The Well in the Desert Page 3

  CHAPTER THREE.

  GUY OF ASHRIDGE.

  "For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to Thee."

  Tennyson.

  Not until the evening before her marriage did Philippa learn the name ofher new master. The Earl's choice, she was then informed, had fallen onSir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall, who would receive diversmanors with the hand of the eldest daughter of Arundel. Philippa was,however, not told that Sir Richard was expected to pay for the grantsand the alliance in extremely hard cash.

  For to the lofty position of eldest daughter of Arundel (for thatmorning only) Philippa, to her intense surprise, found herself suddenlylifted. She was robed in cloth of silver; her hair flowed from beneatha jewelled golden fillet; her neck was encircled by rubies, and a rubyand pearl girdle clasped her waist. She felt all the time as though shewere dreaming, especially when the Lady Alianora herself superintendedher arraying, and even condescended to remark that "the Lady Philippadid not look so very unseemly after all."

  Not least among the points which astonished her was the resumption ofher title. She did not know that this had formed a part of the bargainwith Sir Richard, who had proved impracticable on harder terms. He didnot mind purchasing the eldest daughter of Arundel at the high price setupon her; but he gave the Earl distinctly to understand that if he weremerely selling a Mistress Philippa, there must be a considerablediscount.

  When the ceremony and the wedding festivities were over, and her palfreywas standing ready at the door, Philippa timidly entered thebanqueting-hall, to ask--for the first and last time--her father'sblessing. He was conversing with the Earl of Kent, the bridegroom ofAlesia, concerning the merits of certain hawks recently purchased; andnear him, at her embroidery-frame, sat the Countess Alianora.

  Philippa knelt first to her.

  "Farewell, Philippa!" said the Countess, in a rather kinder tone thanusual. "The saints be with thee."

  Then she turned to the only relative she had.

  Earl Richard just permitted his jewelled fingers to touch Philippa'svelvet hood, saying carelessly,--"Our Lady keep thee!--I cry you mercy,fair son; the lesser tercel is far stronger on the wing."

  As Philippa rose, Sir Richard Sergeaux took her hand and led her away.So she mounted her palfrey, and rode away from Arundel Castle. Therewere only two things she was sorry to leave--Agnes, because she mighthave told her more about her mother,--and the grave, in the Priorychurchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora--the little sister who nevergrew up to tyrannise over her.

  It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor, and Philippa hadtime to make the acquaintance of her new owner. He was about her ownage, and so far as she could at first judge, a reasonably good-temperedman. The first discovery she made was that he was rather proud of her.Of Philippa the daughter of Arundel, of course, not of Philippa thewoman: but it was so new to be reckoned anything or anybody--so strangeto think that somebody was proud of her--that Philippa enjoyed theknowledge. As to his loving her, or her loving him, these were ideasthat never entered the minds of either.

  So at first Philippa found her married life a pleasant change. She wasnow at the head, instead of being under the feet of every one else; andher experience of Sir Richard gave her the impression at the outset thathe would not prove a hard master. Nor did he, strictly speaking; but onfurther acquaintance he proved a very trying one. His temper was not ofthe stormy kind that reigned at Arundel, which had hitherto beenPhilippa's only idea of a bad temper: but he was a perpetual grumbler,and the slightest temporary discomfort or vexation would overcast hersky with conjugal clouds for the rest of the day. The least stone inhis path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet asan unfathomable sea. And gradually--she scarcely knew how or when--theold weary discomfort crept back over Philippa's heart, the oldunsatisfied longing for the love that no one gave. Her bower at Kilquytwas no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel. Shefound that "On change du ciel--l'on ne change point de soi." The damaskrobes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not grudge to heras her father had done, proved utterly unsatisfying to the misunderstoodcravings of her immortal soul. She did not herself comprehend why shewas not happier. She knew not the nature of the thirst which was uponher, which she was trying in vain to quench at the broken cisternswithin her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted again; and shehad not yet found the way to the Well of the Living Water.

