There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but—"Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer!"Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a man's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one person to another!Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations."What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I."Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!""Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?""Well, they don't," said Guy."Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied."Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common.""Only among women?" said I."Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value."Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers—partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it—can it be—possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?And—I cannot tell why—it has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that—I do believe, through his machinations—she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die—the holy saints defend it!—I believe him capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself King of Jerusalem.Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference, which I do not like to see,—something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing.Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether. And I cannot see how it is to be set right.I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.She answered, "Yes, when they come from God.""Ah!—but how is one to know?""Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to the coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but—I do not know. I have offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that is, that the presentiment did not go."What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she."Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me."I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine—Who is it, my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me.""It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sybil."Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me."I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one."It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith."What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?—or Lady Sybil?"Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!""Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!—at least, not yet.""But till when?" I asked."I should say, till you all return here—unless something happen in the interim. But if thou dost speak, little one—do not be surprised if nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely indulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They are likely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust.""It would be too bad!" said I."It would be very probable," she responded."Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had occurred to her as to me."I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, by marriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel.""But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" cried I."No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some internal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; it is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is safe.""But if she were to die—?""Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may happen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put what we love into His hands, and leave it there.""But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully."He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him.""It is not enough for me," said I sadly."Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the good God as of the Lord Regent?""Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because I think the Lord Regent a wicked man.""No, but to the same extent?""I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice."Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him, Helena?""O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I am afraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it. I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how to begin.""Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?""I have done: but He has not done it."Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me."Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thou wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more than thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the dark basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to let thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary of knocking, and go away.""But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?""I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art taught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and learn.""Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing."Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are more slow to learn.""I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.Lady Judith smiled."Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the hardness of their tasks," said she.We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly—"Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?""I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ our Lord is God.""Good; but what is Heto thee?"I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than to every body else."Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Count of Ascalon to thee?""Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother—the dearest being to me in all the world.""Then that is something different from what he is to others?""Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be to strangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, you yourself know that. He is not that to you.""Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which he is to thee, and not to me,—that dearest in all the world, ay, in all the universe,—my child, Christ is that to me."I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: and I could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling took possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she had something I had not; and it was something which made her happier than any thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was on the rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn and verdant with pasture.It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge across the gulf."You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makes the difference."Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no nun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not the difference."No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever."Dost thou want to know it, Helena?""Holy Mother, so much!" I said, bursting into tears. "You and Marguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and towers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are and the robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been round and round the walls, and I can see no gate.""Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His.""What can stop the way?" I said."Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion—but above all, unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee.""Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them?"I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said—"Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart is Hélène de Lusignan.""What, myself?""Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister.Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but I don't like her to say things of that kind."Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love myself?""My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old woman."No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it? But dost thou think I love myself,—better than I love other people?""We all love either ourselves or the good God.""But we can love both."Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!—no. That would be serving two masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said,—"Sir God, show me whether I love myself." Because,—though I do not like it,—yet, perhaps, if I do, it is best to know it.We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it, so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have come are Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the little girls, Agnes and Héloïse. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only to wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one day's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelled violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to accompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he will go to Acre, and she to Hebron.The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her low voice said—"Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of any sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a bénitier[#] of red pottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me to sit on her bed, and then she said—[#] Holy water vessel."Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the Count touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again.""Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will you tell me why?""We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtful whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden, the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask Him to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as I might: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should. It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest.""I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"——"Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hard matter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. But where he is thy father——Dost thou understand me, maiden?"Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if the gulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridge across?We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should have called it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, and quarrels, and so it is rather a relief—for a little while. Lady Sybil, I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. I believe Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaury does not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness. "All right"—"never mind it"—"it does not signify"—are the style of her stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all the same a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her."Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that pet phrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of our Lord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then.""Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer."Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we were always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify any thing. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions—as if all the world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was any thing."Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet."I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I do not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not. I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small. But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can make troubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,—a disappointment about the colour of a tunic,—a misunderstanding about the pattern of a trimming,—a cut in one's finger,—and such as these,—is it not very foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did not last a quarter?""My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou not teach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do."Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it."For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to sing like a nightingale."I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coral necklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care to wear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovely ring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf to wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listen to him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang it by. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, and then gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holy Evangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!—and yet I am the youngest of us.I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad news. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-entered the Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he do this, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord King cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to Acre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with the King, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear; or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signet as a token to Count Raymond—which ring the Count knows well. Guy has ordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the Holy City, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives."Now, Elaine!—how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe without the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch (I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned as far as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city, and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They have been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown of Jerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distracted state of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that King Henry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon my word! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!It seems to me, too—but every body, even Guy, says that is only one of my queer, unaccountable notions—that, since King Foulques of Anjou had no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so long as her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirs by another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, of course, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King, all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort, his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and fair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurd fancies."Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," says Amaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, the queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next. But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous."Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of family arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world! Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard.""Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisest man."Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.CHAPTER XI.THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM."It was but unity of placeWhich made me dream I ranked with him."—TENNYSON.Here we are, safe in the Holy City, after a hurried and most uncomfortable journey. All the quiet is assuredly gone now. For the Holy City is full of tumult—cries, and marchings, and musters, and clashing of arms—from morning till night. Lady Judith, looking as calm as ever, received us with a blessing, and a soft, glad light in her eyes, which told that she was pleased to have us back. The Patriarch and the Master of the Temple have not yet arrived. Guy thinks they may tarry at Acre with Count Raymond, and come on in his train.The Lord de Clifford has come from England, by way of Jaffa, with the answer of King Henry the father. It seems that the Patriarch actually took with him the keys of the Holy City and the blessed Sepulchre. I am astonished that Count Raymond should have entrusted them to him. More than this, they travelled by way of Rome, and through their wicked misrepresentations obtained letters from the Holy Father, urging King Henry to take on himself this charge. King Henry was holding Court at Reading when they came to him, and the Patriarch says he was moved to tears at their account of the miserable state of the Holy Land. (Well, I am not going to deny the misery; but I do say it is Count Raymond's fault, and that if matters had been left in Guy's hands, they would never have come to this pass.) King Henry, however, would not give his answer at once; but bade them wait till he had convoked his great council, which sat at Clerkenwell on the eighteenth of March in last year. The decision of the Parliament was that in the interests of England the offer ought to be refused."Well!" said Guy, "as a mere question of political wisdom, that is doubtless right; for, apart from the pleasure of God, it would be the ruin of England to have the Holy Land clinging round her neck like a mill-stone. Yet remember, Lord Robert the Courthose never prospered after he had refused this crown of the world. He impiously blew out the taper which had been lighted by miracle; and think what his end was!""But dost thou think, my Lord," asked Lady Sybil, looking up, "that he meant it impiously? I have always thought his words so beautiful—that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in the place where our Lord had worn for us the crown of thorns.""Very beautiful, Lady," said Guy a little drily, "if he had not heard just before the conference of the death of his brother, King William the Red."Well!—when King Henry gave his answer, what did the Patriarch, but ask that one of his sons might be substituted,—and Guy thinks he specially indicated the Count of Poitou.[#] Guy says there are great possibilities in our young Count; but Amaury sneers at the idea. However, the King and the Parliament alike declined to accept in the name of any of the Princes, seeing none of themselves were present: and the Patriarch had to content himself with a promise of aid alone. King Henry took him in his train to Normandy, and after celebrating the holy Easter at Rouen, they had an interview with the French King at Vaudreuil. Both the Kings promised help, swearing on the souls of each other;[#] and many nobles, both French and English, took the holy cross. It is hoped that the King of France and the Count of Poitou may lead an army hither in a few months.[#] Richard Cœur-de-Lion, whose reputation was yet to be made.[#] The usual oath of monarchs in solemn form."If we can manage to conclude a truce meanwhile, and they do not come here to find us all slaughtered or prisoners to the Paynim," says Guy. "Great bodies move slowly; and kings and armies are of that description."Saladin has taken Neapolis! Our scouts bring us word that he is ravaging and burning all the land as he marches, and he has turned towards the Holy City. Almost any morning, we may be awoke from sleep with his dreadful magic engine sounding in our ears. Holy Mary and all the saints, pray to the good God for His poor servants!And not a word comes from the Regent. Four several messengers Guy has sent, by as many different routes, in the hope that at least one of them may reach Acre, earnestly urging him to send instructions. We do not even know the condition of matters at Acre. The King and the Regent may themselves be prisoners. Oh, what is to be done?Guy says that whatever may become of him, the kingdom must not be lost: and if ten days more pass without news of the Regent, he will parley with Saladin, and if possible conclude a truce on his own responsibility. I feel so afraid for Guy! I believe if Count Raymond could find a handle, he would destroy him without mercy. Guy himself seems to perceive that the responsibility he is ready to assume involves serious peril."Nevertheless, my Lady's inheritance must not be lost," he says.I asked Lady Judith this morning if she were not dreadfully frightened of Saladin. They say he eats Christian children, and sometimes maidens, when the children run short."If I felt no alarm, I should scarcely be a woman, Helena," said she. "But I took my fear to the Lord, as King David did. 'What time I am afraid,' he says, 'I will trust in Thee.' And I had my answer last night.""Oh!" said I. "What was it, if it please you, holy Mother?"She lifted her head with a light in the grey eyes."'I am, I am thy Comforter. Know whom thou art, afraid of a dying man, and of a son of men who wither like grass: and thou forgettest God thy Maker, the Maker of the heaven and Foundation-Layer of the earth, and fearest ever, every day, the face of the fury of thine oppressor.... And now, where is the fury of thine oppressor?'""Did the good God speak to you in vision, holy Mother?""No, Helena. He spake to me as He does to thee—in His Word."I thought it would have been a great deal more satisfactory if she had been told in vision."But how do you know, holy Mother," I ventured to say, "that words written in holy Scripture, ever so long ago, have something to do with you now?""God's Word is living, my child," she said; "it is not, like all other books, a dead book. His Word who is alive for evermore, endureth for ever. Moreover, there is a special promise that the Holy Spirit shall bring God's words to the remembrance of His servants, as they need. And when they come from Him, they come living and with power.""Then you think, holy Mother, that the Paynim will be driven back?""I do not say that, my child. But I think that the God who turned back Sennacherib is alive yet: and the Angel who smote the camp of the Assyrians can do it again if his Lord command him. And if not—no real mischief, Helena,—no real harm—can happen to him or her who abideth under the shadow of God.""But we might be killed, holy Mother!""We might," she said, so quietly that I looked at her in amazement."Holy Mother!" I exclaimed."Thou dost not understand our Lord's words, Helena!—'And they shall kill some of you, ... and a hair from the head of you shall not be lost.'""Indeed I do not," said I bluntly."And I cannot make thee do so," she added gently. "God must do it."But why does He not do it? Have I not asked Him, over and over again, to make me understand? I suppose something is in the way, and something which is my fault. But how am I to get rid of it when I do not even know what it is?The ten days are over, and no word comes from the Regent. Guy has assumed, as Vice-Regent, the command of the Holy City. Of course he is the person to do it, as Lady Sybil's husband. Our scouts report that Saladin is marching through the pass of Gerizim. Guy has sent out a trumpeter with a suitable armed escort, to sound a parley, and invite the Paynim to meet with him and arrange for a truce at Lebonah. Until the trumpeter returns, we do not know whether this effort will succeed.Lady Sybil, I can see, is excessively anxious, and very uneasy lest, if Guy go to parley with Saladin, the wicked Paynim should use some treachery towards him."It is God's will!" she said; but I saw tears in her sweet eyes. "The battle, and the toil, and the triumph for the men: the waiting, and weeping, and praying for the women. Perhaps, in their way, the humble bedeswomen do God's will as much as the warrior knights."The trumpeter returned last night, with a message from Saladin almost worthy of a Christian knight. It seems very strange that Paynims should be capable of courtesy.[#][#] A most expressive word in the Middle Ages, not restricted, as now, civility, but including honourable sentiments and generous conduct.Saladin is willing to conclude a truce, and will meet Guy at Lebonah to do so; but it is to be for six months only, and Guy says the terms are somewhat hard. However, it is the best thing he can do: and as the Regent maintains his obstinate silence, something must be done. So far as our envoys could learn, the Paynim army has not been near Acre, and only crossed the Jordan some thirty miles lower down. It appears clear, therefore, that the Regent might have answered if he would.Guy and Amaury set out yesterday morning for Lebonah to meet Saladin. It is two or three days' journey from the Holy City, and allowing three days more for conference, it must be ten days at least ere they can return.I wander about the house, and can settle to nothing. Lady Sybil sits at work, but I believe she weeps more than she works. Eschine's embroidery grows quietly. I have discovered that she carries her heart out of sight.We were talking this morning—I hardly know how the subject came up—about selfishness. Lady Isabel said, with a toss of her head, that she was sure no reasonable being could call her selfish. (Now I could not agree with her, for I have always thought her very much so.) Lady Judith quietly asked her in what she thought selfishness consisted."In being stingy and miserly, of course," said she."Well, but stingy of what?" responded Lady Judith. "I think people make a great mistake when they restrict selfishness merely to being miserly with money. I should say that the man is unselfish who will give willingly that which he counts precious. But that means very different things to different people.""I wonder what it means to us five," said I.Lady Judith looked round with a smile. "I almost think I could tell you," said she."Oh, do!" we all said but Lady Isabel."Well, to me," answered Lady Judith, "it means, submitting,—because some one wishes it who has a right to my submission, or else as a matter of Christian love—to do any thing in a way which I think inferior, absurd, or not calculated to effect the end proposed. In other words, my ruling sin is self-satisfaction."We all exclaimed against this conclusion: but she maintained that it was so."Then," she continued, "to Sybil, it means depriving herself of her lord's society, either for his advantage or for that of some one else."Lady Sybil smiled and blushed. "Then my ruling sin——?" she said interrogatively."Nay, I did not undertake to draw that inference in any case but my own," said Lady Judith with an answering smile.We all—except Lady Isabel—begged that she would do it for us. She seemed, I thought, to assent rather reluctantly."You will not like it," said she. "And if you drew the inference for yourselves, you would be more likely to attend to the lesson conveyed.""Oh, but we might do it wrong," I said.Lady Judith laughed. "Am I, then, so infallible that I cannot do it wrong?" said she. "Well, Sybil, my dear, if thou wouldst know, I think thy tendency—I do not say thy passion, but thy tendency—is to idolatry.""Oh!" cried Lady Sybil, looking quite distressed."But now, misunderstand me not," pursued Lady Judith. "Love is not necessarily idolatry. When we love the creaturemorethan the Creator—when, for instance, thou shalt care more to please thy lord than to please the Lord—then only is it idolatry. Therefore, I use the word tendency; I trust it is not more with thee.—Well, then, with Isabel"——Lady Isabel gave a toss of her head,—a gesture to which she is very much addicted."With Isabel," continued Lady Judith, "unselfishness would take the form of resigning her own ease or pleasure to suit the convenience of another, Her temptation, therefore, is to indolence and self-pleasing. With Helena"——I pricked up my ears. What was I going to hear?"With Helena," said she, smiling on me, "it would be, I think, to fulfil some duty, though those whom she loved might misunderstand her and think her silly for it.""Then what is my besetting sin, holy Mother?""Pride of intellect, I think," she answered; "very nearly the same as my own.""Holy Mother, you have left out Dame Eschine!" said Lady Isabel rather sharply."Have I?" said Lady Judith. "Well, my children, you must ask the Lord wherein Eschine's selfishness lies, for I cannot tell. I dare not deny its existence; I believe all sinners have it in some form. Only, in this case,Icannot detect it."Eschine looked up with an expression of utter amazement."Holy Mother!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me, as you went on, that I had every one of those you mentioned."Lady Judith's smile was very expressive."Dear child," she said, "these are not my words,—'Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"Does she think Eschine the best of us all? Is she? Dear me! I never should have thought it."Well!" said Lady Isabel, with a sort of snort, and another toss, "I am quite sure that I have not one of those faults you mentioned.""Ah, my child!" responded Lady Judith. "Take heed of the Pharisee spirit—Eschine, what wouldst thou say was thy besetting sin?""I really cannot tell, I have so many!" answered Eschine modestly. "But I sometimes think that it may be—perhaps—a want of meekness and patience."I stared at her in astonishment."Well, thank the saints, I am in no want of patience!" said Lady Isabel. "And if any one knew all I have to try it"——I turned and looked at her, if possible, in astonishment still greater.Really, how very, very little, people do know themselves! If there be a patient creature in this world, it is Eschine: and if there be an impatient one, it is Lady Isabel.I wonder whether I know myself? I do not think I should have set myself down as proud of my intellect. But we Lusignans always have had brains—except Amaury; he has stepped out of the ranks. And I don't like people to disagree with me, and contradict me, nor to behave as if they thought I had no sense. That is true enough. I suppose I must be proud.And yet, it cannot be wrong to know that one has brains. What is pride? Where does the knowledge end, and the sin begin? Oh dear! how is one ever to know?If two and two would only make four in every thing! Or is it that one makes mistakes one's self in the adding-up?
There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?
Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but—
"Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer!"
Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a man's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one person to another!
Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations.
"What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.
"Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!"
"Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?"
"Well, they don't," said Guy.
"Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.
"Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."
"Only among women?" said I.
"Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value."
Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.
But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers—partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it—can it be—possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?
I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?
And—I cannot tell why—it has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that—I do believe, through his machinations—she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die—the holy saints defend it!—I believe him capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself King of Jerusalem.
Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference, which I do not like to see,—something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing.
Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether. And I cannot see how it is to be set right.
I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.
She answered, "Yes, when they come from God."
"Ah!—but how is one to know?"
"Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."
I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?
The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to the coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but—I do not know. I have offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that is, that the presentiment did not go.
"What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she.
"Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"
Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me.
"I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine—Who is it, my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me."
"It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sybil."
Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me.
"I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one."
It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.
"What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?—or Lady Sybil?"
Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!"
"Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!—at least, not yet."
"But till when?" I asked.
"I should say, till you all return here—unless something happen in the interim. But if thou dost speak, little one—do not be surprised if nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely indulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They are likely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust."
"It would be too bad!" said I.
"It would be very probable," she responded.
"Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"
I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had occurred to her as to me.
"I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, by marriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel."
"But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" cried I.
"No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some internal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; it is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is safe."
"But if she were to die—?"
"Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may happen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put what we love into His hands, and leave it there."
"But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully.
"He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him."
"It is not enough for me," said I sadly.
"Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the good God as of the Lord Regent?"
"Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because I think the Lord Regent a wicked man."
"No, but to the same extent?"
"I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice.
"Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him, Helena?"
"O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I am afraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it. I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how to begin."
"Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?"
"I have done: but He has not done it."
Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me.
"Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thou wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more than thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the dark basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to let thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary of knocking, and go away."
"But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?"
"I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art taught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and learn."
"Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing.
"Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are more slow to learn."
"I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.
Lady Judith smiled.
"Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the hardness of their tasks," said she.
We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly—
"Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?"
"I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ our Lord is God."
"Good; but what is Heto thee?"
I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than to every body else.
"Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Count of Ascalon to thee?"
"Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother—the dearest being to me in all the world."
"Then that is something different from what he is to others?"
"Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be to strangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, you yourself know that. He is not that to you."
"Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which he is to thee, and not to me,—that dearest in all the world, ay, in all the universe,—my child, Christ is that to me."
I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: and I could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling took possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she had something I had not; and it was something which made her happier than any thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was on the rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn and verdant with pasture.
It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge across the gulf.
"You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makes the difference."
Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no nun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not the difference.
"No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."
I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever.
"Dost thou want to know it, Helena?"
"Holy Mother, so much!" I said, bursting into tears. "You and Marguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and towers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are and the robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been round and round the walls, and I can see no gate."
"Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His."
"What can stop the way?" I said.
"Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion—but above all, unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee."
"Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them?"
I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said—
"Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart is Hélène de Lusignan."
"What, myself?"
"Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.
I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister.
Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but I don't like her to say things of that kind.
"Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love myself?"
"My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old woman.
"No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it? But dost thou think I love myself,—better than I love other people?"
"We all love either ourselves or the good God."
"But we can love both."
Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!—no. That would be serving two masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."
I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said,—"Sir God, show me whether I love myself." Because,—though I do not like it,—yet, perhaps, if I do, it is best to know it.
We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it, so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have come are Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the little girls, Agnes and Héloïse. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only to wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one day's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelled violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to accompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he will go to Acre, and she to Hebron.
The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her low voice said—
"Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."
So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of any sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a bénitier[#] of red pottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me to sit on her bed, and then she said—
[#] Holy water vessel.
"Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the Count touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again."
"Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will you tell me why?"
"We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtful whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden, the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask Him to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as I might: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should. It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest."
"I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"——
"Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hard matter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. But where he is thy father——Dost thou understand me, maiden?"
Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if the gulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridge across?
We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should have called it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, and quarrels, and so it is rather a relief—for a little while. Lady Sybil, I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. I believe Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaury does not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness. "All right"—"never mind it"—"it does not signify"—are the style of her stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all the same a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her.
"Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that pet phrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of our Lord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then."
"Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer.
"Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we were always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify any thing. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions—as if all the world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was any thing."
Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet.
"I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I do not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not. I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small. But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can make troubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,—a disappointment about the colour of a tunic,—a misunderstanding about the pattern of a trimming,—a cut in one's finger,—and such as these,—is it not very foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did not last a quarter?"
"My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou not teach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do."
Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it.
"For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to sing like a nightingale."
I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.
Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coral necklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care to wear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovely ring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf to wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listen to him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang it by. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, and then gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holy Evangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.
Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!—and yet I am the youngest of us.
I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad news. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-entered the Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he do this, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord King cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to Acre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with the King, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear; or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signet as a token to Count Raymond—which ring the Count knows well. Guy has ordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the Holy City, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives.
"Now, Elaine!—how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.
May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!
