miserable than I am. Last night, only, I caught myself
wishing--honestly wishing--that I could change with Marguerite, old and
poor as she is. It must be such a comfort to think of God as she does.
It seems to answer for every thing.
The sultry quiet here is something almost unendurable to me. There is
nothing in the world to see or hear but the water-carriers crying "The
gift of God!" and strings of camels passing through the gateway, and
women washing or grinding corn in the courts. And there is nothing to
do but wait and bear, and prepare, after a rather sluggish fashion, for
our return home when the coronation is over. Here, again, old
Marguerite is better off than I am, for she has constantly things which
she must do.
I do not think it likely that Amaury will come with us. Things never
take hold of him long. If he be furiously exasperated on Monday, he is
calmly disgusted on Tuesday, supremely content on Wednesday, and by
Thursday has forgotten that he was ever otherwise. And he seems
disposed to make his home here.
To me, it looks as though my life divided itself naturally into two
portions, and the four years I have passed here were the larger half of
it. I seem to have been a woman only since I came here.
Three months to wait!--and all the time we are waiting for a dreadful
ordeal, which we know must come. Why does Lady Sybil give us this
suffering? And far more, why, why does the good God give it to us?
If I could only understand, I could bear it better.
"Ha!" says Marguerite, with a rather pitying smile. "If my Damoiselle
could but know every thing, she would be content not to know more!"
Well! I suppose I am unreasonable. Yet it will be such a relief when
the worst is over. But how can I wish the worst to come?
*CHAPTER XIV.*
_*SYBIL'S CHOICE*_*.*
"'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took: and, holding it
High towards the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed,--'This, too, I owe to thee, Giafar!'"
LEIGH HUNT.
It came at last--neither sooner for my dreading it, nor later for my
wishing it--Holy Cross Day, the coronation morning.
Guy and I reached the Holy City the night before, and took up our
quarters with the holy Patriarch and his Lady Irene. We were just
opposite the Palace. We could see lights flashing through the
loop-holes, and now and then a shadow pass behind them. It was hard to
know that that house held all that we loved, and we were the only ones
that dared not enter it.
The Patriarch was most disagreeably loquacious. He told us every thing.
He might have been cooking the banquet and broidering the robes, for all
the minute details he seemed to know. The Queen, he told us, was to be
arrayed in golden baudekyn, and the Lady Isabel in rose and silver. Both
the Princesses would be present, attired in gold and blue. Poor little
Agnes and Helena! How little they would understand of their mother's
actions!
As little, perhaps, as any of us could understand of God's dealings in
this matter!
The officers of state were to surround the throne, which was to be
placed on the highest step of the choir; the nobles of the Council were
to stand, in order according to the date of their creation, round the
nave below.
Lady Irene was as silent as her lord was talkative. But at night, when
she brought me up to the chamber she had prepared for me, she told me
the one thing I did care to know. A place had been specially reserved
for me, in the nave, immediately behind Guy; and the Lady Irene's own
place was next to me.
"I am obliged to the Master of the Ceremonies," said I: for that was
just where I wished to be.
"Nay," quietly said Lady Irene, as she took up her lamp; "the Damoiselle
is obliged to the Lady Sybil."
Had Sybil thought of my fancy? What a strange compound she
was!--attending to one's insignificant likings, yet crushing one's very
heart to dust!
I did not sleep till very late, and I was aroused in the early morning
by a flourish of trumpets, announcing that the grand day had dawned. I
dressed myself, putting off my mourning for a suit of leaf-green
baudekyn, for I knew that Guy would not be pleased if I wore any thing
sombre, though it would have suited my feelings well enough. A golden
under-tunic and kerchief, with my best coronet, were the remainder of my
attire. I found Guy himself flashing in golden armour,[#] and wearing
his beautiful embroidered surcoat, which Sybil herself wrought for him,
with the arms of Lusignan.
[#] This phrase was used of steel armour ornamented with gold.
How could she bear to see that existing token of her own dead love? The
surcoat had worn better than the heart.
We took our appointed places--Lady Irene, Guy, and I,--and watched the
nobles arrive,--now an odd one, now half-a-dozen together. The
Patriarch of course left us, as he was to officiate.
