Marguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and
towers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are and
the robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been round
and round the walls, and I can see no gate."
"Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden
of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked
Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so
much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side.
There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His."
"What can stop the way?" I said.
"Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the
hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion--but above all,
unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart,
Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for
thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very
painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee."
"Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a
few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my
heart of them?"
I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then
I should respond that I could not do it. But she said--
"Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart
is Helene de Lusignan."
"What, myself?"
"Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.
I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one
bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for
Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of
religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she
never does so before her sister.
Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't
love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly
despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She is
quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected
that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but
I don't like her to say things of that kind.
"Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love
myself?"
"My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old
woman.
"No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it?
But dost thou think I love myself,--better than I love other people?"
"We all love either ourselves or the good God."
"But we can love both."
Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!--no. That would be serving two
masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."
I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I
kissed the crucifix, and I said,--"Sir God, show me whether I love
myself." Because,--though I do not like it,--yet, perhaps, if I do, it
is best to know it.
We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it,
so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have come
are Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the little
girls, Agnes and Heloise. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only to
wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one
day's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelled
violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to
accompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he
will go to Acre, and she to Hebron.
The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her
low voice said--
"Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."
So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of
any sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a benitier[#] of red
pottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me to
sit on her bed, and then she said--
[#] Holy water vessel.
"Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the
Count touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again."
"Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will you
tell me why?"
"We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtful
whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden,
the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far
it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask
Him to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as I
might: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should.
It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest."
"I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"----
"Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hard
matter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. But
where he is thy father----Dost thou understand me, maiden?"
Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if the
gulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridge
across?
We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should have
called it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, and
quarrels, and so it is rather a relief--for a little while. Lady Sybil,
I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. I
believe Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaury
does not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness.
"All right"--"never mind it"--"it does not signify"--are the style of
her stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all the
same a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her.
"Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that pet
phrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of our
Lord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then."
"Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer.
"Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we were
always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify any
thing. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions--as if all
the world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was any
thing."
Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet.
"I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I do
not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not.
I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small.
But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can make
troubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,--a disappointment
about the colour of a tunic,--a misunderstanding about the pattern of a
trimming,--a cut in one's finger,--and such as these,--is it not very
foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly
than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did
not last a quarter?"
"My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou not
teach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over
mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do."
Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it.
"For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to sing
like a nightingale."
I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.
Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coral
necklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care to
wear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovely
ring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf to
wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listen
to him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang it
by. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, and
then gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holy
Evangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.
Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!--and yet I
am the youngest of us.
I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron
de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad
news. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-entered
the Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he do
this, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord King
cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to
Acre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with the
King, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear;
or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signet
as a token to Count Raymond--which ring the Count knows well. Guy has
ordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the Holy
City, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives.
"Now, Elaine!--how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.
May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!
But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe without
the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch
(I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned as
far as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city,
and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They
have been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown of
Jerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distracted
state of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that King
Henry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon my
word! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!
It seems to me, too--but every body, even Guy, says that is only one of
my queer, unaccountable notions--that, since King Foulques of Anjou had
no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so long
as her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirs
by another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, of
course, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King,
all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort,
his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and
fair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurd
fancies.
"Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," says
Amaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"
Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, the
queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next.
But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous.
"Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of family
arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world!
Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard."
"Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisest
man."
Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.
*CHAPTER XI.*
_*THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM*_*.*
"It was but unity of place
Which made me dream I ranked with him."
--TENNYSON.
Here we are, safe in the Holy City, after a hurried and most
uncomfortable journey. All the quiet is assuredly gone now. For the
Holy City is full of tumult--cries, and marchings, and musters, and
clashing of arms--from morning till night. Lady Judith, looking as calm
as ever, received us with a blessing, and a soft, glad light in her
eyes, which told that she was pleased to have us back. The Patriarch
and the Master of the Temple have not yet arrived. Guy thinks they may
tarry at Acre with Count Raymond, and come on in his train.
