The White Rose of Langley Page 3

  CHAPTER THREE.

  STRANGE TALES.

  "Oh stay me not, thou holy friar! Oh stay me not, I pray! No drizzling rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away."--Bishop Percy.

  On entering the banquet-hall of Langley Palace, Maude the tire-maidenfound herself promoted to a very different position from that which hadbeen filled by Maude the scullion. Her former place had been near thedoor, and far below that important salt-cellar which was then thetable-indicator of rank. She was directed now to take her seat as thelowest of the Countess's maidens, on a form just opposite thesalt-cellar, which was more than half-way up the hall. Maude had hardlysat down when her next neighbour below accosted her in a familiar voice.

  "Why, little Maude! I looked for thee in vain at yon board end, and Iwas but now marvelling what had befallen thee. How earnest up hither?"Maude smiled back at Bertram Lyngern.

  "It pleased the Lady's Grace to make me of her especial following."

  "Long life to the Lady!--Now will I cause thee to wit who be all myfriends. This on my left hand is Master Hugh Calverley, Mistress Maude(for thou art now of good degree, and must be spoken unto belike); he ismine especial friend, and a very knight-errant in succour of all unceli[distressed, unhappy] damsels."

  "And who is he that is next unto the Lady Custance?"

  "On her right hand, the Lord Edward, and the Lord Richard at her left--her brethren both."

  Lord Richard pleased Maude. He was a winning little fellow of eightyears old. But Edward she disliked instinctively:--a tall, handsome boyof twelve, but completely spoiled by the supercilious curl of his lipand the proud carriage of his head.

  "And the Lord Earl?" she whispered to Bertram, who pointed out his royalmaster.

  He was very tall, and extremely slender; not exactly ungraceful, but hegave the impression that his arms and legs were perpetually in his way.In fact, he was a nervous man, always self-conscious, and thereforenever natural nor at ease. His hair was dark auburn; and in his lowerlip there was a tremulous fulness which denoted at once greatgood-nature and great indecision.

  It is a singular fact that the four English Princes who have borne thename of Edmund have all shared this character, of mingled gentleness andweakness; but in each the weakness was more and the amiability less,until the dual character terminated in this last of our royal Edmunds.He was the obedient servant of any person who chose to take the troubleto be his master. And there was one person who found it worth his whileto take that trouble. This individual--the Earl's youngest brother--will come across our path presently.

  The dinner to-day was more elaborate than usual, for there were severalguests present. Since the host was a Prince, the birds presented wereserved whole; had both he and his guests been commoners, they would havebeen "chopped on gobbets." More interesting than any fictitiousdelineation on my part will be a genuine _menu_ of the period, "Thepurveyance made for King Richard, being with the Duke of Lancaster atthe Bishop's Palace of Durham at London," of course accompanied by theirsuites. That the suites were of no small size we gather from theprovision made. It consisted of "14 oxen lying in salt, 2 oxen fresh,120 heads of sheep fresh, 120 carcases of sheep fresh, 12 boars, 14calves, 140 pigs; 300 marrow-bones, of lard and grease enough, 3 tons ofsalt venison, 3 does of fresh venison. The poultry:--50 swans, 210geese, 50 capons of grease (fat capons), 8 dozen other capons, 60 dozenhens, 200 couple conies (rabbits), 4 pheasants, 5 herons and bitterns, 6kids, 5 dozen pullets for jelly, 12 dozen to roast, 100 dozen peions(peacocks), 12 dozen partridges, 8 dozen rabbits, 10 dozen curlews, 12dozen brewes (doubtful), 12 cranes, wild fowl enough: 120 gallons milk,12 gallons cream, 40 gallons of curds, 3 bushels of apples, eleventhousand eggs."

  This tremendous supply was served in the following manner:

  "The first course:--Venison with furmety; a potage called viaundbruse(broth made with pork and onions); heads of boars; great flesh (probablyroast joints); swans roasted, pigs roasted; crustade lumbard (custard)in paste; and a subtlety." (The subtlety was an ornamental dish,representing a castle, ship, human figures, etcetera.)

  "The second course:--A potage called jelly (jellies of meat or fish wereserved as entrees); a potage of blandesore (a white soup); pigs roasted;cranes roasted; pheasants roasted; herons roasted; chickens roasted;breme (possibly pork broth); tarts; brokebrawn; conies roasted; and asubtlety.

