While Harold mused over his father's words, Edith, seated on a low
stool beside the Lady of England, listened with earnest but mournful
reverence to her royal namesake.
The Queen's [113] closet opened like the King's on one hand to an
oratory, on the other to a spacious ante-room; the lower part of the
walls was covered with arras, leaving space for a niche that contained
an image of the Virgin. Near the doorway to the oratory, was the
stoupe or aspersorium for holy-water; and in various cysts and crypts,
in either room, were caskets containing the relics of saints. The
purple light from the stained glass of a high narrow window, shaped in
the Saxon arch, streamed rich and full over the Queen's bended head
like a glory, and tinged her pale cheek, as with a maiden blush; and
she might have furnished a sweet model for early artist, in his dreams
of St. Mary the Mother, not when, young and blest, she held the divine
infant in her arms, but when sorrow had reached even the immaculate
bosom, and the stone had been rolled over the Holy Sepulchre. For
beautiful the face still was, and mild beyond all words; but, beyond
all words also, sad in its tender resignation.
And thus said the Queen to her godchild:
"Why dost thou hesitate and turn away? Thinkest thou, poor child, in
thine ignorance of life, that the world ever can give thee a bliss
greater than the calm of the cloister? Pause, and ask thyself, young
as thou art, if all the true happiness thou hast known, is not bounded
to hope. As long as thou hopest, thou art happy."
Edith sighed deeply, and moved her young head in involuntary
acquiescence.
"And what is life to the nun, but hope. In that hope, she knows not
the present, she lives in the future; she hears ever singing the
chorus of the angels, as St. Dunstan heard them sing at the birth of
Edgar [114]. That hope unfolds to her the heiligthum of the future.
On earth her body, in heaven her soul!"
"And her heart, O Lady of England?" cried Edith, with a sharp pang.
The Queen paused a moment, and laid her pale hand kindly on Edith's
bosom.
"Not beating, child, as thine does now, with vain thoughts, and
worldly desires; but calm, calm as mine. It is in our power," resumed
the Queen, after a second pause, "it is in our power to make the life
within us all soul; so that the heart is not, or is felt not; so that
grief and joy have no power over us; so that we look tranquil on the
stormy earth, as yon image of the Virgin, whom we make our example,
looks from the silent niche. Listen, my godchild and darling."
"I have known human state, and human debasement. In these halls I
woke Lady of England, and, ere sunset, my lord banished me, without
one mark of honour, without one word of comfort, to the convent of
Wherwell;--my father, my mother, my kin, all in exile; and my tears
falling fast for them, but not on a husband's bosom."
"Ah then, noble Edith," said the girl, colouring with anger at the
remembered wrong for her Queen, "ah then, surely, at least, thy heart
made itself heard."
"Heard, yea verily," said the Queen, looking up, and pressing her
hands; "heard, but the soul rebuked it. And the soul said, 'Blessed
are they that mourn;' and I rejoiced at the new trial which brought me
nearer to Him who chastens those He loves."
"But thy banished kin--the valiant, the wise; they who placed thy lord
on the throne?"
"Was it no comfort," answered the Queen simply, "to think that in the
House of God my prayers for them would be more accepted than in the
halls of kings? Yes, my child, I have known the world's honour, and
the world's disgrace, and I have schooled my heart to be calm in
both."
"Ah, thou art above human strength, Queen and Saint," exclaimed Edith;
"and I have heard it said of thee, that as thou art now, thou wert
from thine earliest years [115]; ever the sweet, the calm, the holy--
ever less on earth than in heaven."
Something there was in the Queen's eyes, as she raised them towards
Edith at this burst of enthusiasm, that gave for a moment, to a face
otherwise so dissimilar, the likeness to her father; something, in
that large pupil, of the impenetrable unrevealing depth of a nature
close and secret in self-control. And a more acute observer than
Edith might long have been perplexed and haunted with that look,
wondering if, indeed, under the divine and spiritual composure, lurked
the mystery of human passion.
"My child," said the Queen, with the faintest smile upon her lips, and
drawing Edith towards her, "there are moments when all that breathe
the breath of life feel, or have felt, alike. In my vain youth I
read, I mused, I pondered, but over worldly lore. And what men called
the sanctity of virtue, was perhaps but the silence of thought. Now I
have put aside those early and childish dreams and shadows,
remembering them not, save (here the smile grew more pronounced) to
puzzle some poor schoolboy with the knots and riddles of the sharp
grammarian [116]. But not to speak of my self have I sent for thee.
Edith, again and again, solemnly and sincerely, I pray thee to obey
the wish of my lord the King. And now, while yet in all the bloom of
thought, as of youth, while thou hast no memory save the child's,
enter on the Realm of Peace."
"I cannot, I dare not, I cannot--ah, ask me not," said poor Edith,
covering her face with her hands.
Those hands the Queen gently withdrew; and looking steadfastly in the
changeful and half-averted face, she said mournfully, "Is it so, my
godchild? and is thy heart set on the hopes of earth--thy dreams on
the love of man?"
"Nay," answered Edith, equivocating; "but I have promised not to take
the veil."
"Promised to Hilda?"
"Hilda," exclaimed Edith readily, "would never consent to it. Thou
knowest her strong nature, her distaste to--to----"
"The laws of our holy Church--I do; and for that reason it is, mainly,
that I join with the King in seeking to abstract thee from her
influence. But it is not Hilda that thou hast promised?"
Edith hung her head.
"Is it to woman or to man?"
Before Edith could answer the door from the ante-room opened gently,
but without the usual ceremony, and Harold entered. His quick quiet
eye embraced both forms, and curbed Edith's young impulse, which made
her start from her seat, and advance joyously towards him as a
protector.
