The Well in the Desert Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO.

  HIDDEN TREASURE.

  "Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies?"

  Longfellow.

  The morning after Blanche and the arras had thus roughly dispelledPhilippa's dream, the Lady Alianora sat in her bower, looking over aquantity of jewellery. She put some articles aside to be reset,dismissed others as past amendment, or not worth it, and ordered some tobe restored to the coffer whence they had been taken. The Lady Alesiawas looking on, and Philippa stood behind with the maids. At last onlyone ornament was left.

  "This is worth nothing," said the Countess, lifting from the table anold bracelet, partly broken. "Put it with the others--or stay: whencecame it?"

  "Out of an ancient coffer, an't like your Ladyship," said Blanche, "thathath been longer in the castle than I."

  "I should think so," returned the Countess. "It must have belonged tomy Lord's grandmother, or some yet more ancient dame. 'Tis worthnothing. Philippa, you may have it."

  Not a very gracious manner of presenting a gift, it must be confessed;but Philippa well knew that nothing of any value was likely to be handedto her. Moreover, this was the first present that had ever been made toher. And lastly, a dim notion floated through her mind that it mighthave belonged to her mother; and anything connected with that dead andunknown mother had a sacred charm in her eyes. Her thanks, therefore,were readily forthcoming. She put the despised bracelet in her pocket;and as soon as she received her dismissal, ran with a lighter step thanusual to her turret-chamber. Without any distinct reason for doing so,she drew the bolt, and sitting down by the window, proceeded to examineher treasure.

  It was a plain treasure enough. A band of black enamel, set atintervals with seed-pearl and beryls, certainly was not worth much;especially since the snap was gone, one of the beryls and several pearlswere missing, and from the centre ornament, an enamelled rose, aportrait had apparently been torn away. Did the rose open? Philippatried it; for she was anxious to reach the device, if there were one toreach. The rose opened with some effort, and the device lay before her,written in small characters, with faded ink, on a scrap of parchmentfitting into the bracelet.

  Philippa's one accomplishment, which she owed to her old friend Alina,was the rare power of reading. It was very seldom that she found anyopportunity of exercising it, yet she had not lost the art. Alina hadbeen a priest's sister, who in teaching her to read had taught her allthat he knew himself; and Alina in her turn had thus given to Philippaall that she had to give.

  But the characters of the device were so small and faint, that Philippaconsumed half an hour ere she could decipher them. At length shesucceeded in making out a rude rhyme or measure, in the Norman-Frenchwhich was to her more familiar than English.

  "Quy de cette eaw boyra Ancor soyf aura; Mais quy de cette eaw boyra Que moy luy donneray, Jamais soif n'aura A l'eternite."

  Devices of the mediaeval period were parted into two divisions--religious and amatory. Philippa had no difficulty in deciding that thisbelonged to the former category; and she guessed in a moment that themeaning was a moral one; for she was accustomed to such hiddenallegorical allusions. And already she had advanced one step on theroad to that Well; she knew that "whosoever drinketh of this water shallthirst again." Ay, from her that weary thirst was never absent. Butwhere was this Well from which it might be quenched? and who was it thatcould give her this living water?

  Philippa's memory was a perfect storehouse of legends of the saints, andabove all of the Virgin, who stood foremost in her pantheon of gods.She searched her repertory over and over, but in vain. No saint, and inparticular not Saint Mary, had ever, in any legend that she knew, spokenwords like these. And what tremendous words they were! "Whosoeverdrinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst."

  There were long and earnest prayers offered that night in the littleturret-chamber. Misdirected prayers--entreaties to be prayed for,addressed to ears that could not hear, to hands that could not help.But perhaps they reached another Ear that could hear, another Hand thatwas almighty. The unclosing of the door is promised to them that ask.Thanks be to God, that while it is not promised, it does sometimes inHis sovereign mercy unclose to them that know not how to ask.

  The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castlelavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. Shewas a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her presentplace longer than Philippa could recollect.

  Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages--for a period of many centuries,closing only about the time of the accession of the House of Hanover--laundress was a name of evil repute, and the position was rarely assumedby any woman who had a character to lose. The daughters of the LadyAlianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any lavender; but no onehad cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and she was therefore freeto converse with whom she pleased. And a sudden thought had struck her.She called back the lavender.

  "Agnes!"

  The woman stopped, came to Philippa's door, and louted--theold-fashioned reverence which preceded the French courtesy.

  "Agnes, how long hast thou been lavender here?"

  "Long ere you were born, Lady."

  "Canst thou remember my mother?"

  Philippa was amazed at the look of abject terror which suddenly tookpossession of the lavender's face.

  "Hush, Lady, Lady!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

  Philippa laid her hand on the woman's arm.

  "Wilt thou suffer aught if thou tarry?"

  Agnes shook her head.

