The Well in the Desert Read online

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  IN THE CELL OF THE GREY LADY.

  "Blood must be my body's balmer,-- While my soule, like peaceful palmer, Travelleth toward the Land of Heaven, Other balm will not be given."

  Sir Walter Raleigh.

  Elaine tapped softly on the weatherbeaten door of the cell. It wasmerely hollowed out in the rock, and built up in front, with a low doorand a very little window.

  "Who is it?" asked a soft voice from within.

  "Elaine and Annora," replied the little girl.

  "Come in, my children."

  Motioning Philippa to wait for her an instant, Elaine lifted the latchand entered, half closing the door behind her. Some low-tonedconversation followed within the cell; and then Elaine opened the door,and asked Philippa to enter. The Grey Lady stood before her.

  What she saw was a tall, slender, delicate figure, attired in dark grey.The figure alone was visible, for over the face the veil was drawndown. But Philippa's own knowledge of aristocratic life told her in aninstant that the reverence with which she was received was that of ahigh-born lady. It was plain that the eremitess was no peasant.

  Elaine seemed to know that she was no longer wanted, and she drew Annoraaway. The children went dancing through the wood, and Philippa,desiring Lena and Oliver to await her pleasure, shut the door of thecell.

  "Mother," she began--for recluses were addressed as professed nuns, andwere indeed regarded as the holiest of all celibates--"I desire yourhelp."

  "For body or soul?" was the reply.

  "For the soul--for the life," said Philippa.

  "Ay," replied the eremitess; "the soul is the life."

  "Know you Guy of Ashridge?" asked Philippa.

  The Grey Lady bowed her head.

  "I have confessed to him, and he hath dealt hardly with me. He saith Iwill not be saved; and I wish to be saved. He tells me to come toChrist, and I know not how to come, and he saith he cannot make meunderstand how. He saith God loveth me, because He hath given me a verydesolate and unhappy life; and I think He hateth me by that token. Inshort, Father Guy tells me to do what I cannot do, and then he saith Iwill not do it. Will you teach me, and comfort me, if you can? Themonk only makes me more unhappy. And I do not want to be unhappy. Iwant comfort--I want rest--I want peace. Tell me how to obtain it!"

  "No one wishes to be unhappy," said the eremitess, in her gentleaccents; "but sometimes we mistake the medicine we need. Before I cangive you medicine, I must know your disease."

  "My disease is weariness and sorrow," answered Philippa. "I love none,and none loveth me. None hath ever loved me. I hate all men."

  "And God?"

  "I do not know God," she said, her voice sinking. "He is afar off, andwill come no nearer."

  "Or you are afar off, and will go no nearer? Which is it?"

  "I think it is the first," she answered; "Guy of Ashridge will have itto be the second. I cannot get at God--that is all I know. And it isnot for want of praying. I have begged the intercession of my patron,the holy Apostle Saint Philip, hundreds of times."

  "Do you know why you cannot get at God?"

  "No. If you can guess, tell me why it is."

  "Because you have gone the wrong way. You have not found the door. Youare trying to break through over the wall. And `he that entereth not bythe door into the sheep-fold, but climbeth up some other way, the sameis a thief and a robber.'"

  "Explain to me what you mean, Mother, an' it like you."

  "You know how Adam sinned in Paradise?" asked the Grey Lady.

  "When he and Eva disobeyed God, and ate of the fruit of the forbiddentree? Yes, I have heard that."

  "He built up a terrible wall between him and God. Every man, as borninto this world, is on the hither side of that wall. He knoweth notGod, he loveth not God, he careth not for God."

  "But that is not the case with me," objected Philippa; "for I do wishfor Him. I want some one to love me; and I should not mind if it wereGod. Even He were better than none."

  The Grey Lady's veil trembled a little, as Philippa thought; but she satmeditating for an instant.

  "Before I answer your last remark," she said, "will you tell me a littleof your life? I might know better how to reply. You are a marriedwoman, of course, for your dress is not that of a nun, nor of a widow.Have you children? Are your parents living?"

  "I have no child," said Philippa: and the Grey Lady's penetration musthave been obtuse if she were unable to detect a tone of deep sadnessunderlying the words. "And parents--living--did you ask me? By Mary,Mother and Maiden, I have but one living, and I hate--I hate him!" Thepassionate energy with which the last words were spoken told its owntale.

  "Then it is no marvel," answered the Grey Lady, in a very different tonefrom Philippa's, "that you come to me with a tale of sorrow. Wherethere is hatred there can be no peace; and without peace there can be nohope."

  "Hope!" exclaimed Philippa, bitterly. "What is there for me to hope?Who ever cared for me? Who ever asked me if I were happy? Nobody lovesme--why should I love anybody?"

