In Convent Walls Page 8
PART TWO, CHAPTER 2.
THE LADY OF LUDLOW.
"Toil-worn and very weary-- For the waiting-time is long; Leaning upon the promise-- For the Promiser is strong."
So were we children left alone in the Castle of Ludlow, and two wearymonths we had of it. Wearier were they by far than the six that ranafore them, when our mother was there, and our elder brethren, that shehad now carried away. Lessons dragged, and play had no interest. Ithad been Meg that devised all our games, and Nym that made boats andwooden horses for us, and Joan that wove wreaths and tied cowslipballs--and they were all away. There was not a bit of life nor funanywhere except in Jack, and if Jack were shut in a coal-hole byhimself, he would make the coals play with him o' some fashion. Buteven Jack could fetch no fun out of _amo, amas, amat_; and I grew soreweary of pulling my neeld [needle] in and out, and being banged o'er thehead with the fiddlestick when I played the wrong string. If we couldswallow learning as we do meat, what a lessening of human misery shouldit be!
No news came all this while--at least, none that we heard. Winter grewinto spring, and May came with her flowers. Ay, and with somethingelse.
The day rose like the long, dreary days that had come before it, andnobody guessed that any thing was likely to happen. We ate eggs andbutter, and said our verbs and the commandments of God and the Church,to Sir Philip, and played some weary, dreary exercises on the spinnet toDame Hilda, and dined (I mind it was on lamb, finches, and flaunes[custards]), and then Kate, I, and Maud, were set down to our needles.Blanche was something too young for needlework, saving to pull colouredsilks in and out of a bit of rag for practice. We had scarce takentwenty stitches, when far in the distance we heard a horn sounded.
"Is that my Lady a-coming home?" said I to Kate.
"Eh, would it were!" quoth she. "I reckon it is some hunters in theneighbourhood."
I looked to and fro, and no Dame Hilda could I see--only Margery, andshe was easy enough with us for little things; so I crept out on tiptoeinto the long gallery, and looked through the great oriel, which I couldwell reach by climbing on the window-seat. I remember what a sweet,peaceful scene lay before me,--the fields and cottages lighted up withthe May sunshine, which glinted on the Teme as it wound here and thereamid the trees. I looked right and left, but saw no hunters--nothing atall, I thought at first. And then, as I was going to leave the oriel, Isaw the sun glance on something that moved, and looked like a darksquare, and I heard the horn ring out again a little nearer. I watchedthe square thing grow--from dark to red, from an indistinct mass to acompact body of marching men, with mounted officers at their head; andthen, forgetting Dame Hilda and every thing else except the startlingnews I brought, I rushed back into the nursery, crying out--
"The King's troops! Jack, Kate, the King's troops are coming! Come andsee!"
Dame Hilda was there, but she did not scold me. She turned as white asthe sindon in her hand, and stood up.
"Dame Agnes, what mean you? Surely 'tis never thus! Holy Mary, shieldus!"
And she hurried forth to the oriel window, where Jack was alreadyperched.
The square had grown larger and plainer now. It was evident they weremarching straight for the Castle.
Dame Hilda hastened away--I guessed, to confer with Master Inge--andhaving so done, she came back to the nursery, bade us put aside oursewing and wash our hands, and come down with her to hall. We alltrooped after, Beatrice led by her hand, and she ranged us afore her inthe great hall, on the dais, standing after our ages,--Kate at the head,then I, Maud, and Jack. And so we awaited our fate.
I scarce think I was frighted. I knew too little what was likely tohappen, to feel so. That something was going to happen, I had uncertainfantasy; but our life had been colourless for so long, that the idea ofany thing to happen which would make a change was rather agreeable thanotherwise.
We heard the last loud summons of the trumpet, which in our ignorance wehad mistaken for a hunting-horn, and the trumpeter's cry of "Open to theKing's troops!" We heard the portcullis lifted, and the steady tramp ofthe soldiers as they marched into the court-yard. There was a littleparleying outside, and then two officers in the King's livery [Note 1]came forward into the hall, bowing low to us and Dame Hilda.