  "The third course:--Potage brewet of almonds (another white soup, madewith almonds and rabbit or chicken broth); sewde lumbarde (probably somekind of stew); venison roasted; chickens roasted; rabbits roasted;partridges roasted; peions roasted; quails roasted; larks roasted; paynepuff (a pudding); a dish of jelly; long fruits (a sweetmeat); and asubtlety."

  It must not be inferred that no vegetables were used, but simply thatthey were not thought worth mention. Our forefathers ate, either invegetable or salad, almost every green thing that grew.

  Before Maude had been many days in her new position, she made variousdiscoveries--not all pleasant ones, and some at complete variance withher own preconceived fancies. In the first place she discovered thather Fairy Queen, Constance, was neither more nor less than a spoiledchild. While the young Princess's affections were very warm, she hadbeen little accustomed to defer to any wishes but her own or those ofher two brothers. The pair of boys governed their sister, but theyswayed different sceptres. Edward ruled by fear, Richard by love."Ned" must be attended to, because his wont was to make himself verydisagreeable if he were not; but "Dickon" must have every thing hewanted, because Constance could not bear to deny her darling any thing.Bertram told Maude, however, that nobody could be more fascinating thanEdward when he liked: the unfortunate item being that the happycircumstance very rarely occurred.

  But Bertram's information was not exhausted.

  "Hast heard that the Lady of Buckingham cometh hither?"

  "When?" Maude whispered back.

  "To-morrow, to sup and bide the night. So thou mayest search herfollowing for thy Mistress Hawise."

  "But shall all her following follow her?" inquired Maude.

  "Every one, for she goeth anon unto her place in London to tarry thewinter, and shall be here on her way thither. And hark thou, Maude! inher train--as thou shalt see--is the fairest lady in all the world."

  "And what name hath she?" was Maude's answer.

  "The fair Lady de Narbonne, widow of Sir Robert de Narbonne, a goodknight and true, that fell in these late wars. She hath but some twentyyears e'en now, and 'tis full three summers sithence his death."

  "And what like is she?"

  "Like the angels in Paradise!" said Bertram enthusiastically. "I tellthee, there is none like her in all the world."

  Maude awaited the following evening with two-fold interest. She mightpossibly see Hawise, and she should certainly see some one who was likethe angels in Paradise. The evening came, and with it the guests. Onelook at the Countess of Buckingham was enough. She certainly did notresemble the angels, unless they looked very cross and discontented.Her good qualities were not apparent to Maude, for they consisted of twocoronets and an enormous fortune. Her ladies were much more interestingto Maude than herself. The first who entered behind her was a stiffmiddle-aged woman with dark hair.

  "That is Dame Edusa," [A fictitious person] whispered Bertram, "the LadyMistress. Here is Mistress Polegna--yonder little damsel with the darklocks; and the high upright dame is Mistress Sarah. She that comethafter is the Lady de Say."

  Not one of these was the golden-haired Cousin Hawise, whose years barelynumbered twenty. Maude's eyes had come back in disappointment, whenBertram touched her arm.

  "Now, Maude--look now! Look, the beauteous Lady de Narbonne! [Afictitious person.] Sawest ever maiden meet to be her peer?"

  Maude looked, and saw a young girlish figure, splendidly attired,--arich red and white complexion, beautiful blue eyes, and a sunny halo ofshining fair hair. But she saw as well, a cold, hard curve of thedelicate lips, a proud cynical expression in the h
andsome eyes, a bold,forward manner. Yes, Maude admitted, the Lady de Narbonne wasbeautiful; yet she did not care to look at her. Bertram wasdisappointed. And so was Maude, for all hope of finding Hawise haddisappeared.

  When supper was over, the tables were lifted. The festive board was atthis time literally a board or boards, which were simply set upontrestles to form a table. At the close of a meal, the tables werereduced to their primitive elements, and boards and trestles were eithercarried away, or heaped in one corner of the hall. The dining-room wasthus virtually transmuted into the drawing-room, ceremony and precedencebeing discarded for the rest of the evening--state occasions of courseexcepted, and the royal persons present not being addressed unless theychose to commence a conversation.

  Maude kept pretty strictly to her corner all that evening. She wasgenerally shy of strangers, and none of these were sufficientlyattractive to make her break through her usual habits. Least attractiveof all, to her, was the lovely Lady de Narbonne. Her light, airy ways,which seemed to enchant the Earl's knights and squires, simply disgustedMaude. She was the perpetual centre of a group of frivolous idlers, whodangled round her in the hope of leading her to a seat, or picking up adropped glove. She laughed and chatted freely with them all,distributing her smiles and frowns with entire impartiality--except inone instance. One member of the Earl's household never came within hercircle, and he was the only one whom she seemed at all desirous toattract. This was Hugh Calverley. He held aloof from the bright lamparound which all the other moths were fluttering, and Maude fancied thathe admired the queen of the evening as little as she did herself.