But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe without the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch (I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned as far as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city, and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They have been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown of Jerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distracted state of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that King Henry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon my word! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!
It seems to me, too—but every body, even Guy, says that is only one of my queer, unaccountable notions—that, since King Foulques of Anjou had no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so long as her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirs by another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, of course, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King, all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort, his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and fair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurd fancies.
"Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," says Amaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"
Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, the queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next. But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous.
"Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of family arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world! Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard."
"Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisest man."
Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.
"It was but unity of placeWhich made me dream I ranked with him."—TENNYSON.
"It was but unity of placeWhich made me dream I ranked with him."—TENNYSON.
"It was but unity of place
Which made me dream I ranked with him."
—TENNYSON.
—TENNYSON.
Here we are, safe in the Holy City, after a hurried and most uncomfortable journey. All the quiet is assuredly gone now. For the Holy City is full of tumult—cries, and marchings, and musters, and clashing of arms—from morning till night. Lady Judith, looking as calm as ever, received us with a blessing, and a soft, glad light in her eyes, which told that she was pleased to have us back. The Patriarch and the Master of the Temple have not yet arrived. Guy thinks they may tarry at Acre with Count Raymond, and come on in his train.
The Lord de Clifford has come from England, by way of Jaffa, with the answer of King Henry the father. It seems that the Patriarch actually took with him the keys of the Holy City and the blessed Sepulchre. I am astonished that Count Raymond should have entrusted them to him. More than this, they travelled by way of Rome, and through their wicked misrepresentations obtained letters from the Holy Father, urging King Henry to take on himself this charge. King Henry was holding Court at Reading when they came to him, and the Patriarch says he was moved to tears at their account of the miserable state of the Holy Land. (Well, I am not going to deny the misery; but I do say it is Count Raymond's fault, and that if matters had been left in Guy's hands, they would never have come to this pass.) King Henry, however, would not give his answer at once; but bade them wait till he had convoked his great council, which sat at Clerkenwell on the eighteenth of March in last year. The decision of the Parliament was that in the interests of England the offer ought to be refused.
"Well!" said Guy, "as a mere question of political wisdom, that is doubtless right; for, apart from the pleasure of God, it would be the ruin of England to have the Holy Land clinging round her neck like a mill-stone. Yet remember, Lord Robert the Courthose never prospered after he had refused this crown of the world. He impiously blew out the taper which had been lighted by miracle; and think what his end was!"
"But dost thou think, my Lord," asked Lady Sybil, looking up, "that he meant it impiously? I have always thought his words so beautiful—that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in the place where our Lord had worn for us the crown of thorns."
"Very beautiful, Lady," said Guy a little drily, "if he had not heard just before the conference of the death of his brother, King William the Red."
Well!—when King Henry gave his answer, what did the Patriarch, but ask that one of his sons might be substituted,—and Guy thinks he specially indicated the Count of Poitou.[#] Guy says there are great possibilities in our young Count; but Amaury sneers at the idea. However, the King and the Parliament alike declined to accept in the name of any of the Princes, seeing none of themselves were present: and the Patriarch had to content himself with a promise of aid alone. King Henry took him in his train to Normandy, and after celebrating the holy Easter at Rouen, they had an interview with the French King at Vaudreuil. Both the Kings promised help, swearing on the souls of each other;[#] and many nobles, both French and English, took the holy cross. It is hoped that the King of France and the Count of Poitou may lead an army hither in a few months.
[#] Richard Cœur-de-Lion, whose reputation was yet to be made.
[#] The usual oath of monarchs in solemn form.
"If we can manage to conclude a truce meanwhile, and they do not come here to find us all slaughtered or prisoners to the Paynim," says Guy. "Great bodies move slowly; and kings and armies are of that description."
Saladin has taken Neapolis! Our scouts bring us word that he is ravaging and burning all the land as he marches, and he has turned towards the Holy City. Almost any morning, we may be awoke from sleep with his dreadful magic engine sounding in our ears. Holy Mary and all the saints, pray to the good God for His poor servants!
And not a word comes from the Regent. Four several messengers Guy has sent, by as many different routes, in the hope that at least one of them may reach Acre, earnestly urging him to send instructions. We do not even know the condition of matters at Acre. The King and the Regent may themselves be prisoners. Oh, what is to be done?
Guy says that whatever may become of him, the kingdom must not be lost: and if ten days more pass without news of the Regent, he will parley with Saladin, and if possible conclude a truce on his own responsibility. I feel so afraid for Guy! I believe if Count Raymond could find a handle, he would destroy him without mercy. Guy himself seems to perceive that the responsibility he is ready to assume involves serious peril.