The Dame spoke first. "Sir Thomas Gobioun, if I err not?"
"He, and your servant, Dame," answered one of the officers.
"Then I must needs do you to wit, Sir, that in this castle is neitherLord nor Lady, and I trust our Lord the King wars not with littlechildren such as you see here."
"Stale news, good Dame!" answered Sir Thomas, with (as methought) arather grim smile. "We know something more, I reckon, than you,touching your Lord and Lady. Sir Roger de Mortimer is o'er seas inNormandy, and the Lady Joan at Skipton Castle."
"At Southampton, you surely mean?" said Master Inge, who stood at theother end of the line whereof I made the midmost link.
The knight laughed out. "Nay, worthy Master Inge, I mean notSouthampton, but Skipton. 'Tis true, both begin with an _S_, and endwith a _p_ and a _ton_; but there is a mile or twain betwixt theplaces."
"What should my Lady do at Skipton?" saith Dame Hilda.
"Verily, I conceive not this!" saith Master Inge, knitting his brows."It was to Southampton my Lady went--at least so she told us."
"Your Lady told you truth, Master Castellan. She set forth forSouthampton, and reached it. But ere a fair wind blew for her voyage,came a somewhat rougher gale in the shape of a command from the King'sGrace to the Sheriff to take her into keeping, and send her into ward atSkipton Castle, whither she set forth a fortnight past. Now, methinks,Master Inge, you are something wiser than you were a minute gone."
"And our young damsels?" cries Dame Hilda. "Be they also gone toSkipton?"
I felt Kate's hand close tighter upon mine.
"Soft you, now, good Dame!" saith Sir Thomas--who, or I thought so, tookit all as a very good joke. "Your damsels be parted in so many as theybe, and sent to separate convents,--one to Shuldham, one to Sempringham,and one to Chicksand--and their brothers be had likewise into ward."
To my unspeakable amazement, Dame Hilda burst into tears, and catched upBeatrice in her arms. I had never seen her weep in my life: and a mostnew and strange idea was taking possession of me--did Dame Hildaactually care something for us?
"Sir," she sobbed, "you will never have the heart to part these babesfrom all familiar faces, and send them amongst strangers that may usethem hardly, to break their baby hearts? Surely the King, that isfather of his people, hath never commanded such a thing as that? At theleast leave me this little one--or put me in ward with her."
I was beginning to feel frightened now. I looked at Kate, and read inher face that she was as terrified as I was.
"Tut, tut, Dame," saith the other officer (Sir Thomas, it seemed to me,enjoyed the scene, and rather wished to prolong it, but this other wasof softer metal), "take not on where is no cause, I pray you. Thelittle ones bide here under your good care. Only, as you may guess, webe commanded to take to the King's use this Castle of Ludlow and alltherein, and we charge you--" and he bowed to Dame Hilda, and then toMaster Inge--"and you, in the King's name, that you thwart not norhinder us, in the execution of his pleasure. Have here our commission."
Master Inge took the parchment, and scrutinised it most carefully, whileDame Hilda wiped her eyes and put Beatrice down with a fervent "Blessthee, my jewel!"
Now out bursts Jack, with a big sob that he could contain no longer."Does the King want my new ball of string, and my battledores?"
"Certes," answered Sir Thomas: but I saw a twinkle in his eye, thoughhis mouth was as grave as might be.
Jack fell a-blubbering.
"No, no--nonsense!" saith the other officer. "Don't spoil the fun,man!" quoth Sir Thomas. "Fun! it is no fun to these babes," answeredthe other. "I've a little lad at home, and this mindeth me of him. Icannot bear to see a child cry--and for no cause!--Nay, my little one,"sai
th he to Jack, "all in this Castle now belongs to the King, asaforetime to thy father: but thy father took not thy balls andbattledores from thee, nor will he. Cheer up, for thou hast nought tofear."
"Please, Sir," saith Kate, "shall all our brothers and sisters be mademonks and nuns, whether they like or no?"