  All at once, by no means to Maude's gratification, the lady chose torise and walk across the room to her corner.

  "And what name hast thou, little maid?" she asked, with a light swing ofher golden pomander--the vinaigrette of the Middle Ages.

  Maude had become very tired of being asked her name, the more so sinceit was the manner in which strangers usually opened negotiations withher. She found it the less agreeable because she was conscious of noright to any surname, her mother's being the only one she knew. So sheanswered "Maude" rather shortly.

  "Maude--only Maude?"

  "Only Maude. Madam, might it like your Ladyship to tell me if you witof one Hawise Gerard anything?"

  If the Lady de Narbonne would talk to her, Maude resolved to utilise theoccasion; though she felt there could be little indeed in common betweenher gentle, modest cousin, and this far from retiring young widow. Thatthey could not have been intimate friends Maude was sure; butacquaintances they might be--and must be, unless the Lady de Narbonnehad been too short a time at Pleshy to know Hawise. As Maude inspeaking lifted her eyes to the lady's face, she saw the smiling lipsgrow suddenly grave, and the cold bright light die out of the beamingeyes.

  "Child," said the Lady de Narbonne seriously, "Hawise Gerard is dead."

  "Woe is me! I feared so much," answered Maude sorrowfully. "And mightit please you, Madam, to arede [tell] me fully when she died, and how,and where?"

  "She died to thee, little maid, when she went to the Castle of Pleshy,"was the unsatisfactory answer.

  "May I wit no more, Madam? Your Ladyship knew her, trow?"

  "Once," said the lady, with a slight quiver of her lower lip,--"long,long ago!" And she suddenly turned her head, which had been for amoment averted from Maude, round towards her. "`When, and how, andwhere?'" she repeated. "Little maid, some dying is slower than men maytell the hour, and there be graves that are not dug in earth. Thycousin Hawise is dead and gone. Forget her."

  "That can I never!" replied Maude tenderly, as the memory of her deadcame fresh and warm upon her.

  The Lady de Narbonne rose abruptly, and walked away, without anotherword, to the further end of the room. Half an hour later, Maude saw herin the midst of a gay group, laughing and jesting in the cheeriestmanner. Of what sort of stuff could the woman be made?

  The Countess of Buckingham did not leave Langley until after dinner thenext day--that is to say, about eleven a.m. A little before dinner, asMaude, not being wanted at the moment, stood alone at the window of thehall, leaning her arms on the wide window-ledge, a voice asked behindher,--"Art yet thinking of Hawise Gerard?"

  "I was so but this moment, Madam," replied Maude, turning round to meetthe eyes of the Lady de Narbonne, now quiet and grave enough. "'Tislittle marvel, for I loved her dear."

  "And love lasteth with thee--how long time?"

  "Till death, assuredly," said Maude. "What may lie beyond death I wisnothing."

  "Till what manner of death? The resurrection, men say, shall give backthe dead. But what shall give back a dead heart or a lost soul? Canthy love pass such death as this, Maude Gerard?"

  "Madam, I said never unto your Ladyship that Hawise Gerard was kinswomanof mine. How wit you the same?"

  A faint, soft smile, very unlike her usual one, so bright and cold,flickered for a moment on the lips of the Lady de Narbonne.

  "Not too far gone for that, Cousin Maude," she said.

  "`Cousin'--Madam! You are--"

  "I am Avice de Narbonne, waiting-dame unto my Lady of Buckingham'sGrace. I was Hawise Gerard, David Gerard's daughter."

  "Hawise! Thou toldest me she was dead!" cried Maude confusedly.

  "That Hawise Gerard whom thou knewest is dead and gone, long ago. Thouwilt never see her again. Thy mother Eleanor is not more dead than she;but the one may return to thee on the resurrection morrow, and the othernever can. Tell me now whether I could arede thee, as thou wouldst havehad it, how, or where, or when, thy cousin Hawise died?"

  "Our dear Lady be thine aid, Hawise! What has changed thee so sore?"asked Maude, the tears running down her cheeks.

  "Call me Avice, Maude. Hawise is old-fashioned," said the lady coolly.