The Lord de Clifford has come from England, by way of Jaffa, with the
answer of King Henry the father. It seems that the Patriarch actually
took with him the keys of the Holy City and the blessed Sepulchre. I am
astonished that Count Raymond should have entrusted them to him. More
than this, they travelled by way of Rome, and through their wicked
misrepresentations obtained letters from the Holy Father, urging King
Henry to take on himself this charge. King Henry was holding Court at
Reading when they came to him, and the Patriarch says he was moved to
tears at their account of the miserable state of the Holy Land. (Well,
I am not going to deny the misery; but I do say it is Count Raymond's
fault, and that if matters had been left in Guy's hands, they would
never have come to this pass.) King Henry, however, would not give his
answer at once; but bade them wait till he had convoked his great
council, which sat at Clerkenwell on the eighteenth of March in last
year. The decision of the Parliament was that in the interests of
England the offer ought to be refused.
"Well!" said Guy, "as a mere question of political wisdom, that is
doubtless right; for, apart from the pleasure of God, it would be the
ruin of England to have the Holy Land clinging round her neck like a
mill-stone. Yet remember, Lord Robert the Courthose never prospered
after he had refused this crown of the world. He impiously blew out the
taper which had been lighted by miracle; and think what his end was!"
"But dost thou think, my Lord," asked Lady Sybil, looking up, "that he
meant it impiously? I have always thought his words so beautiful--that
he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in the place where our Lord
had worn for us the crown of thorns."
"Very beautiful, Lady," said Guy a little drily, "if he had not heard
just before the conference of the death of his brother, King William the
Red."
Well!--when King Henry gave his answer, what did the Patriarch, but ask
that one of his sons might be substituted,--and Guy thinks he specially
indicated the Count of Poitou.[#] Guy says there are great
possibilities in our young Count; but Amaury sneers at the idea.
However, the King and the Parliament alike declined to accept in the
name of any of the Princes, seeing none of themselves were present: and
the Patriarch had to content himself with a promise of aid alone. King
Henry took him in his train to Normandy, and after celebrating the holy
Easter at Rouen, they had an interview with the French King at
Vaudreuil. Both the Kings promised help, swearing on the souls of each
other;[#] and many nobles, both French and English, took the holy cross.
It is hoped that the King of France and the Count of Poitou may lead an
army hither in a few months.
[#] Richard Coeur-de-Lion, whose reputation was yet to be made.
[#] The usual oath of monarchs in solemn form.
"If we can manage to conclude a truce meanwhile, and they do not come
here to find us all slaughtered or prisoners to the Paynim," says Guy.
"Great bodies move slowly; and kings and armies are of that
description."
Saladin has taken Neapolis! Our scouts bring us word that he is
ravaging and burning all the land as he marches, and he has turned
towards the Holy City. Almost any morning, we may be awoke from sleep
with his dreadful magic engine sounding in our ears. Holy Mary and all
the saints, pray to the good God for His poor servants!
And not a word comes from the Regent. Four several messengers Guy has
sent, by as many different routes, in the hope that at least one of them
may reach Acre, earnestly urging him to send instructions. We do not
even know the condition of matters at Acre. The King and the Regent may
themselves be prisoners. Oh, what is to be done?
Guy says that whatever may become of him, the kingdom must not be lost:
and if ten days more pass without news of the Regent, he will parley
with Saladin, and if possible conclude a truce on his own
responsibility. I feel so afraid for Guy! I believe if Count Raymond
could find a handle, he would destroy him without mercy. Guy himself
seems to perceive that the responsibility he is ready to assume involves
serious peril.
"Nevertheless, my Lady's inheritance must not be lost," he says.
I asked Lady Judith this morning if she were not dreadfully frightened
of Saladin. They say he eats Christian children, and sometimes maidens,
when the children run short.
"If I felt no alarm, I should scarcely be a woman, Helena," said she.
