Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Well in the Desert, An Old Legend of the House of Arundel, by EmilySarah Holt.
________________________________________________________________________The action takes place at the end of the fourteenth century and thestart of the fifteenth. It deals largely with a family connected withArundel in Sussex. They seem to have been rather nasty people, highlymotivated by greed and desire for even higher stations in life. Theywere fairly well-placed by today's standards, being closely related tovarious of the Kings of England of the day. Some of the women in thestory are quite as bad as many of the men.
When these wicked people had done their wicked deeds there were oftenunfortunate children, dispossessed or forgotten in some attic of thecastle. One of these is the heroine of this story. She had never beentold who or where her mother was. By a series of coincidences shecomes across the name of a person who may know the answers to thesequestions. I will not spoil the story for you by telling you any more.
Throughout the book there is constant reference to Christ as the Well,the supplier of the vital Water of Life. Christianity was in a terriblemess at the time, with numerous sects, and with the members of any onesect feeling free to execute by any means the members of any other sect.There's plainly a modern parallel here.
On the whole the story is based on fact and on valuable contemporaryrecords. When Miss Holt wrote the story it seemed likely that Philippa,the central figure, was accurately represented. Unfortunately, afterthe book was complete it was found that she could never have existed,so the poor authoress had to present her book as it stands, with anapology at the end.
________________________________________________________________________THE WELL IN THE DESERT, AN OLD LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF ARUNDEL, BY EMILYSARAH HOLT.
PREFACE.
It is said that only travellers in the arid lands of the East reallyknow the value of water. To them the Well in the Desert is a treasureand a blessing: unspeakably so, when the water is pure and sweet; yeteven though it be salt and brackish, it may still save life.
Was it less so, in a figurative sense, to the travellers through thatgreat desert of the Middle Ages, wherein the wells were so few and farbetween? True, the water was brackish; man had denied the streams, andfilled up the wells with stones; yet for all this it was God-given, andto those who came, and dug for the old spring, and drank, it was thewater of eternal life. The cry was still sounding down the ages.
"If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink." And no lessblessed are the souls that come now: but for us, the wells are sonumerous and so pure, that we too often pass them by, and go on our waythirsting. Strange blindness!--yet not strange: for until the Angel ofthe Lord shall open the eyes of Hagar, she must needs go mourningthrough the wilderness, not seeing the well.
"Lord, that we may receive our sight!"--and may come unto Thee, anddrink, and thirst no more.
CHAPTER ONE.
MY LADY'S BOWER IS SWEPT.
"I am too low for scorn to lower me, And all too sorrow-stricken to feel grief."
Edwin Arnold.
Soft and balmy was the air, and the sunlight radiant, at an early hourof a beautiful June morning; and fair was the landscape that met theeyes of the persons who were gathered a few feet from the portcullis ofa grand stately old castle, crowning a wooded height near the Sussexcoast. There were two persons seated on horseback: the one a youth ofsome twenty years, in a page's dress; the other a woman, who sat behindhim on the pillion. Standing about were two men and a woman, the lastholding a child in her arms. The woman on the pillion was closelyveiled, and much muffled in her wrappings, considering the season of theyear and the warmth of the weather; nor did she lift her veil when shespoke.
"The child, Alina," she said, in a tone so soft and low that the wordsseemed rather breathed than spoken.
The woman who stood beside the horse answered the appeal by placing thechild in the arms of the speaker. It was a pretty, engaging little girlof three years old. The lady on the pillion, lifting the childunderneath her veil, strained it to her bosom, and bowed her head lowupon its light soft hair. Meanwhile, the horse stood still as a statue,and the page sat as still before her. In respectful silence the otherthree stood round. They knew, every one of them, that in that embraceto one of the two the bitterness of death was passing; and that when itwas ended she would have nothing left to fear--only because she wouldhave nothing left to hope. At length, suddenly, the lady lifted herhead, and held forth the child to Alina. Turning her head away towardthe sea, from the old castle, from the child, she made her farewell inone word.
"Depart!"
The three standing there watched her departure--never lifting her veil,nor turning her head--until she was hidden from their sight among theabundant green foliage around. They lingered a minute longer; but onlya minute--for a shrill, harsh voice from the portcullis summoned them toreturn.
"Ralph, thou lither hilding! Alina, thou jade! Come hither at once,and get you to work. My Lady's bower yet unswept, by the SevenSleepers! and ye lingering yonder as ye had leaden heels! By the holybones of Saint Benedict, our master shall con you light thanks when hecometh!"