  Maude seized her cousin's hands, and looking into her eyes, spoke asgirls of her age rarely speak, though they think frequently.

  "Come back to me, Hawise Gerard!--from the dead, if thou wilt have itso. Cousin Hawise--fair, gent, shamefaced, loving, holy!--come back tome, and speak with the olden voice, and give me to wit what terriblething hath been, to take away thyself, and leave but this instead ofthee!"

  Maude's own earnestness was so intense, that she felt as if herpassionate words must have moved a granite mountain; but they fell coldand powerless upon Avice de Narbonne.

  "Look out into the dark this night, Maude, and call thy mother, and seewhether she will answer. The dead _cannot_ come back. I have no morepower to call back to thee the maiden I was of old, than thou. Rest,maid; and do what thou wilt and canst with that which is."

  "What can I?" said Maude bitterly. "At least thou canst tell me whathath wrought this fearful change in thee."

  "Can I?" replied Avice, seating herself on the window-seat, andmotioning her cousin to do the same. "And what shall I say it were--call it light or darkness, love or hate? For six months after I lefthome I was right woesome. (It is all gone, Maude--the old cottage, andthe forge, and the elms--they razed them all!) And then there came intomy life a fair false face, and a voice that spake well, and an heartthat was black as night. And I trusted him, for I loved him. Lovedhim--ay, better than all the saints in Heaven! I could have died tosave a pang of pain to him, and smiled in doing it. But he was false,false, false! And on the day that I knew it--O that horrible day!--mylove turned to black hate within me. I knelt and prayed that my wrongshould be avenged--that some sorrow should befal him. But I never meantthat. Holy Mary, Lady of Sorrows, thou knewest I never meant that! Andthat very night I knelt and prayed, he died on the field of battle faraway. I knew not he was in danger till four days after. When I so did,I prayed as fervently for his safety. The old love came back upon me,and I could have rent the heavens if my weak hands had reached them, toundo that fearful prayer. But she heard me not--she, the Lady of Pity!She had heard me once too well. And fifteen days later, I knew that Iwas a widow--that he had died that night, with none t
o pillow his heador wipe the death-dews from his brow--died unassoiled, unatoned witheither God or me! And I had done it. Child, my heart was closed upthat day as with a wall of stone. It will never open again. It is notmy love that is dead--it is my heart."

  "But, Hawise, hadst no masses sung for his soul?" asked Maude in lovingpity.

  "Too late," she said, dropping her face upon her hands. "Too late!"

  "Too late for what?" softly inquired a third voice--so gently andcompassionately that no annoyance could be felt.

  Avice was silent, and Maude answered for her.

  "For the winning of a soul from Purgatory that hath passed thitherwithout housel ne chrism."

  "Too late for the mercy of God?" replied Hugh Calverley gently. "Forthe housel and the chrism, they be mercies of man. But the mercies ofGod are infinite and unchangeable unto all such as grip hold on JesuChrist."

  "Unto them that die in mortal sin?" said Avice, not lifting her head.

  "All sin is mortal," said Hugh in the same quiet manner; "but for Hispeople, He hath made an end of sin, and hath `distreiede [destroyed]deeth, and lightnide [brought to light] lyf.'"

  "That is, for the saints?" said Maude sadly.

  "Mistress, an' it had not been for the sinners, you and I must needshave fared ill. Who be saints saving they that were once sinners?"

  "Soothly, Master Calverley, these be matters too high for me. I am nosaint, God wot."

  "Doth God wot that, Mistress Maude? Then of a surety I am sorry foryou."

  Maude was silent, though she thought it strange doctrine. But Avicesaid in a low voice, recurring to her former subject,--"You believe,Master Calverley, that God can raise the dead; but think you that He canquicken again to life an heart that is dead, and cold, and hard asyonder stone? Is there any again rising for such?"

  "Madam, if no, there had been never none for neither you nor me. We beall dead souls by nature."

  "Ay, afore baptism, so wit I; but what of mortal sin done afterbaptism?"

  "I speak but as I am learned, Madam," said Hugh modestly. "I am youngereven than you, methinks, and far more witless. But I have heard themsay that have been deep skilled, as methinks, in the ministeries[mysteries] of God, that wherein it is said that `He mai save withoutenende,' it scarce signifieth only afore baptism."

  "Ah!" said Maude, with a sigh, "to do away sin done after baptism is amighty hard and grievous matter. Good sooth, at my first communion,this last summer, so abashed [nervous] was I, and in so painful bire[confused haste], that I let drop the holy wafer upon the ground; andfor all I gat it again unbroke, and licked well with my tongue the stide[spot] where it had fallen, Father Dominic [a fictitious person] said Ihad done dreadful sin, and he caused me to crawl upon my knees allaround the church, and to say an hundred Ave Marys and ten Paternostersat every altar. And in very deed I was right sorrowful for mine illmischance; nor could I help the same, for I saw not the matter rightly.But Father Dominic said our Lord should be right sore offenced with me,and mine only hope lay in moving the mercy of our dear worthy Lady toplead with Him. If it be not wicked to say the same," added shetimidly, "I would God were not angered with us for such like small gear.But I count our Lady heard me, sith Father Dominic was pleased toabsolve me at last."

  "Will you give me leave to say a thing, Mistress Maude?"

  "I pray you so do, Master Calverley."

  "Then if the same hap should chance unto you again, I counsel you totravail [trouble] yourself neither with Father Dominic nor our Lady, butto go straight to our Lord Himself. Maybe He were pleased to absolveyou something sooner than Father Dominic. Look you, the priest died notto atone God for your sins, neither our Lady did not. And if it be, asmen do say, that commonly the mother is more fond [foolishly indulgent]unto the child than any other, by reason she hath known more travail andpain [labour] with him, then surely in like manner He that hath bornedeath for our sins shall be more readier to assoil them than he that nodid."

  These were bold words to speak in the year of grace 1385. But theQueen's squire, John Calverley, was one of those advanced Lollards ofwhom there were very few, and his son had learned of him. Even Wycliffehimself would scarcely have dared to venture so far as this, until thelatter years of his life. It takes long to convince men that no lesseradvocate is needed between them and the one Mediator with God. Andwhere they are taught that "Mary is the human side of Jesus," the resultgenerally is that they lose sight of the humanity of Jesus altogether.

  It was not, therefore, unnatural that Maude's answer should havebeen,--"But, Master Calverley! so saying you should have no need of ourLady." She expected Hugh to reply by an indignant denial; and itastounded her no little to hear him quietly accept the unheard-ofalternative.

  "Do you as you list, Mistress Maude," he answered. "For me, I amcontent with our Lord."

  "Well-a-day! methought all pity [piety] lay in worship of our Lady!"said Maude, in that peculiar constrained tone which implies that thespeaker feels himself the infinitely distant superior of his antagonist.

  "Mistress," was Hugh's answer, "I never said that I was content withoutour Lord. I lack an advocate, to the full as well as any; but SaintPaul saith that `oo [one] God and a mediatour is of God and of men, aman, Christ Jesu.' And methinks he should be a sorry mediator thatlacked an advocate himself."

  Avice had lifted her head, and had fixed her eyes intently on Hugh. Shehad said nothing more; she was learning.

  "Likewise saith He," resumed Hugh, "that `no man cometh to the Fadir butby me.' Again, `no man may come to me but if the Fadir that hath senteme drawe him:' yet `all thing that the Fadir gyueth me schal come tome.'"

  Avice spoke at last.

  "`All thing given' and none other? Then without we be given, we may notcome. And how shall a man wit so much?"

  "Methinks, Madam," said Hugh, thoughtfully, "that if a man be willing tocome, and to give himself, he hath therein witness that he was given ofthe Father."

  "But to give himself wholly unto God," added Maude, "signifieth that heshall take no more pleasure in this life?"

  "Try it," responded Hugh, "and see if it signifieth not rather that aman shall enter into joys he never knew aforetime. God's gifts to usprevent our gifts to Him."

  "Lady Avice! Dame Edusa hath asked twice where you be," said Polegna,running into the hall. "The bell shall sound in an other minute, andour Lady maketh no tarrying after dinner."

  So the trio were parted. There was no opportunity after dinner foranything beyond a farewell, and Maude, with her heart full of manythoughts, went back to her sewing in the antechamber.

  About an hour after Maude had resumed her work, Constance strolled intothe room in search of amusement. She looked at the crimson tunic andblack velvet skirt which were in making for her own wear at the comingEaster festival; gazed out of the window for ten minutes; sat andwatched Maude work for about five; and at last, a bright idea strikingher, put it into action.

  "Dona Juana! lacked you Maude a season?"

  Half an hour previous, Juana had been urging on her workwomen withreminders that very little time was left before the dresses must beready; but Maude had learned now that in the eyes of the Mistress,Constance's will was law, and she therefore received with littlesurprise the order to "sue the Senorita." Resigning her work into thehands of Sybil, Maude followed her imperious little lady into thechamber of Dame Agnes de La Marche, who was busy arranging fresh flaxfor her spinning.

