, the Lord King had put him to death
also: what wouldst thou call that?"
"Oh, that would never have been just!" said I.
"But why? Sir Damon had been sentenced to die."
"Yes, but when another had died for him--Oh, it would be cruelly
unfair!"
"In other words, Sir Damon would be reckoned to have died, so far as the
law was concerned, in the person of his friend?"
"Exactly," said I.
"And this friend, remember, had voluntarily given his life. Now, this
is the point to which I want to bring thee. The death of Sir Pythias
would have been reckoned to Sir Damon; and this last would have been
accounted to have paid the full penalty to which he was sentenced, and
to be thenceforward a free and blameless man."
"Of course," said I. "There could have been no other result."
"Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. His
death is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free and
blameless--perfect as He is perfect, 'complete in Him.' Not in
themselves, mind: never! In themselves they are sinners to the last
hour of life. But in Him, on account of His atoning death and holy
obedience, God's holy law reckons them perfect as Himself. So that, in
one sense, they are perfect for ever: in another sense, they are utterly
imperfect so long as they live. 'For by one offering He hath perfected
in perpetuity the hallowed ones.'"
"But, holy Mother," I asked, "what do you mean by 'in Him'?"
"My child," she answered, "I doubt if any but God knows all that is
meant by that deep word. And what man knows cannot be told to
another,--it can only be felt. But it means light, and life, and joy,
Helena: the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joy
with which no stranger intermeddleth. Only taste it, and see. No
draught of sin can be truly sweet to thee again, after one drop of that
wine of Heaven."
I am quite delighted to find that Messire Tristan de Montluc, who has
exasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-hearted
lover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain a
desperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel a
perfect wretch whenever I looked at him: and yet what could I have said
to Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he is
going after his brother to Byzantium, and intensely delighted to find
that he is privately engaged to Melisende de Courtenay. I believe she
will make him a good wife (which I never could have done): and it is
such a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me.
It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumours
of Saladin's drawing nearer. May the good God avert it! I believe
Amaury would tell me that I was a simpleton, if he heard me say so.
The holy Patriarch Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, Master of the Temple,
have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intend
to visit Compostella and Canterbury, amongst others.
Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately--that is, we have
not seen quite so much of him.
A letter from Alix came to hand last week; but there is nothing of
interest in it, except that every one is well. She says her child
begins to walk, and can already prattle fluently: which called forth a
growl from Amaury, who wants to know why every body's children thrive
but his. It is not true, for little Heloise is really an engaging
child, and has excellent health.
"Ah!--but then," says Guy, aside to me, with arched eyebrows, "she is
only a girl, poor little good-for-nothing!"
I know Guy does not think so, for he is devoted to his little Agnes; and
Heloise is certainly the prettier child. But neither of them is equal
to the little King, who is a most beautiful boy, and has the quaintest
sayings ever heard from a child.
There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?
Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to
Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but--
"Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a
man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have
borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my
affections to one who can be truer!"
Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have
thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a
man's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one
person to another!
Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations.
"What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.
"Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little
Elaine, thou art so funny!"
"Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me,
Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own
minds?"
"Well, they don't," said Guy.
"Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.
"Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of
women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."
"Only among women?" said I.
"Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De
Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a
pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider
him a gem of priceless value."
Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.
But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since
other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I
am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have
misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal
better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet
endurance of hers--partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I
suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it--can
it be--possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?
I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I
look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid,
as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and
perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more
like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a
foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?
And--I cannot tell why--it has lately assumed a more definite and
dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady
Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that--I
do believe, through his machinations--she has been set aside for her own
son. If his wife were to die--the holy saints defend it!--I believe him
capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself
King of Jerusalem.
Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know
how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the
Count's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering
deference, which I do not like to see,--something quite different from
his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it,
and I fancy Guy sees nothing.
Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether.
And I cannot see how it is to be set right.
I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.
She answered, "Yes, when they come from God."
"Ah!--but how is one to know?"
"Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."
I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?
The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so
very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the
city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are
going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to the
coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being
glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between
Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but--I do not know. I have
offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the
thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only
grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that
is, that the presentiment did not go.
"What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she.
"Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of
some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"
Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me.
"I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine--Who is it,
my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me."
"It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a
tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe
in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his
manner to Lady Sybil."
Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me.
"I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child
when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast
seen that? I thought I was the only one."
It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my
suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.
"What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?--or
Lady Sybil?"
Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!"
"Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!--at
least, not yet."
"But till when?" I asked.
"I should say, till you all return here--unless something happen in the
interim. But if thou dost speak, little one--do not be surprised if
nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely
indulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They are
likely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust."
"It would be too bad!" said I.
"It would be very probable," she responded.
"Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"
I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had
occurred to her as to me.
"I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, by
marriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel."
"But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" cried
I.
"No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some
internal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; it
is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two
years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is
safe."
"But if she were to die--?"
"Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may
happen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put what
we love into His hands, and leave it there."
"But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully.
"He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him."
"It is not enough for me," said I sadly.
"Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the
good God as of the Lord Regent?"
"Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because I
think the Lord Regent a wicked man."
"No, but to the same extent?"
"I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice.
"Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him,
Helena?"
"O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I am
afraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it.
I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how to
begin."
"Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?"
"I have done: but He has not done it."
Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me.
"Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thou
wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more
than thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the dark
basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn
if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to let
thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary
of knocking, and go away."
"But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?"
"I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art
taught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and
learn."
"Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing.
"Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are
more slow to learn."
"I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.
Lady Judith smiled.
"Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the
hardness of their tasks," said she.
We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly--
"Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?"
"I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ our
Lord is God."
"Good; but what is He _to thee_?"
I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than to
every body else.
"Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Count
of Ascalon to thee?"
"Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother--the
dearest being to me in all the world."
"Then that is something different from what he is to others?"
"Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be to
strangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, you
yourself know that. He is not that to you."
"Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which he
is to thee, and not to me,--that dearest in all the world, ay, in all
the universe,--my child, Christ is that to me."
I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: and
I could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling took
possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she had
something I had not; and it was something which made her happier than
any thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was on
the rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn and
verdant with pasture.
It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge across
the gulf.
"You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makes
the difference."
Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no
nun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady
Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not
the difference.
"No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."
I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever.
"Dost thou want to know it, Helena?"