Sir Thomas roared with laughter. His comrade saith gently, "Nay, mylittle damsel, the King's will is not so. It is but that they shall bekept safe there during his pleasure."
"And will they get any dinner and supper?" saith Maud.
"Plenty!" he answered: "and right good learning, and play in the conventgarden at recreation-time, with such other young damsels as shall bebred up there. They will be merry as crickets, I warrant."
Kate fetched a great sigh of relief. She told me afterwards that shehad felt quite sure we should every one of us be had to separateconvents, and never see each other any more.
So matters dropped down again into their wonted course. For over twoyears, our mother tarried at Skipton, and then she was moved intostraiter ward at Pomfret, about six weeks only [Note 2] before QueenIsabel landed with her alien troops under Sir John of Ostrevant, anddrave King Edward first from his throne, and finally from this life.Our father came with her. And this will I say, that our mother mighthave been set free something earlier [Note 3], if every body had donehis duty. But folks are not much given to doing their duties, so far asI can see. They are as ready as you please to contend for theirrights--which generally seems to mean, "Let me have somebody else'srights;" ay, they will get up a battle for that at short notice: but whoever heard of a man petitioning, much less fighting, for the right to dohis duty? And yet is not that, really and verily, the only right a manhas?
It was a gala day for us when our mother returned home, and our brothersand sisters were gathered and sent back to us. Nym (always a littlegiven to romance) drew heart-rending pictures of his utter misery, whilein ward; but Roger said it was not so bad, setting aside that it wasprison, and we were parted from one another. And Geoffrey, the sensibleboy of the family, said that while he would not like a monk's life onthe whole, being idle and useless, yet he did like the quiet andpeacefulness of it.
"But I am not secure," said our mother, "that such quiet is what Godwould for us, saving some few. Soldiers be not bred by lying of a bedof rose-leaves beside scented waters. And I think the soldiers ofChrist will scarce be taught o' that fashion."
Diverse likewise were the maids' fantasies. Meg said she would not havebidden at Shuldham one day longer than she was forced. Joan said sheliked not ill at Sempringham, only for being alone. But Isabel, as shesat afore the fire with me on her lap, the even of her coming home--Isabel had ever petted me--and Dame Hilda asked her touching her life atChicksand--Isabel said, gazing with a far-away look into the red ashes--
"I shall go back to Chicksand, some day, if I may win leave of mineelders."
"Why, Dame Isabel!" quoth Dame Hilda in some surprise. "Liked you sowell as that?"
"Ay, I liked well," she said, in that dreamy fashion. "Not that I didnot miss you all, Dame; and in especial my babe here,--who is no longera babe"--and she smiled down at me. "And verily, I could see that sinsbe not shut out by convent walls, but rather shut in. Yet--"
"Ay?" said Dame Hilda when she stayed. I think she wanted to make hertalk.
"I scarce know how to say it," quoth she. "But it seemed to me that forthose who would have it so, Satan was shut in with them, and pleasurewas shut out. And also, for those who would have it so, God was shut inwith them, and snares and temptations--some of them--were shut out.Only some: but it was something to be rid of them. If it were possibleto have only those who wanted to shut out the world, and to shutthemselves in with God! That is the theory: and that would be Heaven onearth. But it does not work in practice."
"Yet you would fain return thither?" said Dame Hilda.
Isabel looked into the fire and answered not, until she said, allsuddenly, "Dame Hilda, be there two of you, or but one?"
"Truly, Dame Isabel, I take not your meaning."
"Ah!" saith she; "then is there but one of you. If so, you cannotconceive me. Thou dost, Ellen?"
"Ay, Dame Isabel, that do I, but too well."
"They have easier lives, methinks, that are but one. You look on me,Dame Hilda, as who should say, What nonsense doth this maid talk! Butif you knew what it was to have two natures within you, pulling youdiverse ways, sometimes the one uppermost, and at times the other; andwhich of the twain be _you_, that cannot you tell--I will tell you, Ihave noted this many times"--Isabel's voice sank as if she feared to beoverheard--"in them whose father and mother have been of diversdispositions. Some of the children may take after the one, and someafter the other; but there will be one, at least, who partaketh both,and then they pull him divers ways, that he knoweth no peace." Isabel'saudience had been larger than she supposed. As she ended, with a wearysigh, a soft hand fell upon her head, and I who, sat upon her knees,could better see than she, looked up into my Lady's face.