  "Your fingers be busy, Dame Agnes," observed the little Princess. "Isyour tongue at leisure?"

  "Both be alway at your service, Damosel," replied the courtly old lady.

  "Then, I pray you, tell to me and Maude your fair story of theLyonesse."

  "With a very good will."

  "Then, prithee, set about it," said Constance, ensconcing herself in thebig chair. "Sit thou on that stool, Maude."

  The old lady took her distaff, now ready, and sat down, smiling at theimpatience of the capricious child.


  "Once upon a time," she began, "the ending of the realm of England wasnot that stide [place] which men now call the Land's End in Cornwall.Far beyond, even as far as the Isles of Scilly, stretched the fair greenplains: a kingdom lay betwixt the two, and men called it La Lyonesse.And in the good olden days, when Arthur was king, the Lyonesse had herprince, and on her plains and hills were fair rich cities, and throughher forests pricked good knights on the quest of the Holy Grail, [seenote 2] that none, save unsinning eyes, might ever see. For of all thefour-and-twenty Knights of the Round Table, none ever saw the Holy Grailsave one, and that was Sir Galahad, that was pure of heart and clean oflife. Howbeit, one night came a mighty tempest. The sea raged androared on the Cornish coast, and dashed its waters far up the rocks,washing the very walls of the Castle of Tintagel. And they that sawupon that night told after, that there came one wild flash of lightningthat lightened sky and earth; and men looked and saw by its light,statelily standing, the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse;and then came black darkness, and a roar, and a crash, and a rending, asthough all the rocks and the mountains should be torent [violently tornasunder]; and then another wild flash lightened sky and earth, and menlooked, and the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse weregone."

  Maude was listening entranced, with parted lips; Constance carelessly,as if she knew all about it beforehand, and were chiefly amusing herselfby watching the rapt face of her fellow-listener.

  "Long years thereafter," resumed Dame Agnes, "ay, and even now, men saidand say, that at times ye may yet hear the sound and see the sight ofthe drowned cities of the Lyonesse. Ever sithence that tempestuousnight, the deep green sea lies heavy on the bosom of the lost land; andno man of unpure heart, nor of evil life, ne unbaptised, ne unshriven,may see nor hear. But if one of Christian blood, a christened man, pureof heart and clean in life, that is newly shriven, whether man or maid,will sail forth at midnight over the green sea, and when he cometh tothe place where lieth the Lyonesse, will bend him down from the boat,and look and listen, then shall come up around his ears soft weird musicfrom the church bells in the silver steeples of the doomed cities: yea,and there have been so pure, and our Lady hath shown them such grace,that they have seen the very self streets down at the bottom of the sea,where the dead walk and speak as they did of old--the knights and theladies, as in the days gone by, when Arthur was King, a thousand yearsago, when he held his court in the palaces of the lost land. And theIslands of Scilly, as men say, be the summits of the mountains, thattowered once hoary and barren over the green forests and the richcities." [This story is a veritable legend of the Middle Ages.]

  The story was being told to an uncritical and unchronological audience,or Dame Agnes might have received a gentle intimation that she wasantedating the reign of King Arthur by the short period of two hundredyears.

  The silence which followed--for both the little girls were meditating onthe story, and Dame Agnes's flax was just then entangled in atroublesome knot--was broken, suddenly and very thoroughly, by theunexpected entrance, quiet though it were, of the Countess herself.Dame Agnes gave no heed to her broken thread, but rose instantly,distaff in hand, with a low reverence; Constance rubbed her sleepy eyesand slowly descended from her great chair; while Maude, recalled to thepresent, dropped her lowest courtesy and stood waiting.

  There was a peculiar air about the Countess Isabel, which suggested tobystanders the idea of a tired, worn-out woman. It was not discontent,not irritability, not exactly even sadness; it was the tone of one whohad never fitted rightly into the place assigned to her, and who neverfelt at home. Though it disappeared when she spoke, yet as soon as herfeatures were at rest it came again. It was little wonder that her facewore such an expression, for she was the daughter of a murdered fatherand a slandered mother, and the wife of a man who valued her very highlyas the Infanta of Castilla, but as Isabel his wife not at all. Duringher early years, she had sought rest and comfort in the world. Sheplunged wildly into every manner of dissipation and pleasure; likeSolomon, she withheld not her heart from any good; and like Solomon's,her verdict at the close was "Vanity and vexation of spirit." Andthen--just when she had arrived at the conclusion that there was nothingupon earth worth living for--when she had "come to the end ofeverything, and cared for nothing," she met with an old priest ofvenerable aspect, a trusted servant of King Edward, whose first wordstouched the deepest chord in her heart, while his second brought thehealing balm. His name was John de Wycliffe. Was it any wonder thatshe accepted him as a very angel of God?

