CHAPTER SEVEN.
DAME MAISENTA DOES NOT SEE IT.
"With a little hoard of maxims, preaching down a daughter's heart."--_Tennyson_.
Earl Edmund had not been callous to the white, woeful face under one ofthe bridal wreaths. He set himself to think how most pleasantly todivert the thoughts of Clarice; and the result of his meditations was arequest to Father Miles that he would induce the Countess to invite theparents of Clarice on a visit. The Countess always obeyed Father Miles,though had she known whence the suggestion came, she might have beenless docile. A letter, tied up with red silk, and sealed with theCountess's seal, was despatched by a messenger to Dame La Theyn, whom itput into no small flutter of nervous excitement.
A journey to London was a tremendous idea to that worthy woman, thoughshe lived but forty miles from the metropolis. She had never been therein her life. Sir Gilbert had once visited it, and had dilated on thesize, splendour, and attractions of the place, till it stood, in theDame's eyes, next to going to Heaven. It may, indeed, be doubted if shewould not have found herself a good deal more at home in the formerplace than the latter.
Three sumpter-mules were laden with the richest garments and ornamentsin the wardrobes of knight and dame. Two armed servants were on onehorse, Sir Gilbert and his wife on another; and thus provided, late inFebruary, they drew bridle at the gate of Whitehall Palace. Clarice hadnot been told of their coming by the Countess, because she was notsufficiently interested; by the Earl, because he wished it to be apleasant surprise. She was called out into the ante-chamber oneafternoon, and, to her complete astonishment, found herself in thepresence of her parents.
The greeting was tolerably warm.
"Why, child, what hast done to thy cheeks?" demanded Sir Gilbert, whenhe had kissed his palefaced daughter. "'Tis all the smoke--that's whatit is!"
"Nay; be sure 'tis the late hours," responded the Dame. "I'll warrantyou they go not to bed here afore seven o' the clock. Eh, Clarice?"
"Not before eight, Dame," answered Clarice, with a smile.
"Eight!" cried Dame Maisenta. "Eh, deary me! Mine head to a pod ofpeas, but that's a hearing! And what time get they up of a morrow?"
"The Lady rises commonly by five or soon after."
"Saint Wulstan be our aid! Heard I ever the like? Why, I am never abedafter three!"
"So thou art become Dame Clarice?" said her father, jovially.
The smile died instantly from Clarice's lips. "Yes," she said,drearily.
"Where is thy knight, lass?" demanded her mother.
"You will see him in hall," replied Clarice. And when they went down tosupper she presented Vivian in due form.
No one knew better than Vivian Barkeworth how to adapt himself to hiscompany. He measured his bride's parents as accurately, in the firstfive minutes, as a draper would measure a yard of calico. It is notsurprising if they were both delighted with him.
The Countess received her guests with careless condescension, the Earlwith kind cordiality. Dame La Theyn was deeply interested in seeingboth. But her chief aim was a long _tete-a-tete_ discourse withClarice, which she obtained on the day following her arrival. TheCountess, as usual, had gone to visit a shrine, and Clarice, being offduty, took her mother to the terrace, where they could chat undisturbed.
Some of us modern folks would rather shrink from sitting on an openterrace in February; but our forefathers were wonderfully independent ofthe weather, and seem to have been singularly callous in respect to heatand cold. Dame La Theyn made no objection to the airiness of herposition, but settled herself comfortably in the corner of the stonebench, and prepared for her chat with much gusto.
"Well, child," was the Dame's first remark, "the good saints haveordered matters rarely for thee. I ventured not to look for such goodfortune, not so soon as this. Trust me, but I was rejoiced when I readthy lady's letter, to hear that thou wert well wed unto a knight, andthat she had found all the gear. I warrant thee, the grass grew notunder my feet afore Dame Rouse, and Mistress Swetapple, and every womanof our neighbours, down to Joan Stick-i'-th'-Lane, knew the good luckthat was come to thee."
Clarice sat with her hands in her lap looking out on the river. Goodluck! Could Dame La Theyn see no further than that!
"Why, lass, what is come to thee?" demanded the Dame, when she found noresponse. "Sure, thou art not ungrateful to thy lady for her care andgoodness! That were a sin to be shriven for."