  "Then come in hither." And she pulled her into her own room, and shutthe door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: andI will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of mymother?"

  Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hathbeen forbidden, Lady."

  "Who forbade it?"

  The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did notmean to answer that question.

  "Why was it forbidden?"

  The continued silence replied.

  "When died she? Thou mayest surely tell me so much."

  "I dare not, Lady," replied Agnes in a scarcely audible whisper.

  "How died she?"

  "Lady, I dare not answer,--I must not. You weary yourself to no good."

  "But I will know," said Philippa, doggedly.

  "Not from me, Lady," answered the lavender with equal determination.

  "What does it all mean?" moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self."Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?"

  "Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poorlavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfortus when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel."

  A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa.

  "Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?"

  The lavender's heart was reached, and her tongue loosed.

  "No, no, Lady, no!" she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had notimagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honeyno sweeter than her soul!"

  "Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of morebewilderment than ever.

  But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settledon the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippaknew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been hermother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother ofwhom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child wasnot allowed to know?

  "That is too poor for you, Alesia," said the Lady Alianora.

  "'Tis but thin, in good sooth," observed that young lady.

  "I suppose Philippa must have a gown for the wedding," resumed theCountess, carelessly. "It will do for her."

  It was cloth of silver. Phil
ippa had never had such a dress in herlife. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she wasintended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage?

  "You may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets," said the Countesscondescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your owngowns after you are wedded, so you may as well begin now."

  "Will Philippa be wed when I am?" yawned Alesia.

  "The same day," said the Lady Alianora.

  The day was about sixty hours off; and this was the first word thatPhilippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed overafter this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakablegoodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; shehad not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty forher, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decidedbetween them.

  As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longerwanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deerto her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face inthe coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forthat last.

  "O Mother, Mother, Mother!"

  The door opened, but Philippa did not hear it.

  "Lady, I cry you mercy," said the voice of Agnes in a compassionatetone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was comingup the stairs, I thought I heard a scream. I feared you were sick."

  Philippa looked up, with a white, woe-begone face and tearless eyes.

  "I wish I were, Agnes!" she said in a hopeless tone. "I would I wereout of this weary and wicked world."

  "Ah, I have wished that ere now," responded the lavender. "'Tis an illwish, Lady. I have heard one say so."

  "One that never felt it, I trow," said Philippa.

  "No did, Lady? Ay, one whose lot was far bitterer than yours."

  "Verily, I would give something to see one whose lot were so," answeredthe girl, bitterly enough. "I have no mother, and as good as no father;and none would care were I out of the world this night. Not a soulloveth me, nor ever did."

  "She used to say One did love us," said Agnes in a low voice; "even Hethat died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it islong, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet Ido mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mindwhat. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. Itwas the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what wascoming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he thatdrank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither,whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died onthe rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him."

  "But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?" cried Philippa.

  "She said He could hear, if we asked," replied the lavender.

  "Who said?"

  "She--that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be."

  "My mother?"

  Agnes nodded. "And the water that He should give should bring life andpeace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But therenever was a voice like hers--never."

  Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess whatthat bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Agesthan in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usuallya love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this?Was it broken, too, like the bracelet?

  She read the device to Agnes.

  "It was something like that," said Agnes. "But she read the storytouching it, out of a book."

  "What was she like?" asked Philippa in a low tone.

  "Look in the mirror, Lady," answered Agnes.

  Philippa began to wonder whether this were the mysterious reason for herbitter lot.

  "Dost thou know I am to be wed?"

  "Ay, Lady."

  So the very lavenders had known it before herself! But finding Agnes,as she thought, more communicative than before, Philippa returned to herformer subject.

  "What was her name?"

  Agnes shook her head.

  "Thou knowest it?"

  The lavender nodded in answer.

  "Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her atthe font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?"

  Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sankher voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she justcaught the words.

  "The Lady Isabel."

  Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go.

  "Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it morebitter?"

  Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where thetiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in asmall wicker cage.

  "Is his lot sweet, Lady?"

  "I trow not, in good sooth," said Philippa; "but his is like mine."

  "I cry you mercy," answered the lavender, shaking her head. "He hathknown freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot--notyours, Lady."

  Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor caged wings were beatingvainly against the wicker-work, until he wearily gave up the attempt,and sat quietly on the perch, drooping his tired head.

  "He is not satisfied," resumed Agnes in a low tone. "He is only weary.He is not happy--only too worn-out to care for happiness. Ah, holyVirgin! how many of us women are so! And she was wont to say that therewas happiness in this life, yet not in this world. It lay, she said, inthat other world above, where God sitteth; and if we would ask for Himthat was meant by the better water, it would come and dwell in ourhearts along with Him. Our sweet Lady help us! we seem to have missedit somehow."

  "I have, at any rate," whispered Philippa, her eyes fixed dreamily onthe weary lark.