He told us last night that eighty out of every hundred felt no doubt at
all that the Count of Tripoli would be the future King. (That Patriarch
is the queerest mortal. It never seemed to enter his head that such
information would not be highly entertaining to Guy and me.)
Now was the time to discern our enemies from our friends. Those who did
notice us risked Court favour. But Messire de Montluc came all the way
from the choir to salute us; and I felt a throb of gratitude to him in
my heart. The Count of Edessa was not able to see us, and Count
Raymond--O serpent, demon that he is!--looked straight at us, as if he
had never met us before.
It was an additional pang, that the order of precedence placed Count
Raymond the very next to Guy. I sincerely wished him at the other end
of the nave, though it would have placed him close to the throne.
And now the important persons began to arrive. Lady Judith, in the quiet
brown habit of her Order, stopped and scanned the groups all round, till
her eyes reached us, and then she gave us a full smile, so rich in love
and peace, that my heart throbbed with sympathy, and yet ached with
envy.
Then came a lovely vision of rich rose and gleaming silver, which did
_not_ look for us, and I felt that was Lady Isabel. And then two sweet
little fairy forms in blue and gold, and I saw Guy crush his under-lip
as his eyes fell upon his children.
Last came the Queen that was to be--a glorious ray of gold, four pages
bearing her train, and her long fair hair, no less golden than her
robes, streaming down them to her feet. She took her seat by Lady
Isabel, on the velvet settle near the throne.
Then the Patriarch came forward into the midst of the church, to a
faldstool set there: and announced in loud tones, that all the nobles of
the Council of Sybil, shortly to be crowned Queen of Jerusalem, should
come forward in rotation to the faldstool, and swear between his
hands[#] to bear true and faithful allegiance, as to his King, to that
one of them all whom it should please her to choose for her lord.
[#] Homage was always performed in this manner, the joined hands of the
inferior, or oath-taker, being held between the hands of the superior
lord, or person who administered the oath.
One by one, they came forward: but I saw only two. Count Raymond knelt
down with an air of triumphant command, as though he felt himself King
already: Guy with an aspect of the most perfect quietness, as if he were
thinking how he could spare Sybil.
When all the nobles were sworn, the Patriarch went back to the choir,
and Sybil, rising, came and stood just before the throne. The
coronation ceremony followed, but I was not sufficiently at ease to
enter into it. There were prayers in sonorous Greek, and incense, and
the holy mass, and I cannot properly tell what else. The last item was
the actual setting of the crown--the crown of all the world--on the head
of Sybil of Anjou.
And then came a gentle rush of intense expectation, as Sybil lifted the
crown royal from her head, and prepared to descend the steps of the
throne.
Her choice was to be made now.
Down the damask carpeting of the nave she came, very, very slowly:
carrying the crown in both hands, the holy Patriarch following and
swinging the holy censer behind her. Her eyes were cast down. It was
evident that she knew perfectly well where he stood who was to wear that
crown.
Slowly, slowly, all along the nave. Past one eligible noble after
another, face after face gathering blankness as she went. At last she
turned, ever so little, to the right.
I could bear no more. I covered my face with my mantle. Let who would
gaze on me--let who would sneer! She was coming--no doubt any longer
now--straight towards Count Raymond of Tripoli.
And never--with the faint flush in her cheeks, and the sweet, downcast
eyes--had I seen her look so beautiful. And all at once, athwart my
anger, my indignation, my sense of bitter wrong, came one fervent gush
of that old, deep love, which had been mine for Sybil: and I felt as
though I could have laid down my life that hour to save, not Guy, but
her, from the dreadful consequences of her own folly,--from that man who
had crushed Guy's heart as he might have crushed a moth.
Then came a dead hush, in which a butterfly's wing might almost have
been heard to beat. Then, a low murmur, half assent, half dissent.
Then, suddenly bursting forth, a cheer that went pealing to the roof,
and died away in reverberations along the triforium. The choice was
made.
And then--I had not dared to look up--I heard Sybil's voice. She was
close, close beside me.