"Nevertheless, my Lady's inheritance must not be lost," he says.
I asked Lady Judith this morning if she were not dreadfully frightened of Saladin. They say he eats Christian children, and sometimes maidens, when the children run short.
"If I felt no alarm, I should scarcely be a woman, Helena," said she. "But I took my fear to the Lord, as King David did. 'What time I am afraid,' he says, 'I will trust in Thee.' And I had my answer last night."
"Oh!" said I. "What was it, if it please you, holy Mother?"
She lifted her head with a light in the grey eyes.
"'I am, I am thy Comforter. Know whom thou art, afraid of a dying man, and of a son of men who wither like grass: and thou forgettest God thy Maker, the Maker of the heaven and Foundation-Layer of the earth, and fearest ever, every day, the face of the fury of thine oppressor.... And now, where is the fury of thine oppressor?'"
"Did the good God speak to you in vision, holy Mother?"
"No, Helena. He spake to me as He does to thee—in His Word."
I thought it would have been a great deal more satisfactory if she had been told in vision.
"But how do you know, holy Mother," I ventured to say, "that words written in holy Scripture, ever so long ago, have something to do with you now?"
"God's Word is living, my child," she said; "it is not, like all other books, a dead book. His Word who is alive for evermore, endureth for ever. Moreover, there is a special promise that the Holy Spirit shall bring God's words to the remembrance of His servants, as they need. And when they come from Him, they come living and with power."
"Then you think, holy Mother, that the Paynim will be driven back?"
"I do not say that, my child. But I think that the God who turned back Sennacherib is alive yet: and the Angel who smote the camp of the Assyrians can do it again if his Lord command him. And if not—no real mischief, Helena,—no real harm—can happen to him or her who abideth under the shadow of God."
"But we might be killed, holy Mother!"
"We might," she said, so quietly that I looked at her in amazement.
"Holy Mother!" I exclaimed.
"Thou dost not understand our Lord's words, Helena!—'And they shall kill some of you, ... and a hair from the head of you shall not be lost.'"
"Indeed I do not," said I bluntly.
"And I cannot make thee do so," she added gently. "God must do it."
But why does He not do it? Have I not asked Him, over and over again, to make me understand? I suppose something is in the way, and something which is my fault. But how am I to get rid of it when I do not even know what it is?
The ten days are over, and no word comes from the Regent. Guy has assumed, as Vice-Regent, the command of the Holy City. Of course he is the person to do it, as Lady Sybil's husband. Our scouts report that Saladin is marching through the pass of Gerizim. Guy has sent out a trumpeter with a suitable armed escort, to sound a parley, and invite the Paynim to meet with him and arrange for a truce at Lebonah. Until the trumpeter returns, we do not know whether this effort will succeed.
Lady Sybil, I can see, is excessively anxious, and very uneasy lest, if Guy go to parley with Saladin, the wicked Paynim should use some treachery towards him.
"It is God's will!" she said; but I saw tears in her sweet eyes. "The battle, and the toil, and the triumph for the men: the waiting, and weeping, and praying for the women. Perhaps, in their way, the humble bedeswomen do God's will as much as the warrior knights."
The trumpeter returned last night, with a message from Saladin almost worthy of a Christian knight. It seems very strange that Paynims should be capable of courtesy.[#]
[#] A most expressive word in the Middle Ages, not restricted, as now, civility, but including honourable sentiments and generous conduct.
Saladin is willing to conclude a truce, and will meet Guy at Lebonah to do so; but it is to be for six months only, and Guy says the terms are somewhat hard. However, it is the best thing he can do: and as the Regent maintains his obstinate silence, something must be done. So far as our envoys could learn, the Paynim army has not been near Acre, and only crossed the Jordan some thirty miles lower down. It appears clear, therefore, that the Regent might have answered if he would.
Guy and Amaury set out yesterday morning for Lebonah to meet Saladin. It is two or three days' journey from the Holy City, and allowing three days more for conference, it must be ten days at least ere they can return.
I wander about the house, and can settle to nothing. Lady Sybil sits at work, but I believe she weeps more than she works. Eschine's embroidery grows quietly. I have discovered that she carries her heart out of sight.
We were talking this morning—I hardly know how the subject came up—about selfishness. Lady Isabel said, with a toss of her head, that she was sure no reasonable being could call her selfish. (Now I could not agree with her, for I have always thought her very much so.) Lady Judith quietly asked her in what she thought selfishness consisted.