  About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gateof her manor. It was a beautiful June morning--just such another asthat one which "had failed her hope" at the gate of Arundel Castle,thirty years before. Sir Richard had ridden away on his road to London,whence he was summoned to join his feudal lord, the Earl, and LadySergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, thoughhalf-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the lastwaving of his nodding plume through the trees. He had left her a legacyof discomfort, for his spurs had been regilded, not at all to his mind,and he had been growling over them ever since the occurrence, "Dame,have you a draught of cold water to bestow on a weary brother?"

  Philippa started suddenly when the question reached her ear.

  He who asked it was a monk in the habit of the Dominican Order, and veryworn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her women,and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as was manifestfrom the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had given back thegoblet, and the woman was gone, the monk turned towards Philippa, anduttered words which astonished her no little.

  "`Quy de cette eaw boyra Ancor soyf aura; Mays quy de l'eaw boyra Que moy luy donneray, Jamays soyf n'aura A l'eternite.'"

  "You know that, brother?" she said breathlessly.

  "Do you, Lady?" asked the monk--as Philippa felt, with a deeper than themerely literal meaning.

  "I know the `ancor soyf aura,'" she said, mournfully; "I have notreached beyond that."

  "Then did you ask, and He did _not_ give?" inquired the stranger.

  "No--I never asked, for--" she was going on to add, "I never knew whereto ask."

  "Then 'tis little marvel you never had, Lady," answered the monk.

  "But how to ask?--whom to ask? There may be the Well, but where is theway?"

  "How to ask, Lady? As I asked you but now for that lower, poorer water,whereof whosoever drinketh shall thirst again. Whom to ask? Be theremore Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants. Andwhere is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred yearsago, when `one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, andforthwith came thereout blood and water.' Over that stream of blood isthe way to the Well of Living Water."

  "I do not fully understand you," returned Philippa.

  "You look weary, Lady," said the monk, changing his tone.

  "I am weary," she answered; "wearier than you--in one sense."

  "Ay, wearier than I," he replied; "for I have been to the Well, and havefound rest."

  "Are you a priest?" asked Philippa suddenly.

  The monk nodded.

  "Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy youmight tell me what would help me."

  The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour laterhe sat in Philippa's bower, and she knelt before him.

  "Father," she said, at the close of her tale, "I have never known restnor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is thereany balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?--any healing virtuein its waters that could comfort me?"

  "Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?" asked the monkquietly.

  "Never!" she said, almost indignantly.

  "I cannot hold with you there," he replied.

  "Whom have I ever injured?" exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, halfamazed.

  "Listen," said he, "and I will tell you of One whom all your life youhave injured and neglected--God."

  Philippa
's protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hearsuch words as these.

  "Nay, heed not my words," he pursued gently. "Your own lips shall bringyou in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, andsoul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?"

  Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had notloved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried toher, "Unclean!" yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She feltangry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he "rubbed the sore,when he should bring the plaster." Comfort she had asked, andcondemnation he was giving her instead.

  "Father!" she said, in mingled sadness and vexation, "you deal me hardmeasure."

  "My daughter," answered the monk very gently, "the pitcher must bevoided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vesselfull of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the LivingWater."

  "Is it only for saints, then?" she asked in a disappointed tone.

  "It is only for sinners," answered he: "and according to your ownbelief, you are not a sinner. The Living Water is not wasted onpitchers that have been filled already at other cisterns, `I will giveunto him that is athirst'--but to him only--`of the Fountain of theWater of Life, freely.'"

  "But tell me, in plain words, what is that Water of Life?"

  "The Holy Spirit of God."

  Philippa's next question was not so wide of the mark as it seemed.

  "Are you a true Dominican?"

  "I am one of the Order of Predicant Friars."

  "From what house?"

  "From Ashridge."

  "Who sent you forth to preach?"

  "God."

  "Ah! yes, but I mean, what bishop or abbot?"

  "Is the seal of the servant worth more than that of the Master?"

  "I would know, Father," urged Philippa.