  "`God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners,Christ died for us.'"

  The words fell like cooling water on the hot fire of Philippa'sbitterness; but she made no answer.

  "Had God waited for us to love Him," resumed the eremitess, "where hadwe been now? `We love Him, because He first loved us.'"

  "He never loved me," answered Philippa, mournfully.

  "He loved me so much," said the Grey Lady, softly, "that He made the wayrough, that He might help me over it; He made the waters deep, that Hemight carry me through them; He caused the rain to fall heavily, that Imight run to Him for shelter; He made `mine earthly house of thistabernacle' dreary and cold, that I might find the rest, and light, andwarmth of His home above so much the sweeter. Yea, He made mefriendless, that I might seek and find in Jesu Christ the one Friend whowould never forsake me, the one love that would never weary nor waxcold."

  Philippa shook her head. She had never looked at her troubles in thislight "But if the way be thus rough, and yet you will walk in it alone,though your feet be bleeding; if the waters be deep, and yet you willstrive to ford them unaided; if the house be drear and lonely, and yetyou will not rise up and go home--is it any wonder that you aresorrowful, or that you do not know Him whose love you put thus away fromyou? And you tell me that God's love were better to you than none!Better than none!--better than any, better than all! Man's love cansave from some afflictions, I grant: but from how many it can not! Canhuman love keep you from sickness?--from sorrow?--from poverty?--fromdeath? Yet the love of Christ can take the sting from all these,--cankeep you calm and peaceful through them all. They will remain, and youwill feel them; but the sting will be gone. There will be an underlyingcalm; the wind may ruffle the surface, but it cannot reach beneath. Thelamb is safe in the arms of the Shepherd, but it does not hold itselfthere. He who shed His blood for us on the rood keepeth us safe, andnone shall be able to pluck us out of His hand. O Lady, if `thouknewest the gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He wouldhave given thee Living Water.'"

  "They tell me of that Living Water, one and all; and I would fain drinkthereof; but I am in the desert, and the Well is afar off, and I knownot where to find it." Philippa spoke not angrily now, but verysorrowfully.

  "And `thou hast nothing to draw with, and the Well is deep.'"

  "That is just what I feel," said Philippa, earnestly.

  "Yet it is close beside you," answered the Grey Lady. "The water isdrawn, and ready. All that is needed is your outstretched hand to takeit. Christ giveth the Living Water; Christ is the Door by which, if anyman enter in, he shall be saved; Christ is our peace with God. You havenot to make peace; for them that take Christ's salvation, peace is made.You can never make peace: it took Christ to make it. Your salvation--if you be saved at all--was finished thirteen hundred years ago. Godhath provided this salvation for you, and a
ll your life He hath beenholding it forth to you--hath been calling you by all these your sorrowsto come and take it. So many years as you have lived in this world, somany years you have grieved Him by turning a deaf ear and a cold hearttowards His great heart and open hand held forth to you--towards Hisloving voice bidding you come to Him. Oh grieve Him no longer! Letyour own works, your own goodness, your own sufferings, drop from you asthe cast-off rags of a beggar, and wrap yourself in the fair white robeof righteousness which the King giveth you--which He hath wroughtHimself on purpose for you,--for which He asks no price from you, for Hepaid the price Himself in His own blood. He came not to live, and work,and suffer, for Himself, but for you. You complain that none lovethyou: all these years there hath been love unutterable waiting for you,and you will not take it."

  It seemed to Philippa a very fair picture. Never before had the Gardenof God looked so beautiful, to her who stood waiting without the gate.But there appeared to be barriers between it and her, which she couldnot pass: and in especial one loomed up before her, dark andinsuperable.

  "But--must I forgive my father?"

  "You must come to Christ ere you do any thing. After that--when He hathgiven you His forgiving Spirit, and His strength to forgive--certainlyyou must forgive your father."

  "Whatever he hath done?"

  "Whatever he hath done."

  "I can never do that," replied Philippa, yet rather regretfully thanangrily. "What he did to me I might; but--"

  "I know," said the Grey Lady quietly, when Philippa paused. "It _is_easier to forgive one's own wrongs than those of others. I think yourheart is not quite so loveless as you would persuade yourself."

  "To the dead--no," said Philippa huskily. "But to any who could love mein return--" and she paused again, leaving her sentence unended asbefore. "No, I never could forgive him."

  "Never, of yourself," was the answer. "But whoso taketh Christ for hisPriest to atone, taketh Christ also for his King to govern. In him Godworketh, bringing forth from his soul graces which He Himself hath firstput there--graces which the natural heart never can bring forth. Faithis the first of these; then love; and then obedience. And both love andobedience teach forgiveness. `If ye forgive not men their trespasses,how then shall your Father which is in Heaven forgive your trespasses?'"