"Sit still, daughter," said she, as Isabel strove to rise. "Nay, sweetheart, I am not angered at thy fantasy, though truly I, being but onelike Dame Hilda, conceive not thy meaning. It may be so. I have notall the wit upon earth, that I should scorn or set down the words ofthem that speak out of other knowledge than mine. But, my Isabel, thereis another way than this wherein thou mayest have two natures."
"How so, Dame, an' it like you?"
"The nature of sinful man, and the nature of God Almighty."
"They must be marvellous saints that so have," said Dame Hilda, crossingherself.
"Some of them," said my Lady gently, "were once marvellous sinners."
"Why, you should have to strive a very lifetime for that," quoth DameHilda. "I should think no man could rise thereto that dwelt not inanchorite's cell, and scourged him on the bare back every morrow, andate but of black rye-bread, and drank of ditch-water. Deary me, but Iwould not like that! I'd put up with a bit less saintliness, _I_would!"
"You are all out there, Dame," my Lady made answer. "This fashion ofsaintliness may be along with such matters, but it cometh not by theirhelp."
"How comes it then, Dame, an't like you?"
"By asking for it," saith our mother, quietly.
"Good lack! but which of the saints must I ask for it?" quoth she."I'll give him all the wax candles in Ludlow, a week afore I die. I'drather not have it sooner."
"When go you about to die, Dame?"
"Our Lady love us! That cannot I say."
"Then you shall scarce know the week before, I think."
"Oh, no! but the saint shall know. Look you, Dame, to be too much of asaint should stand sore in man's way. I could not sing, nor dance, norlake me a bit, if I were a saint; and that fashion of saintliness youspeak of must needs be sorest of all. If I do but just get it to go toHeaven with, that shall serve me the best."
"I thought they sang in Heaven," saith Isabel.
"Bless you, Damsel!--nought but Church music."
"Dame Hilda, I marvel if you would be happy in Heaven."
"Oh, I should be like, when I got there."
My Lady shook her head.
"For that," quoth she, "you must be partaker of the Divine nature.Which means not, doing good works contrary to your liking, but havingthe nature which delights in doing them."
"Oh, ay, that will come when we be there."
"On the contrary part, they that have it not here on earth shall not winthere. They only that be partakers of Christ may look to enter Heaven.And no man that partaketh Christ's merits can miss to partake Christ'snature."
"Marry, then but few shall win there."
"So do I fear," saith my Lady.
"Dame, under your good pleasure," saith Dame Hilda, looking herearnestly in the face, "where gat you such notions? They be somethingnew. At the least, never heard I your Ladyship so to speak aforetime."
My Lady's cheek faintly flushed.
"Dame!" saith Dame Hilda, looking somewhat anxiously on my mother, "I dotrust you go not about to die, nor to hie in cloister and leave allthese poor babes! Do bethink you, I pray, ere you do either."
My Lady smiled. "Nay, good my Dame!" saith she. "How can I go incloister, that am wedded wife?"
"Eh, but you might get your lord's consent thereto--some wedded womendoth."
I was looking on my Lady, and I saw a terrible change in her face whenDame Hilda spoke those words. I felt, too, Isabel's sudden nervousshiver. And I guessed what they both thought--that assent would be easyenough to win. For in all those months since Queen Isabel came over, hehad never come near us. He was ever at the Court, waiting upon her.And though his duties--if he had them, but what they were we knew not--might keep him at the Court in general, yet surely, had he been verydesirous to see us, he might have won leave to run over when the Queenwas at Hereford, were it only for an hour or twain.
Our mother did not answer for a moment. When she did, it was tosay--"Nay, vows may not be thus lightly done away. `Till death' scarcemeans, till one have opportunity to undo."
"Then, pray you, go not and die, Dame!"
"I am immortal till God bids me die," she made answer. "But why shouldman die because he loveth Jesu Christ better than he was wont?"
"Oh, folks always do when they get marvellous good."
"It were ill for the world an' they so did," saith my Lady. "That isbad enough to lack good folks."
"It is bad enough to lack _you_," saith Dame Hilda.
My Lady gave a little laugh, and so the converse ended.
The next thing that I can remember, after that, was the visit of ourfather. He only came that once, and tarried scarce ten days; but hetook Nym and Geoffrey back with him. I heard Dame Hilda whispersomewhat to Tamzine, as though he had desired to have also one or two ofthe elder damsels, and that my Lady had so earnestly begged and prayedto the contrary that for once he gave way to her. It was not often, Ithink, that he did that. It was four years good ere we saw either ofour brothers again--not till all was over--and then Geoff told us asorry tale indeed of all that had happed.
It was at the time when our father paid us this visit that my marriageand that of Beatrice were covenanted. King Edward of Caernarvon hadcontracted my lord that now is to the Lady Alianora La Despenser,daughter of my sometime Lord of Gloucester [Hugh Le Despenser theYounger], who was put to death at Hereford by Queen Isabel. But she--Imean the Queen--who hated him and all his, sent the Lady Alianora toSempringham, with command to veil her instantly, and gave the marriageof my Lord to my Lord Prince, the King that now is [Edward the Third].So my father, being then at top of the tree, begged the marriage for oneof his daughters, and it was settled that should be me. I liked it wellenough, to feel myself the most important person in the pageant, and tobe beautifully donned, and all that; and as I was not to leave home forsome years to come, it was but a show, and cost me nothing. I dare sayit cost somebody a pretty penny. Beatrice was higher mated, with myLord of Norfolk's son, who was the King's cousin, but he died a lad,poor soul! so her grandeur came to nought, and she wedded at last a muchlesser noble.
Thus dwelt we maids with our mother in the Castle of Ludlow, seeingnought of the fine doings that were at Court, save just for the time ofour marriages, which were at Wynchecombe on the day of Saint Lazarus,that is the morrow of O Sapientia [Note 4]. The King was presenthimself, and the young Lady Philippa, who the next month became ourQueen, and his sisters the Ladies Alianora and Joan, and more Earls andCountesses than I can count, all donned their finest. Well-a-day, butthere must have been many a yard of velvet in that chapel, and an wholearmy of beasts ermines must have laid their lives down to purfile [trimwith fur] the same! I was donned myself of blue velvet guarded ofminiver, and wore all my Lady's jewels on mine head and corsage; andmarry, but I queened it! Who but I for that morrow, in very sooth!
Ay, and somebody else [Queen Isabelle, the young King's mother] wasthere, whom I have not named. Somebody robed in snow-white velvet, withclose hood and wimple, so that all that showed of her face was from theeyebrows to the lips,--all pure, unstained mourning white. Little Iknew of the horrible stains on that black heart beneath! And I thoughther so sweet, so fair! Come, I have spoken too plainly to add a name.
So all passed away like a dream, and we won back to Ludlow, and mattersfell back to the old ways, as if nought had ever happened--the only realdifference being that instead of "Damsel Agnes" I was "my Lady ofPembroke," and our baby Beatrice, instead of "Damsel Beattie," was "myLady Beatrice of Norfolk." And about a year after that came lettersfrom Nym, addressed to "my Lady Countess of March," in which he writthat the King had made divers earls, and our father amongst them. DameHilda told us the news in the nursery, and Jack turned a somersault, andstood on his hands, with his heels up in the air.
"Call me Jack any more, if you dare!" cries he. "I am my Lord John ofMarch, and I shall expect to be addressed so, properly. Do you hear,children?"
"I hear one of the children, in good sooth," said Meg, comically. AndMaud saith--
"Prithee, Jack, take no airs, for they beseem thee but very ill."
Whereon Jack fell a-moaning and a-crying out, that Dame Hilda thought hewas rare sick, and ordered Emelina to get ready a dose of violet oil.But before Emelina could so much as fetch a spoon, there was Jackdancing a hornpipe and singing, or rather screaming, at the top of hisvoice, till Dame Hilda put her hands over her ears and cried for mercy.I never did see such another lad as Jack.
We heard but little, and being children, we cared less, for the eventsthat followed--the beheading of my Lord of Kent, and the rising under myLord of Lancaster. And the next thing after that was the last thing ofall.
It was in October, 1330. We had no more idea of such a blow falling onus than we had of the visitation of an angel. I remember we were allgathered--except the little ones--in my Lady's closet, for after mymarriage I was no longer kept in the nursery, though Beattie, on accountof her much youth, was made an exception to that rule. My Lady wasspinning, and her damsel Aveline carding, and Joan and I, our arms roundeach others' waists, sat in the corner, Joan having on her lap a pieceof finished broidery, and I having nothing: what the others were doing Iforget. Then came the familiar sound of the horn, and my Lady turnedwhite. I never felt sure why she always turned white when a hornsounded: whether she expected bad news, or whether she expected ourfather. She was exceeding afraid of him, and yet she loved him, I know:I cannot tell how she managed it.
After the horn, we heard the tramp of troops entering the court-yard,and I think we all felt that once more something was going to happen.Aveline glanced at my Lady, who returned the look, but did not speak;and then Lettice, one of the other maidens, rose and went forth, at alook from Aveline. But she could scarcely have got beyond the door whenMaster Inge came in.
"Dame," said he, "my news is best told quickly. The Castle and alltherein is confiscate to the Crown. But the King hath sent strictcommand that the wardrobe, jewels, and all goods, of your Ladyship, andof all ladies and children dwelling with you, shall be free fromseizure, and no hand shall be laid on you nor any thing belonging toyou."
My Lady rose up, resting her hand on the chair from which she rose; Ithink it was to support her.
"I return humble thanks to the Lord King," said she, in a tremblingvoice. "What hath happened, Master Inge?"
"Dame," quoth he, "how shall I tell you? My Lord is a
prisoner of theTower, and Sir Edmund and Sir Geoffrey with him--"
If my Lady could turn whiter, I think she did. I felt Joan's hand-clasptighten upon mine, till I could almost have cried out.
"And Dame Isabel the Queen is herself under ward in the Castle ofBerkhamsted, and all matters turned upside down. Man saith that thegreat men with the King be now Sir William de Montacute and Sir Edwardde Bohun, and divers more of like sort. And my Lord of Lancaster, mansaith, flung up his cap, and thanked God that he had lived to see thatday."
My Lady had stood as still and silent as an image, all the while MasterInge was speaking, only that when he said the Queen was in ward, shegave a sort of gasp. When he had done, she clasped her hands, andlooked up to Heaven.
"Dost Thou come," she said, in a strange voice that did not sound likehers, "dost Thou come to judge the earth? We have waited long for Thee.Yet--Oh, if it be possible--if it be possible! Spare my boys to me!And spare--"
A strange kind of sob seemed to come up in her throat, and she held outher hands as if she could not see. I believe, if Master Inge andLettice had not been quick to spring forward and catch her by the arms,she would have fallen to the floor. They bore her into her bedchamberclose by; and we children saw her not for some time. Dame Hilda was inand out; but when we asked her how my Lady fared, she did nought saveshake her head, from which we learned little except that things went illin some way. When we asked Lettice, she said--
"There, now! don't hinder me. Poor children, you will know soonenough."
Aveline was the best, for she sat down and gathered us into her arms andcomforted us; but even she gave us no real answer, only she kept saying,"Poor maids! poor little maids!"
So above a month passed away. Master John de Melbourne was sent downfrom the King as supervisor of the lands and goods of my Lady and herchildren; but he came with the men-at-arms, so he brought no fresh news:and it was after Christmas before we knew the rest. Then, one wintermorrow, came a warrant of the Chancery, granting to my Lady all thelands of her own inheritance, by reason of the execution of her husband.And then she knew that all had come that would come.
We children, Meg except, had not yet been allowed to see our mother, whohad never stirred from her bedchamber. One evening, early in January,we were sitting in her closet, clad in our new doole raiment (how Ihated it!), talking to one another in low voices, for I think we all hada sort of instinct that things were going wrong somehow, even the babieswho understood least about it: when all at once, for none of us saw herenter, a lady stood before us. A lady whom we did not know, clad inwhite widow-doole, tall and stately, with a white, white face, so thather weeds were scarcely whiter, and a kind of fixed, unalterableexpression of intense pain, yet unchangeable peace. It seemed to mesuch a strange look. Whether the pain or the peace were the greater Iknew not, nor could I tell which was the newer. We girls sat and lookedat her with puzzled faces. Then a faint smile broke through the pain,on the white face, like the sun breaking through clouds, and a voice weknew, asked of us--
"Don't you know me, my children?"
And that was how our mother came back to us.
She did not leave us again. Ever since he died, she has lived for us.That white face, full of peace and yet of pain, abides with her; hercolour has never returned. But I think the pain grows less with years,and the peace grows more. She smiles freely, but it is faintly, as ifsmiles hardly belonged to her, and were only a borrowed thing that mightnot be kept; and her eyes never light up as of old--only that once, whensome months after our father's end, Nym and Geoff came back to us.Then, just for one moment, her old face came again. For I think she hadgiven them up,--not to King Edward, but to Christ our Lord, who is herKing.
Ay, I never knew woman like her in that. There are many that will sayprayers, and there are some that will pray, which is another thing fromsaying prayers: but never saw I one like her, that seemed to do all herwork and to live all her living in the very light of the Throne of God.Just as an impassioned musician turns every thing into music, and a truepainter longs to paint every lovely thing he sees, so with her allthings turn to Jesu Christ. I should think she will be canonised someday. I am sure she deserves it better than many an one whom I haveheard man name as meriting to be a saint. Perhaps it is possible to bea saint and not be canonised. Must man not have been a saint before hecan be declared one? I know the Lady Julian would chide me for sayingthat, and bid me remember that the Church only can declare man to besaint. But I wonder myself if the Lord never makes saints, withoutwaiting for the Church to do it for Him. The Church may never call myLady "Saint Joan," but that will she be whether she be so-called or no.And at times I think, too, that they who shall be privileged to dwell inHeaven will find there a great company of saints of whom they neverheard, and perchance some of them that sit highest there will not bethose most accounted of in the Calendar and on festival days. But I donot suppose--as an ancestress of my mother did, in a chronicle she wrotewhich I once read; it is in the possession of her French relatives, andwas written by the Lady Elaine de Lusignan, daughter of Geoffroy Countde la Marche, who was a son of that House [Note 5]--I do not supposethat the saints who were nobles in this world will sit nearest theThrone, and those who were peasants furthest off. Nay, I think it willbe another order of nobility that will obtain there. Those who haveserved our Lord the best, and done the most for their fellow-men, theseI think will be the nobles of that world. For does not our Lord sayHimself that the first shall be last there, and the last first? And Ican guess that Joan de Mortimer, my Lady and mother, will not stand lowon that list. It is true, she was a Countess in this life; but it waslittle to her comfort; and she was beside that early orphaned, and acruelly ill-used wife and a bereaved mother. Life brought her littlegood: Heaven will bring her more.
But I wonder where one Agnes de Hastings will stand in that company.Nay, rather, will she be there at all?
It would be well that I should think about it.
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Note 1. A word which then included uniform and all lands of officialgarb.
Note 2. On August 3rd she left Skipton, arriving at Pomfret on the 5th.
Note 3. I find no indication of the date: only that she was at Ludlowon October 26, 1330.
Note 4. The precise date and place are not recorded, but it was aboutthis time, and the King, who was present, was in the West only fromDecember 16th to the 21st. It is asserted by Walsingham that Beatricewas married "about" 1327.
Note 5. The Lady Elaine's chronicle is "Lady Sybil's Choice."