"Fair day to thee, my sister," said the Earl, advancing; and pardon,
if I break thus rudely on thy leisure; for few are the moments when
beggar and Benedictine leave thee free to receive thy brother."
"Dost thou reproach me, Harold?"
"No, Heaven forfend!" replied the Earl, cordially, and with a look at
once of pity and admiration; "for thou art one of the few, in this
court of simulators, sincere and true; and it pleases thee to serve
the Divine Power in thy way, as it pleases me to serve Him in mine."
"Thine, Harold?" said the Queen, shaking her head, but with a look of
some human pride and fondness in her fair face.
"Mine; as I learned it from thee when I was thy pupil, Edith; when to
those studies in which thou didst precede me, thou first didst lure me
from sport and pastime; and from thee I learned to glow over the deeds
of Greek and Roman, and say, 'They lived and died as men; like them
may I live and die!'"
"Oh, true--too true!" said the Queen, with a sigh; "and I am to blame
grievously that I did so pervert to earth a mind that might otherwise
have learned holier examples;--nay, smile not with that haughty lip,
my brother; for believe me--yea, believe me--there is more true valour
in the life of one patient martyr than in the victories of Caesar, or
even the defeat of Brutus."
"It may be so," replied the Earl, "but out of the same oak we carve
the spear and the cross; and those not worthy to hold the one, may yet
not guiltily wield the other. Each to his path of life--and mine is
chosen." Then, changing his voice, with some abruptness, he said,
"But what hast thou been saying to thy fair godchild, that her cheek
is pale, and her eyelids seem so heavy? Edith, Edith, my sister,
beware how thou shapest the lot of the martyr without the peace of the
saint. Had Algive the nun been wedded to Sweyn our brother, Sweyn
were not wending, barefooted and forlorn, to lay the wrecks of
desolated life at the Holy Tomb."
"Harold, Harold!" faltered the Queen, much struck with his words.
"But," the Earl continued--and something of the pathos which belongs
to deep emotion vibrated in the eloquent voice, accustomed to command
and persuade--"we strip not the green leaves for our yulehearths--we
gather them up when dry and sere. Leave youth on the bough--let the
bird sing to it--let it play free in the airs of heaven. Smoke comes
from the branch which, cut in the sap, is cast upon the fire, and
regret from the heart which is severed from the world while the world
is in its May."
The Queen paced slowly, but in evident agitation, to and fro the room,
and her hands clasped convulsively the rosary round her neck; then,
after a pause of thought, she motioned to Edith and, pointing to the
oratory, said with forced composure, "Enter there, and there kneel;
commune with thyself, and be still. Ask for a sign from above--pray
for the grace within. Go; I would speak alone with Harold."
Edith crossed her arms on her bosom meekly, and passed into the
oratory. The Queen watched her for a few moments tenderly, as the
slight, child-like form bent before the sacred symbol. Then she
closed the door gently, and coming with a quick step to Harold, said,
in a low but clear voice, "Dost thou love the maiden?"
"Sister," answered the Earl sadly, "I love her as a man should love
woman--more than my life, but less than the ends life lives for."
"Oh, world, world, world!" cried the Queen, passionately, "not even to
thine own objects art thou true. O world! O world! thou desirest
happiness below, and at every turn, with every vanity, thou tramplest
happiness under foot! Yes, yes; they said to me, 'For the sake of our
greatness, thou shalt wed King Edward.' And I live in the eyes that
loathe me--and--and----" The Queen, as if conscience-stricken, paused
aghast, kissed devoutly the relic suspended to her rosary, and
continued, with such calmness that it seemed as if two women were
blent in one, so startling was the contrast. "And I have had my
reward, but not from the world! Even so, Harold the Earl, and Earl's
son, thou lovest yon fair child, and she thee; and ye might be happy,
if happiness were earth's end; but, though high-born, and of fair
temporal possessions, she brings thee not lands broad enough for her
dowry, nor troops of kindred to swell thy lithsmen, and she is not a
markstone in thy march to ambition; and so thou lovest her as man
loves woman--'less than the ends life lives for!'"
"Sister," said Harold, "thou speakest as I love to hear thee speak--as
my bright-eyed, rose-lipped sister spoke in the days of old; thou
speakest as a woman with warm heart, and not as the mummy in the stiff
cerements of priestly form; and if thou art with me, and thou wilt
give me countenance, I will marry thy godchild, and save her alike
from the dire superstitions of Hilda, and the grave of the abhorrent
convent."
"But my father--my father!" cried the Queen, "who ever bended that
soul of steel?"
"It is not my father I fear; it is thee and thy monks. Forgettest
thou that Edith and I are within the six banned degrees of the
Church?"
"True, most true," said the Queen, with a look of great terror; "I had
forgotten. Avaunt, the very thought! Pray--fast--banish it--my poor,
poor brother!" and she kissed his brow.
"So, there fades the woman, and the mummy speaks again!" said Harold,
bitterly. "Be it so: I bow to my doom. Well, there may be a time
when Nature on the throne of England shall prevail over Priestcraft;
and, in guerdon for all my services, I will then ask a King who hath
blood in his veins to win me the Pope's pardon and benison. Leave me
that hope, my sister, and leave thy godchild on the shores of the
living world."
The Queen made no answer, and Harold, auguring ill from her silence,
moved on and opened the door of the oratory. But the image that there
met him, that figure still kneeling, those eyes, so earnest in the
tears that streamed from them fast and unheeded, fixed on the holy
rood--awed his step and checked his voice. Nor till the girl had
risen, did he break silence; then he said, gently, "My sister will
press thee no more, Edith----"
"I say not that!" exclaimed the Queen.
"Or if she doth, remember thy plighted promise under the wide cope of
blue heaven, the old nor least holy temple of our common Father."
With these words he left the room.