Clarice turned her wan face towards her mother.
"Grateful!" she said. "For what should I be thankful to her? Dame, shehas torn me away from the only one in the world that I loved, and hasforced me to wed a man whom I alike fear and hate. Do you think thatmatter for thankfulness, or does she!"
"Tut, tut!" said the Dame. "Do not ruffle up thy feathers like a pigeonthat has got bread-crumbs when he looked for corn! Why, child, 'tis butwhat all women have to put up with. We all have our calf-loves and bitsof maidenly fancies, but who ever thought they were to rule the roast?Sure, Clarice, thou hast more sense than so?"
"Dame, pardon me, but you understand not. This was no light love ofmine--no passing fancy that a newer one might have put out. It was theone hope and joy of my whole life. I had nothing else to live for."
To Clarice's horror, the rejoinder to her rhetoric was what the Dameherself would have called "a jolly laugh."
"Dear, dear, how like all young maids be!" cried the mother. "Just thevery thought had I when my good knight my father sent away Master Pride,and told me I must needs wed with thy father, Sir Gilbert. That istwenty years gone this winter Clarice, and I swear to thee I thoughtmine heart was broke. Look on me now. Look I like a woman that hadbrake her heart o' love? I trow not, by my troth!"
No; certainly no one would have credited that rosy, comfortable matronwith having broken her heart any number of years ago.
"And thou wilt see, too, when twenty years be over, Clarice, I warrantthee thou shalt look back and laugh at thine own folly. Deary me,child! Folks cannot weep for ever and the day after. Wait till thouart forty, and then see if thy trouble be as sore in thy mind then asnow."
Forty! Should she ever be forty? Clarice fondly hoped not. And wouldany lapse of years change the love which seemed to her interwoven withevery fibre of her heart? That heart cried out and said, Impossible!But Dame La Theyn heard no answer.
"When thou hast dwelt on middle earth [Note 1], child, as long as Ihave, thou wilt look on things more in proportion. There be otheraffairs in life than lovemaking. Women spend not all their daysthinking of wooing, and men still less. I warrant thee thy lover, whosohe be, shall right soon comfort himself with some other damsel. Neversuspect a man of constancy, child. They know not what the word means."
Clarice's inner consciousness violently contradicted this sweepingstatement. But she kept silence still.
"Ah, I see!" said her mother, laughing. "Not a word dost thou creditme. I may as well save my breath to cool my porridge. Howsoe'er,Clarice, when thou hast come to forty years, if I am yet alive, let mehear thy thoughts thereupon. Long ere that time come, as sure as eggsbe eggs, thou shalt be a-reading the same lesson to a lass of thine, ifit please God so to bless thee. And she'll not believe thee a word, anymore than thou dost me. Eh, these young folks, these young folks!truly, they be rare fun for us old ones. They think they've gotten allthe wisdom that ever dwelt in King Solomon's head, and we may standaside and doff our caps to them. Good lack!--but this world is a queerplace, and a merry!"
Clarice thought she had not found it a merry locality by any means.
"And what ails thee at thy knight, child? He is as well-favoured andtall of his hands as e'er a one. Trust me, but I liked him well, and sosaid thy father. He is a pleasant fellow, no less than a comely. Whatails thee at him?"
"Dame, I cannot feel to trust him."
"Give o'er with thy nonsense! Thou mayest trust him as well as anotherman. They are all alike. They want their own way, and
to pleasethemselves, and if they've gotten a bit of time and thought o'er they'llmaybe please thee at after. That's the way of the world, child. Ifthou art one of those silly lasses that look for a man who shall neverlet his eyes rove from thee, nor never make no love to nobody else, why,thou mayest have thy search for thy pains. Thou art little like tocatch that lark afore the sky falls."
Clarice thought that lark had been caught for her, and had been tornfrom her.
"And what matter?" continued Dame La Theyn. "If a man likes his wifethe best, and treats her reasonable kind, as the most do--and I make nodoubt thine shall--why should he not have his little pleasures? Thoucanst do a bit on thine own account. But mind thou, keep on thewindward side o' decency. 'Tis no good committing o' mortal sin, and adeal o' trouble to get shriven for it. Mind thy ways afore the world!And let not thy knight get angered with thee, no more. But I'll tellthee, Clarice, thou wilt anger him afore long, to carry thyself thustowards him. Of course a man knows he must put up with a bit ofperversity and bashfulness when he is first wed; because he can guessreasonable well that the maid might not have chose him her own self.But it does not do to keep it up. Thou must mind thy ways, child."
Clarice was almost holding her breath. Whether horror or disgust werethe feeling uppermost in her mind, she would have found difficult totell. Was this her mother, who gave her such counsel? And were allwomen like that? _One_ other distinct idea was left to her--that therewas an additional reason for dying--to get out of it all.
"Thou art but a simple lass, I can see," reflectively added Dame LaTheyn. "Thou hast right the young lass's notions touching truth, andfaith, and constancy, and such like. All a parcel of moonshine, child!There is no such thing, not in this world. Some folks be a bit worsethan others, but that's all. I dare reckon thy knight is one of thebetter end. At any rate, thou wilt find it comfortable to think so."
Clarice was inwardly convinced that Vivian belonged to the scrag end, sofar as character went.
"That's the true way to get through the world, child. Shut thy eyes towhatever thou wouldst not like to see. Nobody'll admire thee more forhaving red rims to 'em. And, dear heart, where's the good? 'Tis nonebut fools break their hearts. Wise folks jog on jollily. And ifthere's somewhat to forgive on the one side, why, there'll be somewhaton the other. Thou art not an angel--don't fancy it. And if he isn'tneither--"
Of that fact Clarice felt superlatively convinced.
"The best way is not to expect it of him, and thou wilt be the lessdisappointed. So get out thy ribbons and busk thee, and let's have nomore tears shed. There's been a quart too much already."
A slight movement of nervous impatience was the sole reply.
"Eh, Clarice? Ne'er a word, trow?"
Then she turned round a wan, set, distressed face, with ferventdetermination glowing in the eyes.
"Mother! I would rather die, and be out of it!"
"Be out of what, quotha?" demanded Dame La Theyn, in astonished tones.
"This world," said Clarice, through her set teeth. "This hard, cold,cruel, miserable, wicked world. Is there only one of two lives beforeme--either to harden into stone and crush other hearts, or to be crushedby the others that have got hard before me? Oh, Mother, Mother! isthere nothing in the world for a woman but _that_?--God, let me diebefore I come to either!"
"Deary, deary, deary me!" seemed to be all that Dame La Theyn feltherself capable of saying.
"A few weeks ago," Clarice went on, "before--_this_, there was a higherand better view of life given to me. One that would make _one's_crushed heart grow softer, and not harder; that was upward and notdownward; that led to Heaven and God, not to Hell and Satan. There isno hope for me in this life but the hope of Heaven. For pity's sake letme keep that! If every other human creature is going down--you seem tothink so--let me go higher, not lower. Because my life has been spoiledfor me, shall I deliberately poison my own soul? May God forbid it me!If I am to spend my life with demons, let my spirit live with God."
The feelings of Dame La Theyn, on hearing this speech from Clarice, werenot capable of expression in words.
In her eyes, as in those of all Romanists, there were two lives which aman or woman could lead--the religious and the secular. To lead areligious life meant, as a matter of course, to go into the cloister.Matrimony and piety were simply incompatible. Clarice was a marriedwoman: _ergo_, she could not possibly be religious. Dame La Theyn'smind, to use one of her favourite expressions, was all of a jumble withthese extraordinary ideas of which her daughter had unaccountably gothold. "What on earth is the child driving at? is she mad?" thought hermother.
"What dost thou mean, child?" inquired the extremely puzzled Dame."Thou canst not go into the cloister--thou art wed. Dear heart, but Inever reckoned thou hadst any vocation! Thou shouldst have told thylady."
"I do not want the cloister," said Clarice. "I want to do God's will.I want to belong to God."
"Why, that is the same thing!" responded the still perplexed woman.
"The Lord Earl is not a monk," replied Clarice. "And I am sure hebelongs to God, for he knows Him better than any priest that I eversaw."
"Child, child! Did I not tell thee, afore ever thou earnest into thishouse, that thy Lord was a man full of queer fancies, and all manner ofstrange things? Don't thee go and get notions into thine head, formercy's sake! Thou must live either in the world or the cloister. Whoever heard of a wedded woman devote to religion? Thou canst not haveboth--'tis nonsense. Is that one of thy Lord's queer notions? Sure,these friars never taught thee so?"
"The friars never taught me anything. Father Bevis tried to help me,but he did not know how. My Lord was the only one who understood."
"Understood? Understood what?"
"Who understood me, and who understood God."
"Clarice, what manner of tongue art thou talking? 'Tis none I neverlearned."
No, for Clarice was beginning to lisp the language of Canaan, and "theythat kept the fair were men of this world." What wonder if she and herthoroughly time-serving mother found it impossible to understand eachother?
"I cannot make thee out, lass. If thou wert aware afore thou wert wedthat thou hadst a vocation, 'twas right wicked of thee not to tell thyconfessor and thy mistress, both. But I cannot see how it well could,when thou wert all head o'er ears o' love with some gallant or other--the saints know whom. I reckon it undecent, in very deed, Clarice, tomeddle up a love-tale with matters of religion. I do wonder thou hastno more sense of fitness and decorum."
"It were a sad thing," said Clarice quietly, "if only irreligious peoplemight love each other."
"Love each other! Dear heart, thy brains must be made o' forcemeat!Thou hast got love, and religion, and living, and all manner o' things,jumbled up together in a pie. They've nought to do with each other,thou silly lass."
"If religion has nought to do with living, Dame, under your goodpleasure, what has it to do with?"
A query which Dame La Theyn found it as difficult to comprehend as toanswer. In her eyes, religion was a thing to take to church on Sunday,and life was restricted to the periods when people were not in church.When she laid up her Sunday gown in lavender, she put her religion inwith it. Of course, nuns were religious every day, but nobody else everthought of such an unreasonable thing. Clarice's new ideas, therefore,to her, were simply preposterous and irrational.
"Clarice!" she said, in tones of considerable surprise, "I do wonderwhat's come o'er thee! This is not the lass I sent to Oakham. Have thefairies been and changed thee, or what on earth has happened to thee? Icannot make thee out!"
"I hardly know what has happened to me," was the answer, "but I think itis that I have gone nearer God. He ploughed up my heart with the furrowof bitter sorrow, and then He made it soft with the dew of His grace. Isuppose the seed will come next. What that is I do not know yet. Butmy knowing does not matter if He knows."
The difference which Dame La Theyn failed
to understand was thedifference between life and death. The words of the Earl had been usedas a seed of life, and the life was growing. It is the necessity oflife to grow, and it is an impossibility that death should appreciatelife.
"Well!" was the Dame's conclusion, delivered as she rose from the stonebench, in a perplexed and disappointed tone, "I reckon thou wilt be liketo take thine own way, child, for I cannot make either head or tail ofthy notions. Only I do hope thou wilt not set up to be unlike everybodyelse. Depend upon it, Clarice, a woman never comes to no good when shesets up to be better than her neighbours. It is bad enough in anybody,but 'tis worser in a woman than a man. I cannot tell who has stuck thyqueer notions into thee--whether 'tis thy Lord, or thy lover, or who;but I would to all the saints he had let thee be. I liked thee a dealbetter afore, I can tell thee. I never had no fancy for philosophy andsuch."
"Mother," said Clarice softly, "I think it was God."
"Gently, child! No bad language, prithee." Dame La Theyn looked uponpious language as profanity when uttered in an unconsecrated place."But if it were the Almighty that put these notions into thy head, Ipray He'll take 'em out again."
"I think not," quietly replied Clarice.