"Sir Guy de Lusignan," she said, "I choose thee as my lord, and as Lord
of the land of Jerusalem; for--" and a slight quiver came into the
triumphant, ringing voice--"whom God hath joined together, let not man
put asunder!"
Then I looked up, and saw on my Guy's head the crown of the world, and
in Sybil's dear eyes the tender, passionate love-light which she had
locked out of them for months for love's own sake, and I knew her at
last for the queen of women that she is.
And then----I heard somebody speak my name, and felt Lady Irene's arms
close round me, and darkness came upon me, and I knew no more.
When I came to myself, I was lying in my own old chamber in the Palace,
and beside me were old Marguerite fanning me with a handkerchief, and
Lady Judith bending over me.
"Helena, darling,--all is well!" she said.
"Is all well?" I said, sadly, when I could speak. "It is well with Guy,
and therefore all else matters little. But I wonder if I shall ever be
forgiven?"
"By whom?" asked Lady Judith.
"God and Sybil," I answered in a low voice.
"Ask them both," she said softly. "Sybil is coming to thee, as soon as
ever the banquet is over. And there is no need to wait to ask God."
"Did you guess, holy Mother, how it would end?"
"No, Helena," she answered with a smile. "I knew."
"All along?"
"Yes, from the first."
I lay still and thought.
"Dost thou marvel why I did not tell thee, dear, and perhaps think it
cruel? Ask Sybil why she made me her sole confidante. I think thou
wilt be satisfied when thou hast heard her reason. But though I did not
guess Sybil's purpose,--" and she turned with a smile to
Marguerite,--"here, I fancy, is one who did."
"Ay, very soon," said Margot quietly: "but not quite at first, Lady."
"Thou wicked old Marguerite!" cried I. "And never to tell me!"
"Suppose I had been mistaken," she replied. "Would my Damoiselle have
thanked me for telling her then?"
I felt quite sufficiently restored to go down to the bower, though not
able to bear the banquet. So Lady Judith and I went down. She told me
all that had taken place after I fainted: how Messire de Montluc and
Lady Irene had taken care of me; that the Patriarch had immediately
bestowed the nuptial benediction upon Sybil and Guy, and had then
anointed the King--(the King!)--that the Knights Templars had escorted
the King and Queen to the banquet; and that after the banquet, homage
was to be done by all the nobles. Guy and Sybil, therefore, were likely
to be detained late.
Suddenly something climbed up on the settle, and I felt myself seized
round the neck, and tumultuously caressed.
"Tantine! Tantine!--Come--good! Baba and Tantine--_both_ come.
Good!--Oh, good!"
Of course I knew who that was, and alternated between returning the warm
kisses, and entreating Agnes not to murder me by suffocation.
Then came a much calmer kiss on my brow, and I looked up at Eschine.
And then strolled in Messire Amaury, with his hands in the pockets of
his haut-de chausses, talking to Messire de Montluc.
"But the strangest thing, you know"--that sagacious youth was
observing--"the strangest thing--O Elaine, is that thee!--the strangest
thing is that a mere simple, ignorant woman could have formed and
carried out such a project. Surely some man must have given her the
idea! I can hardly--Oh, _pure foy_!"
The last exclamation was due to a smart and sudden application of my
right hand to the left ear of my respected brother. Messire de Montluc
was convulsed with laughter.
"Well done, Damoiselle Elaine! You regard the honour of your sex."
"The next time thou speakest contemptuously of women," said I, "look
first whether any overhear thee."
"Trust me, I will make sure of my sister Elaine," said Amaury, still
rubbing his ear. "On my word, Lynette, thou art a spitfire!"
One after another kept coming, and all expressing pleasure in seeing me.
I could not help wondering whether all of them would have been quite so
pleased to see Elaine de Lusignan, if she had not been the King's
sister. Lady Judith and Eschine would, I believed. Nor do I think it
would have made the least difference to Agnes. Considerations of that
kind do not begin to affect us till we are over three years old.
But time wore on, and Sybil was not released from her regal duties; and
the strain which both body and mind had had to sustain told upon me, and
I began to feel very tired. Lady Judith noticed it.
"Dear Helena," she said, "do put that white face to bed. Sybil will
come to thee."
"I have no right to ask it of her," I said huskily.