"But I took my fear to the Lord, as King David did. 'What time I am
afraid,' he says, 'I will trust in Thee.' And I had my answer last
night."
"Oh!" said I. "What was it, if it please you, holy Mother?"
She lifted her head with a light in the grey eyes.
"'I am, I am thy Comforter. Know whom thou art, afraid of a dying man,
and of a son of men who wither like grass: and thou forgettest God thy
Maker, the Maker of the heaven and Foundation-Layer of the earth, and
fearest ever, every day, the face of the fury of thine oppressor....
And now, where is the fury of thine oppressor?'"
"Did the good God speak to you in vision, holy Mother?"
"No, Helena. He spake to me as He does to thee--in His Word."
I thought it would have been a great deal more satisfactory if she had
been told in vision.
"But how do you know, holy Mother," I ventured to say, "that words
written in holy Scripture, ever so long ago, have something to do with
you now?"
"God's Word is living, my child," she said; "it is not, like all other
books, a dead book. His Word who is alive for evermore, endureth for
ever. Moreover, there is a special promise that the Holy Spirit shall
bring God's words to the remembrance of His servants, as they need. And
when they come from Him, they come living and with power."
"Then you think, holy Mother, that the Paynim will be driven back?"
"I do not say that, my child. But I think that the God who turned back
Sennacherib is alive yet: and the Angel who smote the camp of the
Assyrians can do it again if his Lord command him. And if not--no real
mischief, Helena,--no real harm--can happen to him or her who abideth
under the shadow of God."
"But we might be killed, holy Mother!"
"We might," she said, so quietly that I looked at her in amazement.
"Holy Mother!" I exclaimed.
"Thou dost not understand our Lord's words, Helena!--'And they shall
kill some of you, ... and a hair from the head of you shall not be
lost.'"
"Indeed I do not," said I bluntly.
"And I cannot make thee do so," she added gently. "God must do it."
But why does He not do it? Have I not asked Him, over and over again,
to make me understand? I suppose something is in the way, and something
which is my fault. But how am I to get rid of it when I do not even
know what it is?
The ten days are over, and no word comes from the Regent. Guy has
assumed, as Vice-Regent, the command of the Holy City. Of course he is
the person to do it, as Lady Sybil's husband. Our scouts report that
Saladin is marching through the pass of Gerizim. Guy has sent out a
trumpeter with a suitable armed escort, to sound a parley, and invite
the Paynim to meet with him and arrange for a truce at Lebonah. Until
the trumpeter returns, we do not know whether this effort will succeed.
Lady Sybil, I can see, is excessively anxious, and very uneasy lest, if
Guy go to parley with Saladin, the wicked Paynim should use some
treachery towards him.
"It is God's will!" she said; but I saw tears in her sweet eyes. "The
battle, and the toil, and the triumph for the men: the waiting, and
weeping, and praying for the women. Perhaps, in their way, the humble
bedeswomen do God's will as much as the warrior knights."
The trumpeter returned last night, with a message from Saladin almost
worthy of a Christian knight. It seems very strange that Paynims should
be capable of courtesy.[#]
[#] A most expressive word in the Middle Ages, not restricted, as now,
civility, but including honourable sentiments and generous conduct.
Saladin is willing to conclude a truce, and will meet Guy at Lebonah to
do so; but it is to be for six months only, and Guy says the terms are
somewhat hard. However, it is the best thing he can do: and as the
Regent maintains his obstinate silence, something must be done. So far
as our envoys could learn, the Paynim army has not been near Acre, and
only crossed the Jordan some thirty miles lower down. It appears clear,
therefore, that the Regent might have answered if he would.
Guy and Amaury set out yesterday morning for Lebonah to meet Saladin.
It is two or three days' journey from the Holy City, and allowing three
days more for conference, it must be ten days at least ere they can
return.
I wander about the house, and can settle to nothing. Lady Sybil sits at
work, but I believe she weeps more than she works. Eschine's embroidery
grows quietly. I have discovered that she carries her heart out of
sight.
We were talking this morning--I hardly know how the subject came
up--about selfishness. Lady Isabel said, with a toss of her head, that
she was sure no reasonable being could call her selfish. (Now I could
not agree with her, for I have always thought her very much so.) Lady
Judith quietly asked her in what she thought selfishness consisted.
"In being stingy and miserly, of course," said she.
"Well, but stingy of what?" responded Lady Judith. "I think people make
a great mistake when they restrict selfishness merely to being miserly
with money. I should say that the man is unselfish who will give
willingly that which he counts precious. But that means very different
things to different people."
"I wonder what it means to us five," said I.
Lady Judith looked round with a smile. "I almost think I could tell
you," said she.
"Oh, do!" we all said but Lady Isabel.
"Well, to me," answered Lady Judith, "it means, submitting,--because
some one wishes it who has a right to my submission, or else as a matter
of Christian love--to do any thing in a way which I think inferior,
absurd, or not calculated to effect the end proposed. In other words,
my ruling sin is self-satisfaction."
We all exclaimed against this conclusion: but she maintained that it was
so.
"Then," she continued, "to Sybil, it means depriving herself of her
lord's society, either for his advantage or for that of some one else."
Lady Sybil smiled and blushed. "Then my ruling sin----?" she said
interrogatively.
"Nay, I did not undertake to draw that inference in any case but my
own," said Lady Judith with an answering smile.
We all--except Lady Isabel--begged that she would do it for us. She
seemed, I thought, to assent rather reluctantly.
"You will not like it," said she. "And if you drew the inference for
yourselves, you would be more likely to attend to the lesson conveyed."
"Oh, but we might do it wrong," I said.
Lady Judith laughed. "Am I, then, so infallible that I cannot do it
wrong?" said she. "Well, Sybil, my dear, if thou wouldst know, I think
thy tendency--I do not say thy passion, but thy tendency--is to
idolatry."
"Oh!" cried Lady Sybil, looking quite distressed.
"But now, misunderstand me not," pursued Lady Judith. "Love is not
necessarily idolatry. When we love the creature _more_ than the
Creator--when, for instance, thou shalt care more to please thy lord
than to please the Lord--then only is it idolatry. Therefore, I use the
word tendency; I trust it is not more with thee.--Well, then, with
Isabel"----
Lady Isabel gave a toss of her head,--a gesture to which she is very
much addicted.
"With Isabel," continued Lady Judith, "unselfishness would take the form
of resigning her own ease or pleasure to suit the convenience of
another, Her temptation, therefore, is to indolence and self-pleasing.
With Helena"----
I pricked up my ears. What was I going to hear?
"With Helena," said she, smiling on me, "it would be, I think, to fulfil
some duty, though those whom she loved might misunderstand her and think
her silly for it."
"Then what is my besetting sin, holy Mother?"
"Pride of intellect, I think," she answered; "very nearly the same as my
own."
"Holy Mother, you have left out Dame Eschine!" said Lady Isabel rather
sharply.
"Have I?" said Lady Judith. "Well, my children, you must ask the Lord
wherein Eschine's selfishness lies, for I cannot tell. I dare not deny
its existence; I believe all sinners have it in some form. Only, in
this case, _I_ cannot detect it."
Eschine looked up with an expression of utter amazement.
"Holy Mother!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me, as you went on, that I
had every one of those you mentioned."
Lady Judith's smile was very expressive.
"Dear child," she said, "these are not my words,--'Blessed are the poor
in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"
Does she think Eschine the best of us all? Is she? Dear me! I never
should have thought it.
"Well!" said Lady Isabel, with a sort of snort, and another toss, "I am
quite sure that I have not one of those faults you mentioned."
"Ah, my child!" responded Lady Judith. "Take heed of the Pharisee
spirit--Eschine, what wouldst thou say was thy besetting sin?"