  The monk smiled. "Archbishop Bradwardine," he said.

  "Then Ashridge is a Dominican house? I know not that vicinage."

  "Men give us another name," responded the monk slowly, "which I see youwould know. Be it so. They call us--Boni-Homines."

  "But I thought," said Philippa, looking bewilderedly into his face, "Ithought those were very evil men. And Archbishop Bradwardine was a veryholy man--almost a saint."

  A faint ironical smile flitted for a moment over the monk's grave lips.The gravity was again unbroken the next instant.

  "A very holy man," he repeated. "He walked with God; and he is not, forGod took him. Ay, took him away from the evil to come, where he shouldvex his righteous soul no more by unlawful deeds--where the alloyed goldof worldly greatness, which men would needs braid over the pure ermineof his life, should soil and crush it no more."

  He spoke rather to himself than to Philippa: and his eyes had a far-awaylook in them, as he lifted his head and gazed from the window over themoorland.

  "Then what are the Boni-Homines?" inquired Lady Sergeaux.

  "A few sinners," answered the monk, "whose hearts God hath touched, thatthey have sought and found that Well of the Living Water."

  "But, Father, explain it to me!" she cried anxiously, perhaps even alittle querulously. "Put it in plain words, that I can understand it.What is it to drink this Living Water?"

  "To come to Christ, my daughter," replies the monk.

  "But I cannot understand you," she objected, in the same tone. "How canI come? What mean you by coming? He is not here in this chamber, thatI can rise and go to Him. Can you not use words more intelligible tome?"

  "In the first place, my daughter," softly replied the monk, "you areunder a great mistake. Christ is here in this chamber, and hath heardevery word that we have said. And in the second place, I cannot usewords that shall be plainer to you. How can the dead understand theliving? How shall a man born blind be brought to know the difference ofcolour between green and blue. Yet the hardship lieth not in theinaptness of the teacher, but in the inability of the taught."

  "But I am not blind, nor dead!" cried Philippa.

  "Both," answered the monk. "So, by nature, be we all."

  Philippa made no reply; she was too vexed to make any. The monk laidhis hand gently upon her head.

  "Take the best wish that I can make for you:--God show you how blind youare! God put life within you, that you may awake, and arise from thedead, and see the light of Christ! May He grant you that thirst whichshall be satisfied with nothing short of the Living Water--which shalllead you to disregard all the roughnesses of the way, and the storms ofthe journey, so that you may win Christ, and be found in Him! God stripyou of your own goodness!--for I fear you are over-well satisfiedtherewith. And no goodness shall ever have admittance into Heaven savethe goodness which is of God."

  "But surely," exclaimed Philippa, looking up in surprise, "there isgrace of congruity?"

  "Grace of congruity! grace of condignity!" [see Note] cried the monkfervently. "Grace of sin and gracelessness! It is not all worth somuch as one of these rushes upon your floor. If you carry grace ofcongruity to the gates of Heaven, I warn you it shall never bear you onestep beyond. Lay down those miserable rush-staffs, wherein is no pith;and take God's golden staff held out to you, which is the full andperfected obedience of the Lord Jesus Christ. That staff shall not failyou. All the angels at the gate of Paradise know it; and the doorsshall fly wide open to whoso smiteth on them with that staff of God.Lord, open her eyes, that she may see!"

  The prayer was answered, but not then.

  "What shall I call you?" asked Philippa, when the monk rose to depart.

  "Men call me Guy of Ashridge," he said.

  "I hope to see you again, Father," responded Philippa.

  "So do I, my daughter," answered the monk, "in that other land whereintonothing shall enter that defileth. Nothing but Christ and Christ's--theHead and the body, the Master and the meynie [household servant]. Maythe Master make you one of the meynie! Farewell."

  And in five minutes more, Guy of Ashridge was gone.

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  Note. "Condignity implies merit, and of course claims reward on thescore of justice. Congruity pretends only to a sort of imperfectqualification for the gifts and reception of God's grace."--_Manet'sChurch History_, iv. 81.