"Dost thou think she will wait till thou hast?"
I was beginning to remonstrate that it would not be respectful, when
Lady Judith put her arm round me, and said laughingly--"Sir Amaury, help
me to carry this wilful child to bed."
"Fair Mother, I dare not for all the gold in Palestine," said my
slanderous brother. "My ear has not done stinging yet."
"Am I wilful?" said I. "Well, then I will do as I am told.--As to thee,
Amaury, thou hast just thy desert."
"Then I am a very ill-deserving man," responded he.
Lady Judith and Eschine both came with me to my chamber, and the latter
helped me to undress. I had but just doffed my super-tunic, however,
when a slight sound made me turn round towards the door, and I saw
Sybil,--Sybil, still in her coronation robes, coming towards me with
both hands held out, as she had done that last sad time we met. I threw
myself on the ground before her, and tried to kiss the hem of her golden
robe. But she would not let me.
"No, no, my darling, no!"
And she stooped and drew me into her arms, and kissed me as if we had
never disagreed,--as if I had never uttered one of those bitter words
which it now made my cheeks burn even to remember.
I could only sob out,--"Forgive me!"
"Dear little sister, forgive thee for loving Guy?"
"No, no!" I said, "but for not loving--for misunderstanding, and
slandering, and tormenting thee!"
"Nay, dearest Helena!" she said, at once tenderly and playfully,--"Thou
didst not slander me. It was that other Sybil with whom thou wert so
angry,--the Sybil who was not true to her lord, and was about to forsake
him. And I am sure she deserved every word. But that was not I,
Helena."
"But how my words must have tortured thee!"
"Not in one light, dear. It was a rich ray of hope and comfort, to
know, through all my pain, how true the dear little sister was to
Guy,--what a comfort she was likely to be to him,--that whoever forsook
him, his Lynette would never do it. Now finish thine undressing. There
is one other thing I want to say to thee, but let me see thee lying at
rest first."
She sat down on the settle, just as she was, while Bertrade finished
undressing me. Then they all said "Good night," and left me alone with
Sybil.
"Helena, darling!" she said, as she sat beside me, my hand clasped in
hers,--"this one thing I wish thee to know. I could not spare thee this
pain. If the faintest idea of my project had ever occurred to Count
Raymond,--though it had been but the shadow of a shade,--it would have
been fatal. Had he guessed it, I could never have carried it out.[#]
And he has eyes like a lynx, and ears like a hare. And, little
sister,--thy face talks! Thou couldst not, try as thou wouldst, have
kept that knowledge out of thine eyes. And the Count would have read it
there, with as little trouble as thou wouldst see a picture. The only
chance, therefore, to preserve my crown for my lord, and him for me, was
to leave him and thee in ignorance. Trust me, it cost me more than it
did you!"
[#] The extraordinary item of this series of incidents (which are
historical) is, that Count Raymond did not guess it.
Ah! had she not said that once before,--"Trust me!" And I had not
trusted her. Yet how well she deserved it!
I hardly know what I sobbed out. I only know that I was fully and
undeservedly forgiven, that I was loved through all my mistrust and
unworthiness and cruel anger,--and that Sybil knew how I loved her.
Then she left me to rest.
But as I lay there in the darkness, a thought came to me, which seemed
to light up the dark wilderness of my life,--as though a lamp had been
suddenly flashed into a hidden chamber.
What if it be just so with God?
And it seemed to me as if He stood there, at the summit of that ladder
which Monseigneur Saint Jacob was permitted to behold: and He looked
down on me, with a look tenderer and sweeter even than Sybil's; and He
held forth His hands to me, as she had done, but in these there were the
prints of the cruel nails,--and He said--
"Elaine, I could not spare thee this pain. If I had done, in the end it
would have been worse for thee. Look upon My hands and My feet, and see
if I spared Myself, and, remembering that this was for thy sake, say
whether, if it had been possible, I would not have spared thee!"
I cannot tell whether I was dreaming or awake. But I crept to the foot
of the ladder, and I said to Him who stood above it--
"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, I put myself in Thy mercy.[#] I see now that
I was foolish and ignorant. It was not that Thou wert cruel. It was not
that Thou didst not care. Thou dost care. At every pang that rent my
heart, Thine heart was touched too. Forgive me, for Sybil has done, and
I have sinned more against Thee than against her. Teach me in future to
give up my will, and to wish only to do Thine."