  "Then," said Philippa, after a minute's silence, during which she wasdeeply meditating, "what we give to God is these graces of which youspeak?--we give Him faith, and love, and obedience?"

  "Assuredly--when He hath first implanted all within us."

  "But what do we give of ourselves?" asked Philippa in a puzzled tone.

  "We give _ourselves_."

  "This giving of ourselves, then," pursued Philippa slowly, "maketh thegrace of condignity?"

  "We give to God," replied the low voice of the eremitess, "ourselves,and our sins. The last He purgeth away, and casteth them into thedepths of the sea. Is there grace of condignity in them? And for us,when our sins are forgiven, and our souls cleansed, we are for evercommitting further sin, for ever needing fresh cleansing and renewedpardon. Is there grace of condignity, then, in us?"

  "But where do you allow the grace of condignity?"

  "I allow it not at all."

  Philippa shrank back a little. In her eyes, this was heresy.

  "You love not that," said the Grey Lady gently. "But can you find anyother way of salvation that will stand with the dignity of God? If mansave himself, then is Christ no Saviour; if man take the first steptowards God, then is Christ no Author, but only the Finisher of faith."

  "It seems to me," answered Philippa rather coldly, "that such a view asyours detracts from the dignity of man."

  She could not see the smile that crossed the lips of the eremitess.

  "Most certainly it does," said she.

  "And God made man," objected Philippa. "To injure the dignity of man,therefore, is to affront the dignity of God."

  "Dignity fell with Adam," said the Grey Lady. "Satan fatally injuredthe dignity of man, when he crept into Eden. Man hath none left now,but only as he returneth unto God. And do you think there be any graceof condignity in a beggar, when he holdeth forth his hand to receive agarment in the convent dole? Is it such a condescension in him toaccept the coat given to him, that he thereby earneth it of merit? Yetthis, and less than this, is all that man can do toward God."

  "Are you one of the Boni-Homines?" asked Philippa suddenly.

  She was beginning to recognise their doctrines now.

  "The family of God are one," answered the Grey Lady, rather evasively."He teacheth not different things to divers of His people, though Helead them by varying ways to the knowledge of the one truth."

  "But are you one of the Boni-Homines?" Philippa repeated.

  "By birth--no."

  "No," echoed Philippa, "I should think not, by birth. Your accent andyour manners show you high-born; and they are low-born varlets--commonpeople."

  "The common people," answered the Grey Lady, "are usually those who hearChrist the most gladly. `Not many noble are called;' yet, thank God, afew. But do you, then, count Archbishop Bradwardine, or BishopGrosteste, or William de Edingdon, Bishop of Winchester and Chancellorof England,--among the common people?"

  "They were not among _them_?" exclaimed Philippa in contemptuoussurprise.

  "Trust me, but they were,--two of them at least; and the third preachedtheir doctrines, though he went not out from them."

  "I could not have believed it!"

  "`The wind bloweth where it listeth,'" said the Grey Lady, softly: butshe hardly spoke to her visitor.

  Philippa rose. "I thank you for your counsel," she said.

  "And you mean, _not_ to follow it?" was the gentle response.

  "I do not know what I mean to do," she said honestly. "I want to doright; but I cannot believe it right to deny the grace of condignity.It is so blessed a doctrine! How else shall men merit the favour ofGod? And I do not perceive, by your view, how men approach God at all."

  "By God approaching them," said the eremitess. "`Whosoever will, lethim take the Water of Life freely.' But God provideth the water; manonly receiveth it; and the will to receive it is of God, not of man'sown deed and effort. `It is God that worketh in us.' Salvation is `notof works, lest any man should boast.'"

  "That is not the doctrine of holy Church," answered Philippa, somewhatoffended.

  "It is the doctrine of Saint Paul," was the quiet rejoinder, "for thewords I have just spoken are not mine, but his."

  "Are you certain of that, Mother?"

  "Quite certain."

  "Who told you them?"

  The Grey Lady turned, and took from a rough shelf or ledge, scooped outin the rocky wall of the little cavern, a small brown-covered volume.

  "I know not if you can read," she said, offering the book to LadySergeaux; "but there are the words."

  The little volume was no continuous Book of Scripture, but consisted ofpassages extracted almost at random, of varying lengths, apparently justas certain paragraphs had attracted her when she heard or read them.

  "Yes, I can read. My nurse taught me," said Philippa, taking the littlebook from her hand.

  But her eyes lighted, the first thing, upon a passage which enchainedthem; and she read no further.

  "Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoeverdrinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst."