To-day we have been to the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. This is a little city, nearly two leagues from Jerusalem, that is, half a day's ride. The way thither is very fair, by pleasant plains and woods. The city is long and narrow, and well walled, and enclosed with good ditches on all sides. Between the city and the church lies the field Floridus, where of old time a certain maiden was brought to the burning, being falsely accused. But she, knowing her innocence, prayed to our Lord, and He by miracle caused the lighted faggots to turn into red roses, and the unlighted into white roses; which were the first roses that were ever in the world.The place where our Lord was born is near the choir of the church, down sixteen steps, made of marble and richly painted; and under the cloister, down eighteen steps, is the charnel-house of the holy Innocents. The tomb of Saint Jerome is before the holy place. Here are kept a marble table, on which our Lady ate with the three Kings that came from the East to worship our Lord; and the cistern into which the star fell that guided them. The church, as is meet, is dedicated to our Lady.Marguerite wanted to know if I were sure that the table was marble. Because, she said, our Lady was a poor woman—only imagine such a fancy!—but she insisted upon it that she had heard Father Eudes read something about it. As if the Queen of Heaven, who was, moreover, Queen of the land, could have been poor! I told Marguerite I was sure she must be mistaken, for our Lady was a Princess born."That may be, of blood," said she; "but she was poor. Our Lord Himself, when on earth, was but a villein."I was dreadfully shocked."O Marguerite!" I cried. "What horrible sacrilege! Art thou not afraid of the church falling on thee?""It would not alter that if it did," said she drily."Our Lord a villein!" exclaimed I. "How is such a thing possible? He was the King of Kings.""He is the King of Kings," said Marguerite, so reverently that I was sure she could mean no ill; "and He was of the royal blood of Monseigneur Saint David. That is the Evangel of the nobles. But He was by station a villein, and wrought as a carpenter, and had no house and no wealth. That is the Evangel of the villeins. And the villeins need their Evangel, Damoiselle; for they have nothing else."I could not tell what to answer. It is rather puzzling. I suppose it is true that our Lord was reputed the son of a carpenter; and he must have wrought as such,—Monseigneur Saint Joseph, I mean,—for the Lady de Montbeillard, who is fond of picking up relics, has a splinter of wood from a cabinet that he made. But I always thought that it was to teach religious persons[#] a lesson of humility and voluntary poverty. It could not be that He waspoor![#] By this term a Romanist does not mean what a Protestant does. The only "religious persons," in the eyes of the former, are priests or monks.Then our Lady,—I have seen a scrap of her tunic, and it was as fine stuff as it could be; and I have heard, though I never saw it, that her wedding-ring is set with gems. I said this to Marguerite. How could our Lady be poor?"All that may be," she replied, with quiet perverseness. "But I know, for all that, Father Eudes read that our Lord was born in a cratch, or laid in one, because there was no room in the inn. And they do not behave in that way to kings and nobles. That is the lot of the villein. And He chose the villein's lot; and I, a villein, have been giving Him thanks for it."And nothing that I could say would disturb her calm conviction.Damoiselle Melisende told me some interesting things as we rode back to the Holy City. As,—that Jerusalem is very badly supplied with water, and the villeins collect and drink only rain-water. Of course this does not affect the nobles, who drink wine. About two leagues from Jerusalem, towards the north, is a little village called Jericho, where the walls of the house of Madame Saint Rahab are still standing. She was a great lady who received into her house certain spies sent by Monseigneur Saint Joshua, and hid them behind the arras. (Now, there again!—if that stupid old Marguerite would not have it that Madame Saint Rahab kept a cabaret. How could a great lady keep a cabaret? I wish she would give over listening, if it makes her take such fancies.) Damoiselle Melisende also told me that Adam, our first father, was buried in the place where our Lord was crucified; and our Lord's blood fell upon him, and he came to life again, and so did many others. And Adam wept for his son Abel one hundred years. Moreover, there is a rock still standing in the place where the wicked Jews had their Temple, which was in the holiest place of all; and here our Lord was wont to repose whilst His disciples confessed themselves to Him.[#][#] All these legends may be found in the Travels of Sir John Mandeville.Coming home, we passed by the Golden Gate, which is the gate whereby our Lord entered the Holy City on the ass, and the gate opened to Him of its own accord. Damoiselle Melisende bade me observe three marks in the stone where the ass had set his feet. The marks I certainly saw, but I could not have told that they were the print of an ass's hoofs. I suppose I was not worthy to behold them quite distinctly.Guy called me to him this evening."Little Lynette," he said, "I have something to tell thee.""Let me spare thee the pains, Guy," answered I mischievously. "Dost thou think I have no eyes? I saw it the first night we came.""Saw what?" asked Guy, with an astonished look."That thy beautiful lady had appeared," I replied. "Thou art going to wed with Lady Sybil.""What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing. "Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency of the kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence of the nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil.""If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said it honestly."Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of all lands! And she, Lynette—she is a gem and a treasure.""I am sure of that, Guy," said I."And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The King has given Amaury a wife.""Oh, poor thing!—who is it?" said I.Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears."Poor thing!—who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?""Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her, and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to please him.""Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It is the Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thou dost not know her.""Dost thou?—what is she like?""Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy—(what a falsehood!). "Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clémence, thy fair mother,—a woman is a woman, and that is all.""Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose, and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said such a thing, I should not have wondered.""Men are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business is to look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobody expects a woman to be over wise or clever.""Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine ears boxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, I never heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seem to look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet and plaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out that your plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cry out, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillations of something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let me tell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, and individuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Pretty phrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may sound very well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it never occur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a little genuine respect and consideration? We arenottoys; we are not pet animals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with human feelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to our complexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of our separate consciences and intellects.""'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused. "'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, Ihavehad a lecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry.""Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's pet monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused with that one ape in particular."Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is nobody.I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it as a personal insult—as though every spark of intellect added to our brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is,of course, to please the men,—not to make the most of herself as an individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.They will see what they will see.Ican live without them. And I mean to do.CHAPTER VI.THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE."'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?Now do let me grumble and groan:It is all very well other folks should have fun;But why can't they let me alone?"Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,—of which one variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system and purify the blood,—and garlic, which they consider an antidote to poison,—and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,—and hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and showed them to Marguerite.[#] Senna.[#] Colocynth.[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders."Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and found out what sort of thing it was."Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this country, and only in one particular spot.""Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit, my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running after it all their lives."Then I saw what she meant.They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts, and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children clever. They make no hay in this country.[#] Oranges.As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in Europe,—especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other blue.[#] Cotton.Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night, they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once. It seems to me rather a good idea.Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.[#] All mediæval Christians thought this.[#] The first drum on record.We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three, on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!—how I pity her! I would not marry Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,—Oh, so much! She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had."And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly."Very much indeed," said I,—"if you love him, Lady.""Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as concerned him. Never, tillhecame hither."Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But—shall I own to having been the least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises women—I have noticed that brainless men always do—and I should not have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy. Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather disappointed me.Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day. We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose damask.I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no colour in particular; she is not beautiful—nor ugly: she is not agreeable—nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.Well!—we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady Judith and I were left alone."Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question.""Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt.""Then, holy Mother,—do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from him?"Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile."Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?""Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy?Loyauté d'amourforbid! "But I mean in general.""Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling.""And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I. "Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?""That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up the man too high.""Oh!" said I deprecatingly."Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very complicated thing.""Then one may be too low to see a man's character?""True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a double one.—Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other.""But where the temperaments are alike—?" said I; for I always think Guy and I were cast in the same mould."They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two brothers, there is always a difference.""Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?""Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one mould,—yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other.""What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?""Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again."Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of that sort.""No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one.""Certainly," said I; "I am noble."Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes."Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?""I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it.""No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the words of the Master—thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him? He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes."I don't know how!" I said."No, dear heart; He knowshow," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou art willing to learn of Him—if thou art willing, Helena.""I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But—I could not leave Guy.""Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into the cloister?""I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in the world,—can one?""Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out. Its root is in thine own heart, little one.""But—your pardon, holy Mother!—you yourself have chosen the cloister.""Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact, it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I was five years old.""Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a wife?"[#][#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different places at the date of the dissolution."Better? I am not so sure. Happier,—yes, I think so.""Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I, laughing."Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without marriage.""That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun? Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get leave from my superiors to live with Guy.""It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy never disappoint thee, my child?"It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"—but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something else.I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her."Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered, turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I am afraid she will be disappointed.""But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to do?""Does one always know what is right? As to why,—there are the world, the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,—that is other people; and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes. But the flesh,—why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right. Marguerite must be mistaken.Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite. Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the blood must remain the same.I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I should never think of calling her sweet—at least, not sweet like her sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only whatshewants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of that sort. But I do not like them.As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do not wonder at Guy.Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too busy to attend to any thing."Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?""Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"I nodded."I think it is help," she answered."But what sort of help?""The sort we need at the minute.""But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?""If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the reason why she does not get it.""Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and not receive grace?""Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?""Margot! Is not that heresy?""Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be.""But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread, the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#][#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years later."I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully. "But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort, whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up and down the snowy streets in company, singing—only fancy, singing! And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could give; and then they went on, singing,—always singing. I asked Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,—it was she who told me,—what they sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity Song of the angels,—"Glory to God in the highest,—on earth peace towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the snow but one,—one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,—I think it was Lincoln, but I am not sure,—and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught his thin, quavering voice, still singing,—"Glory to God in the highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not singing,—dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his song.[#][#] Vulgate version.[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing Christians, by professing Christians.Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies the difference from truth and holiness?I must ask Lady Judith.Oh dear, whywillpeople?—I do think it is too bad. I never thought of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,—But that Guy, of all people in all this world—Come, I had better tell my story straight.I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had caught me."Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!""And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?""Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I.""What wouldst thou say to four?""Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride.""Ah, but suppose thou wert?""Cry my eyes out, I think."Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone."Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest hither for that object.""Icame hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation."Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone. "Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure thee.""Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.For that was the bitterest drop—that Guy should be willing to part with me."No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it would be an excellent match,—and of course I should be glad to see thee comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever understand women?"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is there about me that is unsettled?""Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no woman is considered settled till she marries.""I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world," said I."Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this.""And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!""Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"—I think Guy saw that had hurt me—"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves."My dear little sister," said Guy again,—and very lovingly he said it,—"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."Ah, that was it. He did not understand!"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?""What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt.""Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady."Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling."No," said I; "none.""And the poor fellow is to break his heart?""I dare say it will piece again," said I.Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder."Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me."'Art thou weary, art thou languid,Art thou sore distressed?'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,Be at rest.'"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,If He be my Guide?''In His feet and hands are wound-prints,And His side.'"'Is there diadem, as monarch,That His brow adorns?''Yea, a crown, in very surety,But of thorns.'"If I find Him, if I follow,What His guerdon here?''Many a sorrow, many a labour,Many a tear.'"'If I still hold closely to Him,What hath He at last?''Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,Jordan past.'"'If I ask Him to receive me,Will He say me nay?''Not till earth, and not till heaven,Pass away.'""Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said Damoiselle Melisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask when the Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's gold diapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had so touched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judith answered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ran off again."Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy with the diaper."Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could."Did it please thee now?""It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse."They had not far to come, had they, little one?"I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And—it was very silly of me, but—I burst into tears once more."It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wilt feel better for it, my child.""But I had—had it out—once," sobbed I."Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, little one.""It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do not exactly know why I was crying.""Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimes it means that we dare not look and see why."I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredient in my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put into words, even to myself.It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was not even that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield that place to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready had it been to any one else. But—there was the sting—he did not love me as I loved him. He could do without me.And I could have no comfort from sympathy. Because, in the first place, the only person whose sympathy would have been a comfort to me was the very one who had distressed me; and in the second place, I had a vague idea underlying my grief that I had no business to feel any; that every body (if they knew) would tell me I was exceedingly silly—that it was only what I ought to have expected—and all sorts of uncomfortable consolations of that kind. Was I a foolish baby, crying for the moon?—or was I a grand heroine of romance, whose feelings were so exquisitely delicate and sensitive that the common clay of which other people were made could not be expected to understand me? I could not tell.Oh, why must we come out of that sweet old world where we walked hand in hand, and were all in all to each other? Why must we grow up, and drift asunder, and never be the same to one another any more?Was I wicked?—or was I only miserable?About the last item at any rate there was no doubt. I sat, thinking sad thoughts, and trying to see my work through half-dimmed eyes, when Lady Judith spoke again."Helena," she said, "grief has two voices; and many only hear the upper and louder one. I shall be sorry to see thee miss that lower, stiller voice, which is by far the more important of the two.""What do you mean, holy Mother?" I asked."Dear heart," she said, "the louder voice, which all must hear, chants in a minor key, 'This world is not your rest.' It is a sad, sad song, more especially to those who have heard little of it before. But many miss the soft, sweet music of the undertone, which is,—'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.' Yet it is always there—if we will only listen.""But a thing which is done cannot be undone," said I."No," she answered. "It cannot. But can it not be compensated? If thou lose a necklace of gilt copper, and one give thee a gold carcanet instead, hast thou really sustained any loss?""Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the copper carcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to me for that?""Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It was almost as if she had said,—"I did not understand thee to meanthat!"—"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. But there is one.""Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing."Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is close to thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it.""What, holy Mother?"Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone."'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'""I cannot!" I sobbed."No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will of Him that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Hélène de Lusignan.""O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the good God!""Couldst thou not?" was all she said."Have I done that?" I faltered."Ask thine own conscience," replied Lady Judith. "Dear child, He loved not His will when He came down from Heaven, to do the will of God His Father. That will was to save His Church. Little Helena, was it to save thee?""How can I know, holy Mother?""It is worth knowing," she said."Yes, it is worth knowing," said I, "but how can we know?""What wouldst thou give to know it? Not that it can be bought: but what is it worth in thine eyes?"I thought, and thought, but I could not tell wherewith to measure any thing so intangible."Wouldst thou give up having thine own will for one year?" she asked."I know not what might happen in it," said I, with a rather frightened feeling.Why, I might marry, or be ill, or die. Or Guy might give over loving me altogether, in that year. Oh, I could not, could not will that! And a year is such a long, long time. No, I could not—for such a time as that—let myself slip into nothing, as it were."Helena," she said, "suppose, at this moment, God were to send an angel down to thee from Heaven. Suppose he brought to thee a message from God Himself, that if thou wouldst be content to leave all things to His ordering for one year, and to have no will at all in the matter, He would see that nothing was done which should really harm thee in the least. What wouldst thou say?""Oh, then I should dare to leave it!" said I."My child, if thou art of His redeemed, He has said it—not for one short year, but for all thy life.If, Helena!""Ah,—if!" I said with a sigh.Lady Judith wrought at her gold diapering, and I at my roses, and we were both silent for a season. Then the Lady Queen and the Lady Isabel came in, and there was no further opportunity for quiet conversation.
To-day we have been to the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. This is a little city, nearly two leagues from Jerusalem, that is, half a day's ride. The way thither is very fair, by pleasant plains and woods. The city is long and narrow, and well walled, and enclosed with good ditches on all sides. Between the city and the church lies the field Floridus, where of old time a certain maiden was brought to the burning, being falsely accused. But she, knowing her innocence, prayed to our Lord, and He by miracle caused the lighted faggots to turn into red roses, and the unlighted into white roses; which were the first roses that were ever in the world.
The place where our Lord was born is near the choir of the church, down sixteen steps, made of marble and richly painted; and under the cloister, down eighteen steps, is the charnel-house of the holy Innocents. The tomb of Saint Jerome is before the holy place. Here are kept a marble table, on which our Lady ate with the three Kings that came from the East to worship our Lord; and the cistern into which the star fell that guided them. The church, as is meet, is dedicated to our Lady.
Marguerite wanted to know if I were sure that the table was marble. Because, she said, our Lady was a poor woman—only imagine such a fancy!—but she insisted upon it that she had heard Father Eudes read something about it. As if the Queen of Heaven, who was, moreover, Queen of the land, could have been poor! I told Marguerite I was sure she must be mistaken, for our Lady was a Princess born.
"That may be, of blood," said she; "but she was poor. Our Lord Himself, when on earth, was but a villein."
I was dreadfully shocked.
"O Marguerite!" I cried. "What horrible sacrilege! Art thou not afraid of the church falling on thee?"
"It would not alter that if it did," said she drily.
"Our Lord a villein!" exclaimed I. "How is such a thing possible? He was the King of Kings."
"He is the King of Kings," said Marguerite, so reverently that I was sure she could mean no ill; "and He was of the royal blood of Monseigneur Saint David. That is the Evangel of the nobles. But He was by station a villein, and wrought as a carpenter, and had no house and no wealth. That is the Evangel of the villeins. And the villeins need their Evangel, Damoiselle; for they have nothing else."
I could not tell what to answer. It is rather puzzling. I suppose it is true that our Lord was reputed the son of a carpenter; and he must have wrought as such,—Monseigneur Saint Joseph, I mean,—for the Lady de Montbeillard, who is fond of picking up relics, has a splinter of wood from a cabinet that he made. But I always thought that it was to teach religious persons[#] a lesson of humility and voluntary poverty. It could not be that He waspoor!
[#] By this term a Romanist does not mean what a Protestant does. The only "religious persons," in the eyes of the former, are priests or monks.
Then our Lady,—I have seen a scrap of her tunic, and it was as fine stuff as it could be; and I have heard, though I never saw it, that her wedding-ring is set with gems. I said this to Marguerite. How could our Lady be poor?
"All that may be," she replied, with quiet perverseness. "But I know, for all that, Father Eudes read that our Lord was born in a cratch, or laid in one, because there was no room in the inn. And they do not behave in that way to kings and nobles. That is the lot of the villein. And He chose the villein's lot; and I, a villein, have been giving Him thanks for it."
And nothing that I could say would disturb her calm conviction.
Damoiselle Melisende told me some interesting things as we rode back to the Holy City. As,—that Jerusalem is very badly supplied with water, and the villeins collect and drink only rain-water. Of course this does not affect the nobles, who drink wine. About two leagues from Jerusalem, towards the north, is a little village called Jericho, where the walls of the house of Madame Saint Rahab are still standing. She was a great lady who received into her house certain spies sent by Monseigneur Saint Joshua, and hid them behind the arras. (Now, there again!—if that stupid old Marguerite would not have it that Madame Saint Rahab kept a cabaret. How could a great lady keep a cabaret? I wish she would give over listening, if it makes her take such fancies.) Damoiselle Melisende also told me that Adam, our first father, was buried in the place where our Lord was crucified; and our Lord's blood fell upon him, and he came to life again, and so did many others. And Adam wept for his son Abel one hundred years. Moreover, there is a rock still standing in the place where the wicked Jews had their Temple, which was in the holiest place of all; and here our Lord was wont to repose whilst His disciples confessed themselves to Him.[#]
[#] All these legends may be found in the Travels of Sir John Mandeville.
Coming home, we passed by the Golden Gate, which is the gate whereby our Lord entered the Holy City on the ass, and the gate opened to Him of its own accord. Damoiselle Melisende bade me observe three marks in the stone where the ass had set his feet. The marks I certainly saw, but I could not have told that they were the print of an ass's hoofs. I suppose I was not worthy to behold them quite distinctly.
Guy called me to him this evening.
"Little Lynette," he said, "I have something to tell thee."
"Let me spare thee the pains, Guy," answered I mischievously. "Dost thou think I have no eyes? I saw it the first night we came."
"Saw what?" asked Guy, with an astonished look.
"That thy beautiful lady had appeared," I replied. "Thou art going to wed with Lady Sybil."
"What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing. "Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency of the kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence of the nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil."
"If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said it honestly.
"Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of all lands! And she, Lynette—she is a gem and a treasure."
"I am sure of that, Guy," said I.
"And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The King has given Amaury a wife."
"Oh, poor thing!—who is it?" said I.
Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears.
"Poor thing!—who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?"
"Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her, and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to please him."
"Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It is the Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thou dost not know her."
"Dost thou?—what is she like?"
"Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy—(what a falsehood!). "Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clémence, thy fair mother,—a woman is a woman, and that is all."
"Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose, and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said such a thing, I should not have wondered."
"Men are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business is to look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobody expects a woman to be over wise or clever."
"Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine ears boxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, I never heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seem to look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet and plaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out that your plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cry out, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillations of something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let me tell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, and individuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Pretty phrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may sound very well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it never occur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a little genuine respect and consideration? We arenottoys; we are not pet animals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with human feelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to our complexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of our separate consciences and intellects."
"'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused. "'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, Ihavehad a lecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry."
"Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's pet monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused with that one ape in particular."
Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.
Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is nobody.
I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it as a personal insult—as though every spark of intellect added to our brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is,of course, to please the men,—not to make the most of herself as an individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.
They will see what they will see.Ican live without them. And I mean to do.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE.
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?Now do let me grumble and groan:It is all very well other folks should have fun;But why can't they let me alone?"
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?Now do let me grumble and groan:It is all very well other folks should have fun;But why can't they let me alone?"
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?
Now do let me grumble and groan:
Now do let me grumble and groan:
It is all very well other folks should have fun;
But why can't they let me alone?"
But why can't they let me alone?"
Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,—of which one variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system and purify the blood,—and garlic, which they consider an antidote to poison,—and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,—and hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and showed them to Marguerite.
[#] Senna.
[#] Colocynth.
[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.
"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and found out what sort of thing it was.
"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this country, and only in one particular spot."
"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit, my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running after it all their lives."
Then I saw what she meant.
They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts, and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children clever. They make no hay in this country.
[#] Oranges.
As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in Europe,—especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other blue.
[#] Cotton.
Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night, they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once. It seems to me rather a good idea.
Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.
[#] All mediæval Christians thought this.
[#] The first drum on record.
We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three, on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!—how I pity her! I would not marry Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.
I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,—Oh, so much! She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.
"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.
"Very much indeed," said I,—"if you love him, Lady."
"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as concerned him. Never, tillhecame hither."
Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But—shall I own to having been the least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?
I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises women—I have noticed that brainless men always do—and I should not have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy. Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather disappointed me.
Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.
I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day. We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose damask.
I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no colour in particular; she is not beautiful—nor ugly: she is not agreeable—nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.
Well!—we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady Judith and I were left alone.
"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."
"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."
"Then, holy Mother,—do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from him?"
Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.
"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"
"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy?Loyauté d'amourforbid! "But I mean in general."
"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."
"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I. "Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"
"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up the man too high."
"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.
"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very complicated thing."
"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"
"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a double one.—Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."
"But where the temperaments are alike—?" said I; for I always think Guy and I were cast in the same mould.
"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two brothers, there is always a difference."
"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"
"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one mould,—yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."
"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"
"Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.
"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of that sort."
"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."
"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."
Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.
"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"
"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."
"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the words of the Master—thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him? He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."
Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.
"I don't know how!" I said.
"No, dear heart; He knowshow," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou art willing to learn of Him—if thou art willing, Helena."
"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But—I could not leave Guy."
"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into the cloister?"
"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in the world,—can one?"
"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out. Its root is in thine own heart, little one."
"But—your pardon, holy Mother!—you yourself have chosen the cloister."
"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact, it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I was five years old."
"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a wife?"[#]
[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different places at the date of the dissolution.
"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,—yes, I think so."
"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I, laughing.
"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without marriage."
"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun? Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get leave from my superiors to live with Guy."
"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy never disappoint thee, my child?"
It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"—but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something else.
I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.
"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered, turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I am afraid she will be disappointed."
"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to do?"
"Does one always know what is right? As to why,—there are the world, the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."
The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,—that is other people; and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes. But the flesh,—why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right. Marguerite must be mistaken.
Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite. Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the blood must remain the same.