[#] A rebel, who returned to his allegiance unconditionally, was said to
"put himself in the King's mercy."
I am afraid it was a very poor prayer. There was no Angelus nor
Confiteor--not even an Ave in it. Yet was it all a dream, that a voice
said to me, "Thy sins are forgiven thee: go in peace"? And I sank into
dreamless sleep the next instant.
It is all settled now. Next week, I shall be professed of Lady Judith's
Order,--an Order which will just suit my wants, since the nuns have no
abbess over them, are bound only by terminable vows, and (with assent of
the community) may dwell where they think fit, even in their own homes
if need be.
Lady Judith thinks that she can easily obtain leave for me to dwell with
Monseigneur, as she will kindly represent it to the Order that he is now
an old man, and has no wife nor unmarried daughter to care for him but
me.
I think he is my first duty now. And I know he will be so glad, so
glad!
It will be hard to part with Guy and Sybil. But I think that is where
the Lord is leading me,--home to Lusignan; and I do wish to follow His
leading, not my own.
Old Marguerite startled me very much last night.
"Damoiselle," she said, "the cross is shining out at last."
"Where, Margot?" said I, rather puzzled.
"Where I have so longed to see it," she said, "on my darling's brow.
Ah, the good God has not brought her through the fire for nothing!
Where there used to be pride and mirth in her eyes, there is peace. He
will let His old servant depart now, for it was all she had to live
for."
But I can never, never do without her! Oh, I do hope the good God will
not take dear old Marguerite. Why, I am only just beginning to
understand and value her. But I think I am learning, very slowly,--Oh,
I am so slow and stupid!--that real happiness lies not in having my way,
but in being satisfied with His,--not in trying to make myself happy,
but in trying to please Him. I am constantly fancying that I have so
learned this lesson that I shall never forget it again. And then,
within an hour, I find myself acting as though I had never heard of it.
And I see, too, what I never understood before.--that it is only by
taking our Lord's yoke upon us, and becoming meek and lowly in heart,
that we can find rest to our souls. Eschine's deep humility is the
source of her calm endurance. Pride is not peace; it is its antidote.
In Christ we have peace,--first through the purchase of His blood, and
secondly, in growing like Him, which is, to grow in love and lowliness,
and to lose ourselves in Him.
I think I never before saw the loveliness of humility. And I am sure I
never saw the fair beauty of Eschine's character and life. Oh, how far
she rises above me! And to think that I once looked down upon
her--dismissed her with a careless word of scorn, as having "nothing in
her"--when the truth was that I was too low down to see her in reality.
Oh, how much the good God has had, and will have, to forgive and bear
with me!
I am now only just beginning to understand Him. But that is a lesson
which I may go on learning and enjoying for ever. And how happy it will
be, if we all gather together in His halls above,--Guy, and Sybil, and
me, and old Marguerite, and Lady Judith, and Monseigneur, and Eschine,
and the little children, and all,--never again to hear Paynim cry nor
woman's wail,--safe for ever, in the banquet-hall of God.
At home again at last!
How strangely glad they all seem to see me! I do not think I ever knew
how they all loved me. I have lived for myself, and a little for Guy.
Now, with His grace, I fain would live for God, and in Him for every
one.
We sat round the centre fire last night in the old hall,--I close to
Monseigneur, with his hand upon my shoulder, now and then removed to
stroke my hair--and we had all so much to say that it made us very
silent. It was Alix who spoke first.
"Elaine," she said, "I want to give a name to my baby girl that shall
mean 'truth' or 'fidelity.' And I do not like any of the French names
that have those meanings; they are not pretty. Tell me the words for
them in the tongue of the Holy Land."
I did not answer that the Court language of Jerusalem was the Langue
d'Oc, and that Alix would be no better off for knowing. A rush of
feeling came over me, and I let it dictate my reply. And that was
only--
*"Sybil."*
*HISTORICAL APPENDIX.*
*I. GUY DE LUSIGNAN*