  For he showed her where rest was, not within, but without; not frombeneath, nor from around, but from above. So the tired heart rested inJesus here, looking forward to its perfected rest in the presence ofJesus hereafter.

  For so far as the world was concerned, there was no rest any longer. Itwas fearfully up-hill work for Isabel to aim at such a walk as shouldplease God. Her husband did not oppose her; he was as profoundlyindifferent to her new opinions and practices as he had been to her oldones, as he was to herself. So far as her life was concerned, of thetwo he considered that she had altered for the better. There had neverbeen but one heart which had loved Isabel, and that heart she pierced aswith a sword when she entered her new path on the narrow way.

  To Constanca of Castilla, the sister who had shared with her their"heritage of woe," this younger sister was inexpressibly dear. The twosisters had married two brothers, and they saw a good deal of each otheruntil that time; but after Isabel cast in her lot with Wycliffe, verylittle. The Gospel parted these loving sisters as with a sword; themagnet was received by each at an opposite end. It attracted Isabel,and repelled Constanca. The elder wanted nothing more than she hadalways had; the gorgeous ceremonies and absolving priests of the oldChurch satisfied her, and she demanded no further comfort. She was "awoman devout above all others" in the eyes of the monkish chroniclers.And that usually meant that in this world she never awoke to her soul'suttermost need, and she was therefore content with the meagre supply shefound. So the difference between the sisters was that Constanca sleptpeacefully while Isabel had awoke.

  It was because Isabel had awoke, that she was unsatisfied with the roundof ritual observances which were all in all to her sister. She couldconfess to man, and be absolved by man; but how could she wrestleagainst the conviction that she rose from the confessional with a soulnone the cleaner, with a heart just as disinclined to go and sin nomore? The branches might be lopped; but what mattered that while theroot of bitterness remained? It is only when we hear God say, "Thy sinsare forgiven thee," that it is possible to go in peace. And Isabelnever heard it until she came to Him. Then, when she came empty-handed,He filled her hands with gifts; He breathed into the harassed soul restand hope.

  This was what God gave her. But men gave her something very different.They had nothing better for this woman that had been a sinner, than theold comment of Simon the Pharisee. They were not ready to cast theremembrance of her iniquities into the depths of the sea--far from it.What they gave her was a scorned and slandered name, a charactersketched in words that dwelt gloatingly on her early devotion to theworld, the flesh, and the Devil, and left unwritten the story of hersubsequent devotion to God. The later portion of her life is passedover in silence. We see something of its probable character in thesupreme contempt of the monkish chroniclers; in the heretical epithet of"pestilent" applied to her; in the Lollard terms of her last will; inher choice of eminent Lollards as executors; in her bosom friendshipwith the Lollard Queen.

  But at another Table from that of Simon the Pharisee, "many that arefirst shall be last, and the last first."

  We have kept Maude standing for a long while, before her mistress,seated in the great chair in Dame Agnes de La Marche's chamber.

  "And how lovest thy new fashion of life, my maid?" demanded theCountess, when she had taken her seat.

  "Right well, an' it like your Grace."

  "Thou art here welsomer [more comfortable] than in the
kitchen?"

  "Surely so, Madam."

  "Dame Joan speaketh well of thy cunning." [Skill.]

  Maude smiled and courtesied. She was gradually learning Court manners.

  "And hast thou yet thy book-leaf, the which I read unto thee?"

  "Oh ay, Madam!"

  "`Thy book-leaf!'" interjected Constance. "What book hast thou?"

  "A part of God's Word, my daughter," replied her mother gravely;"touching His great City, the holy Jerusalem, which shall come down fromGod out of Heaven, and is lightened with His glory."

  "When will it come?" said Constance, with unwonted gravity.

  "God wot. To all seeming, not ere thou and I be either within the same,or without His gates for ever."

  The Countess turned back to Maude.

  "My maid, thou wouldst fain know at that time whether I had any dwellingin that city. Wist thou that an' thou wilt, there thou mayest dwell?"