I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I should never think of calling her sweet—at least, not sweet like her sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only whatshewants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of that sort. But I do not like them.
As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do not wonder at Guy.
Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too busy to attend to any thing.
"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"
"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"
I nodded.
"I think it is help," she answered.
"But what sort of help?"
"The sort we need at the minute."
"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"
"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the reason why she does not get it."
"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and not receive grace?"
"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"
"Margot! Is not that heresy?"
"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."
"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread, the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]
[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years later.
"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully. "But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."
I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort, whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up and down the snowy streets in company, singing—only fancy, singing! And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could give; and then they went on, singing,—always singing. I asked Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,—it was she who told me,—what they sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity Song of the angels,—"Glory to God in the highest,—on earth peace towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the snow but one,—one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,—I think it was Lincoln, but I am not sure,—and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught his thin, quavering voice, still singing,—"Glory to God in the highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not singing,—dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his song.[#]
[#] Vulgate version.
[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing Christians, by professing Christians.
Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies the difference from truth and holiness?
I must ask Lady Judith.
Oh dear, whywillpeople?—I do think it is too bad. I never thought of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,—But that Guy, of all people in all this world—
Come, I had better tell my story straight.
I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had caught me.
"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"
"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"
"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."
"What wouldst thou say to four?"
"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."
"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"
"Cry my eyes out, I think."
Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.
"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest hither for that object."
"Icame hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.
"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone. "Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure thee."
"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.
For that was the bitterest drop—that Guy should be willing to part with me.
"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it would be an excellent match,—and of course I should be glad to see thee comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."
Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever understand women?
"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is there about me that is unsettled?"
"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no woman is considered settled till she marries."
"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world," said I.
"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."
"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"
"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"—I think Guy saw that had hurt me—"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"
I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.
"My dear little sister," said Guy again,—and very lovingly he said it,—"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."
Ah, that was it. He did not understand!
"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"
"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt."
"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.
It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.
[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.
"No," said I; "none."
"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"
"I dare say it will piece again," said I.
Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"
And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.
Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.
I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.
Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.
I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,Art thou sore distressed?'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,Be at rest.'"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,If He be my Guide?''In His feet and hands are wound-prints,And His side.'"'Is there diadem, as monarch,That His brow adorns?''Yea, a crown, in very surety,But of thorns.'"If I find Him, if I follow,What His guerdon here?''Many a sorrow, many a labour,Many a tear.'"'If I still hold closely to Him,What hath He at last?''Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,Jordan past.'"'If I ask Him to receive me,Will He say me nay?''Not till earth, and not till heaven,Pass away.'"
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,Art thou sore distressed?'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,Be at rest.'
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?
Art thou sore distressed?
'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,
Be at rest.'
Be at rest.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,If He be my Guide?''In His feet and hands are wound-prints,And His side.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,
If He be my Guide?'
If He be my Guide?'
'In His feet and hands are wound-prints,
And His side.'
And His side.'
"'Is there diadem, as monarch,That His brow adorns?''Yea, a crown, in very surety,But of thorns.'
"'Is there diadem, as monarch,
That His brow adorns?'
That His brow adorns?'
'Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns.'
But of thorns.'
"If I find Him, if I follow,What His guerdon here?''Many a sorrow, many a labour,Many a tear.'
"If I find Him, if I follow,
What His guerdon here?'
What His guerdon here?'
'Many a sorrow, many a labour,
Many a tear.'
Many a tear.'
"'If I still hold closely to Him,What hath He at last?''Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,Jordan past.'
"'If I still hold closely to Him,
What hath He at last?'
What hath He at last?'
'Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,
Jordan past.'
Jordan past.'
"'If I ask Him to receive me,Will He say me nay?''Not till earth, and not till heaven,Pass away.'"
"'If I ask Him to receive me,
Will He say me nay?'
Will He say me nay?'
'Not till earth, and not till heaven,
Pass away.'"
Pass away.'"
"Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said Damoiselle Melisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask when the Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."
Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's gold diapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had so touched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judith answered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ran off again.
"Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy with the diaper.
"Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could.
"Did it please thee now?"
"It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse.
"They had not far to come, had they, little one?"
I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And—it was very silly of me, but—I burst into tears once more.
"It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wilt feel better for it, my child."
"But I had—had it out—once," sobbed I.
"Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, little one."
"It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do not exactly know why I was crying."
"Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimes it means that we dare not look and see why."
I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredient in my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put into words, even to myself.
It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was not even that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield that place to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready had it been to any one else. But—there was the sting—he did not love me as I loved him. He could do without me.
And I could have no comfort from sympathy. Because, in the first place, the only person whose sympathy would have been a comfort to me was the very one who had distressed me; and in the second place, I had a vague idea underlying my grief that I had no business to feel any; that every body (if they knew) would tell me I was exceedingly silly—that it was only what I ought to have expected—and all sorts of uncomfortable consolations of that kind. Was I a foolish baby, crying for the moon?—or was I a grand heroine of romance, whose feelings were so exquisitely delicate and sensitive that the common clay of which other people were made could not be expected to understand me? I could not tell.
Oh, why must we come out of that sweet old world where we walked hand in hand, and were all in all to each other? Why must we grow up, and drift asunder, and never be the same to one another any more?
Was I wicked?—or was I only miserable?
About the last item at any rate there was no doubt. I sat, thinking sad thoughts, and trying to see my work through half-dimmed eyes, when Lady Judith spoke again.
"Helena," she said, "grief has two voices; and many only hear the upper and louder one. I shall be sorry to see thee miss that lower, stiller voice, which is by far the more important of the two."
"What do you mean, holy Mother?" I asked.
"Dear heart," she said, "the louder voice, which all must hear, chants in a minor key, 'This world is not your rest.' It is a sad, sad song, more especially to those who have heard little of it before. But many miss the soft, sweet music of the undertone, which is,—'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.' Yet it is always there—if we will only listen."
"But a thing which is done cannot be undone," said I.
"No," she answered. "It cannot. But can it not be compensated? If thou lose a necklace of gilt copper, and one give thee a gold carcanet instead, hast thou really sustained any loss?"
"Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the copper carcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to me for that?"
"Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It was almost as if she had said,—"I did not understand thee to meanthat!"—"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. But there is one."
"Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing.
"Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is close to thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it."
"What, holy Mother?"
Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone.
"'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"
"I cannot!" I sobbed.
"No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will of Him that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Hélène de Lusignan."
"O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the good God!"
"Couldst thou not?" was all she said.
"Have I done that?" I faltered.
"Ask thine own conscience," replied Lady Judith. "Dear child, He loved not His will when He came down from Heaven, to do the will of God His Father. That will was to save His Church. Little Helena, was it to save thee?"
"How can I know, holy Mother?"
"It is worth knowing," she said.
"Yes, it is worth knowing," said I, "but how can we know?"
"What wouldst thou give to know it? Not that it can be bought: but what is it worth in thine eyes?"
I thought, and thought, but I could not tell wherewith to measure any thing so intangible.
"Wouldst thou give up having thine own will for one year?" she asked.
"I know not what might happen in it," said I, with a rather frightened feeling.
Why, I might marry, or be ill, or die. Or Guy might give over loving me altogether, in that year. Oh, I could not, could not will that! And a year is such a long, long time. No, I could not—for such a time as that—let myself slip into nothing, as it were.
"Helena," she said, "suppose, at this moment, God were to send an angel down to thee from Heaven. Suppose he brought to thee a message from God Himself, that if thou wouldst be content to leave all things to His ordering for one year, and to have no will at all in the matter, He would see that nothing was done which should really harm thee in the least. What wouldst thou say?"
"Oh, then I should dare to leave it!" said I.
"My child, if thou art of His redeemed, He has said it—not for one short year, but for all thy life.If, Helena!"
"Ah,—if!" I said with a sigh.
Lady Judith wrought at her gold diapering, and I at my roses, and we were both silent for a season. Then the Lady Queen and the Lady Isabel came in, and there was no further opportunity for quiet conversation.