"In being stingy and miserly, of course," said she.
"Well, but stingy of what?" responded Lady Judith. "I think people make a great mistake when they restrict selfishness merely to being miserly with money. I should say that the man is unselfish who will give willingly that which he counts precious. But that means very different things to different people."
"I wonder what it means to us five," said I.
Lady Judith looked round with a smile. "I almost think I could tell you," said she.
"Oh, do!" we all said but Lady Isabel.
"Well, to me," answered Lady Judith, "it means, submitting,—because some one wishes it who has a right to my submission, or else as a matter of Christian love—to do any thing in a way which I think inferior, absurd, or not calculated to effect the end proposed. In other words, my ruling sin is self-satisfaction."
We all exclaimed against this conclusion: but she maintained that it was so.
"Then," she continued, "to Sybil, it means depriving herself of her lord's society, either for his advantage or for that of some one else."
Lady Sybil smiled and blushed. "Then my ruling sin——?" she said interrogatively.
"Nay, I did not undertake to draw that inference in any case but my own," said Lady Judith with an answering smile.
We all—except Lady Isabel—begged that she would do it for us. She seemed, I thought, to assent rather reluctantly.
"You will not like it," said she. "And if you drew the inference for yourselves, you would be more likely to attend to the lesson conveyed."
"Oh, but we might do it wrong," I said.
Lady Judith laughed. "Am I, then, so infallible that I cannot do it wrong?" said she. "Well, Sybil, my dear, if thou wouldst know, I think thy tendency—I do not say thy passion, but thy tendency—is to idolatry."
"Oh!" cried Lady Sybil, looking quite distressed.
"But now, misunderstand me not," pursued Lady Judith. "Love is not necessarily idolatry. When we love the creaturemorethan the Creator—when, for instance, thou shalt care more to please thy lord than to please the Lord—then only is it idolatry. Therefore, I use the word tendency; I trust it is not more with thee.—Well, then, with Isabel"——
Lady Isabel gave a toss of her head,—a gesture to which she is very much addicted.
"With Isabel," continued Lady Judith, "unselfishness would take the form of resigning her own ease or pleasure to suit the convenience of another, Her temptation, therefore, is to indolence and self-pleasing. With Helena"——
I pricked up my ears. What was I going to hear?
"With Helena," said she, smiling on me, "it would be, I think, to fulfil some duty, though those whom she loved might misunderstand her and think her silly for it."
"Then what is my besetting sin, holy Mother?"
"Pride of intellect, I think," she answered; "very nearly the same as my own."
"Holy Mother, you have left out Dame Eschine!" said Lady Isabel rather sharply.
"Have I?" said Lady Judith. "Well, my children, you must ask the Lord wherein Eschine's selfishness lies, for I cannot tell. I dare not deny its existence; I believe all sinners have it in some form. Only, in this case,Icannot detect it."
Eschine looked up with an expression of utter amazement.
"Holy Mother!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me, as you went on, that I had every one of those you mentioned."
Lady Judith's smile was very expressive.
"Dear child," she said, "these are not my words,—'Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"
Does she think Eschine the best of us all? Is she? Dear me! I never should have thought it.
"Well!" said Lady Isabel, with a sort of snort, and another toss, "I am quite sure that I have not one of those faults you mentioned."
"Ah, my child!" responded Lady Judith. "Take heed of the Pharisee spirit—Eschine, what wouldst thou say was thy besetting sin?"
"I really cannot tell, I have so many!" answered Eschine modestly. "But I sometimes think that it may be—perhaps—a want of meekness and patience."
I stared at her in astonishment.
"Well, thank the saints, I am in no want of patience!" said Lady Isabel. "And if any one knew all I have to try it"——
I turned and looked at her, if possible, in astonishment still greater.
Really, how very, very little, people do know themselves! If there be a patient creature in this world, it is Eschine: and if there be an impatient one, it is Lady Isabel.
I wonder whether I know myself? I do not think I should have set myself down as proud of my intellect. But we Lusignans always have had brains—except Amaury; he has stepped out of the ranks. And I don't like people to disagree with me, and contradict me, nor to behave as if they thought I had no sense. That is true enough. I suppose I must be proud.
And yet, it cannot be wrong to know that one has brains. What is pride? Where does the knowledge end, and the sin begin? Oh dear! how is one ever to know?
If two and two would only make four in every thing! Or is it that one makes mistakes one's self in the adding-up?