  "I, Madam! In very sooth, should it like your Grace to take me?" AndMaude's eyes sparkled with delight.

  "I cannot take thee, my child!" was the reply, spoken in a tone so gravethat it was almost sad. "If thou wouldst go, it is Another must bearthee thither."

  "The Lady Custance?" inquired Maude, glancing at her.

  "The Lord Jesus Christ."

  Agnes mechanically crossed herself. Maude's memory ran far back.

  "Sister Christian, that was a nun at Pleshy," she observed, dreamily,"was wont to say, long time agone, unto Mother and me, that holy Mary'sSon did love us and die for us; but I never wist nought beyond that.Would your Grace, of your goodness, tell me wherefore it were?"

  "Wherefore He died? It was in the stead of thee, my maid, if thou wilthave it so: He died that thou mightest never die withouten end.--Orwherefore He loved, wouldst know? Truly, I can but bid thee ask that ofHimself, for none wist that mystery save His own great heart. There wasnought in us that He should love us; but there was every cause inHimself wherefore He should love."

  Maude was silent; but the thought which she was revolving in her mindwas whether any great saint had ever asked such a question of Him who toher was only "holy Mary's Son." Of course it would have to be askedthrough Mary. No one, not even the greatest saint, considered Maude,had ever spoken direct to Him, except in a vision. The next remark ofthe Countess rather startled her.

  "My maid, dost ever pray?"

  "An' it like your Grace, I do say every even the Hail Mary, and everymorrow the Credo; and of Sundays and holy days likewise thePaternoster."

  "And didst never feel no want ne lack, for the which thou findest notwords in the Hail Mary ne in the Credo, if it be not an holy day?"

  Ay, many a want, as Maude well knew, but what had Credo or Angelus to dowith wants? Prayer, in her eyes, meant either long repetitions imposedas penances by the priest, or else the daily use of a charm, theomission of which might entail evil consequences. Of prayer as a realmeans of procuring something about which she cared, she had no morenotion than Dame Agnes's squirrel, at that moment running round hiscage, had of the distance and extent of Sherwood Forest. Maude lookedup in the face of her mistress with an expression of deep perplexity.

  "Child," said the Countess, "when Dame Joan would send word touchingsome matter unto Dame Agnes here, falleth she a-saying unto herself ofDan Chaucer's brave Romaunt of The Flower and the Leaf?"

  "Surely, no, Madam."

  "Then what doth she?"

  "She cometh unto her," said Maude, immediately adding, in amatter-of-fact way, "without she should send Mistress Sybil or someother."

  "Good. Then arede [inform] me wherefore thou shouldst fall a-saying theCredo when thou wouldst send word of thy need unto God, any more thanDame Joan should fall a-saying the Romaunt?"

  "But God heareth us, and conceiveth us, Madam," said Maude timidly, "andDame Agnes no doth."

  "Truth, my maid. Therein faileth my parable. But setting this aside,tell me,--how shall the Credo give to wit thy need?"

  Maude cogitated for a minute in silence. Then she answered--

  "No shall it, Madam."

  "Then wherefore not speak thy lack straightway?"

  Maude was silent, but not because she was stupid.

  "My maid, what saith the Credo? When thus thou prayest, dost thou aughtsave look up to Heaven, and say, `God, I believe in Thee'? So far as itgoeth, good. But seest not that an' thou shouldst say to me, `Madam, Icrede and trust you,' thou shouldst have asked nought from me--haveneither confessed need, ne presented petition? The Credo is matter saidto men--not to God. Were it not better to say, `Lord, I love Thee?' Orbest of all, `Lord, love Thou me?'"

  "I wis, Madam, that our Lord loveth the saints," said Maude in a lowvoice.

  She felt very much in the condition graphically described by John Bunyanas "tumbled up and down in one's mind."

  "Ah, child!" was the Countess's answer, "they be lost sheep whom Christseeketh. And whoso Christ setteth out to seek shall, sooner or later,find the way to Him."

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  Note 1. Harl. Ms. 4016, folios 1, 2.

  Note 2. The "Holy Grail" was one of the most singular of Romishsuperstitions. A glass vessel, supported by a foot, was shown to thepeople as the cup in which Christ gave the wine to His disciples at theLast Supper; and they were taught, not only that Joseph of Arimathea hadcaught the blood from His side in the same vessel, but that he and MaryMagdalene, sailing on Joseph's shirt, had brought over the relic fromPalestine to Glastonbury. "The Quest of the Saint Graal" was thehighest achievement of the Knights of the Round Table.