And so the scene closed. Neither had understood the other, so far, atleast, as spiritual matters were concerned. But in respect to thesecular question Dame La Theyn could enter into Clarice's thoughts morethan she chose to allow. The dialogue stirred within her faintmemories--not quite dead--of that earlier time when her tears had flowedfor the like cause, and when she had felt absolutely certain that shecould never be happy again. But her love had been of a selfish andsurface kind, and the wound, never more than skin-deep, had healedrapidly and left no scar. Was it surprising if she took it for grantedthat her daughter's was of the same class, and would heal with equalrapidity and completeness? Beside this, she thought it very unwisepolicy to let Clarice perceive that she did understand her in any wise.It would encourage her in her folly, Dame La Theyn considered, if shesupposed that so wise a person as her mother could have any sympathywith such notions. So she wrapped herself complacently in her mantle ofwisdom, and never perceived that she was severing the last strand of therope which bound her child's heart to her own.
"O, purblind race of miserable men!"
How strangely we all spend our lives in the anxious labour of strainingout gnats, while we scarcely detect the moment when we swallow thecamel!
A long private conversation between Clarice's parents resulted the nextday in Sir Gilbert taking her in hand. His comprehension was even lessthan her mother's, though it lay in a different direction.
"Well, Clarice, my dame tells me thou art not altogether well pleasedwith thy wedding. What didst thou wish otherwise, lass?"
"The man," said Clarice, shortly enough.
"What, is not one man as good as another?" demanded her father.
"Not to me, Sir," said his daughter.
"I am afeared, Clarice, thou hast some romantic notions. They are allvery pretty to play with, but they don't do for this world, child. Thouhast better shake them out of thine head, and be content with thy lot."
"It is a bad world, I know," replied Clarice. "But it is hard to becontent, when life has been emptied and spoiled for one."
"Folly, child, folly!" said Sir Gilbert. "Thou mayest have as many silkgowns now as thou couldst have had with any other knight; and I dare bebound Sir Vivian should give thee a gold chain if thou wert pining forit. Should that content thee?"
"No, Sir."
Sir Gilbert was puzzled. A woman whose perfect happiness could not besecured by a gold chain was an enigma to him.
"Then what would content thee?" he asked.
"What I can never have now," answered Clarice. "It may be, as time goeson, that God will make me content without it--content with His will, andno more. But I doubt if even He could do that just yet. The wisestphysician living cannot heal a wound in a minute. It must have itstime."
Sir Gilbert tried to puzzle his way through this speech.
"Well, child, I do not see what I can do for thee."
"I thank you for wishing it, fair Sir. No, you can do nothing. No onecan do anything for me, except let me alone, and pray to God to heal thewound."
"Well, lass, I can do that," said her father, brightening. "I will saythe rosary all over for thee once in the week, and give a candle to ourLady. Will that do thee a bit of good, eh?"
Clarice had an instinctive feeling, that while the rosary and the candlemight be a doubtful good, the rough tenderness of her father was apositive one. Little as Sir Gilbert could enter into her ideas, hisaffection was truer and more unselfish than that of her mother. Neitherof them was very deeply attached to her; but Sir Gilbert's love couldhave borne the harder strain of the two. Clarice began to recognise thefact with touched surprise.
"Fair Sir, I shall be very thankful for your prayers. It will do megood to be loved--so far as anything can do it."
Sir Gilbert was also discovering, with a little astonishment himself,that his only child lay nearer to his heart than he had supposed. Hisheart was a plant which had never received much cultivation, either fromhimself or any other; and love, even in faint throbs, was a ratherstrange sensation. It made him feel as if something were the matterwith him, and he could not exactly tell what. He patted Clarice'sshoulder, and smoothed down her hair.
"Well, well, child! I hope all things will settle comfortably by andby. But if they should not, and in especial if thy knight were everunkindly toward thee--which God avert!--do not forget that thou hast afriend in thine old father. Maybe he has not shown thee over muchkindliness neither, but I reckon, my lass, if it came to a pull, there'dbe a bit to pull at."
Neither Sir Gilbert nor Dame Maisenta ever fully realised the result ofthat visit. It found Clarice indifferent to both, but ready to reachout a hand to either who would clasp it with any appearance oftenderness and compassion. It left her with a heart closed for ever toher mother, but for ever open to her father.
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Note 1. This mediaeval term for the world had its rise in the notionthat earth stood midway between Heaven and Hell, the one being as farbelow as the other was above.
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