"That may be," said Alina, under her breath. "Get you in, Ralph andJocelyn, or she shall be after again."
And she turned and walked quickly into the castle, still carrying thechild.
Eleven hours later, a very different procession climbed the castle-hill,and passed in at the portcullis. It was headed by a sumptuous litter,beside which rode a gentleman magnificently attired. Behind came ahundred horsemen in livery, and the line was closed by a crowd ofarchers in Lincoln green, bearing cross-bows. From the litter, assistedby the gentleman, descended a young lady of some three-and-twenty years,upon whose lips hovered a smile of pleasure, and whose fair hair flowedin natural ringlets from beneath a golden fillet. The gentleman was hersenior by about fifteen years. He was a tall, active, handsome man,with a dark face, stern, set lips, and a pair of dark, quick, eagle-likeeyes, beneath which the group of servants manifestly quailed.
"Is the Lady's bower ready?" he asked, addressing the foremost of thewomen--the one who had so roughly insisted on Alina's return.
"It is so, an't like your noble Lordship," answered she with a lowreverence; "it shall be found as well appointed as our poor laboursmight compass."
He made no answer; but, offering his hand to the young lady who hadalighted from the litter, he led her up the stairs from thebanqueting-hall, into a suite of fair, stately apartments, according tothe taste of that period. Rich tapestry decorated the walls, freshgreen rushes were strewn upon the floor, all the painting had beenrenewed, and above the fireplace stood two armorial shields newlychiselled.
"Lady," he said, in a soft, courtly tone, "here is the bower. Doth itlike the bird?"
"It is beauteous," answered the lady, with a bright smile.
"It hath been anew swept and garnished," replied the master, bowing low,as he took his leave. "Yonder silver bell shall summon your women."
The lady moved to the casement on his departure. It stood open, and thelovely sea-view was to be seen from it.
"In good sooth, 'tis a fair spot!" she said half aloud. "And all newswept and garnished!"
There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the wordsmight have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora--"Not onlygarnished, but _swept_!"
My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered hercall. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the littleflaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events ofthe morning.
"Do you all speak French?" asked the Countess in that language--w
hich,be it remembered, was in the reign of Edward the Third the mother-tongueof the English nobles.
She received an affirmative reply from all.
"That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gearbrought up hither.--What a pretty child! whose is it?"
Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. "The LadyPhilippa Fitzalan, my Lord's daughter."
"My Lord's daughter!" And a visible frown clouded the Countess's brow."I knew not he had a daughter--Oh! _that_ child! Take her away--I donot want her. _Mistress_ Philippa, for the future. That is mypleasure."
And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady ofArundel seated herself at her tiring-glass. Alina caught up the child,and took her away to a distant chamber in a turret of the castle, whereshe set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the littleflaxen head.
"Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!" she cried. "Would to ourdear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, fornone other be like to do it save them and me."
And suddenly rising, she slipped down on her knees, holding the childbefore her, beside a niche where a lamp made of pottery burned before ablackened wooden doll.
"Lady of Pity, hast thou none for this little child? Mother of Mercy,for thee to deceive me! This whole month have I been on my knees tothee many times in the day, praying thee to incline the Lady's heart,when she should come, to show a mother's pity to this motherless one.And thou hast not heard me--thou hast not heard me. Holy Virgin, whatdoest thou? Have I not offered candles at thy shrine? Have I notdeprived myself of needful things to pay for thy litanies? What could Ihave done more? Is this thy pity, Lady of Pity?--this thy compassion,Mother and Maiden?"
But the passionate appeal was lost on the lifeless image to which it wasmade. As of old, so now, "there was neither voice, not any to answer,nor any that regarded."
Nineteen years after that summer day, a girl of twenty-two sat gazingfrom the casement in that turret-chamber--a girl whose face even aflatterer would have praised but little; and Philippa Fitzalan had noflatterers. The pretty child--as pretty children often do--had growninto a very ordinary, commonplace woman. Her hair, indeed, was glossyand luxuriant, and had deepened from its early flaxen into the darkestshade to which it was possible for flaxen to change; her eyes were dark,with a sad, tired, wistful look in them--a look
"Of a dumb creature who had been beaten once, And never since was easy with the world."
Her face was white and thin, her figure tall, slender, angular, andrather awkward. None had ever cared to amend her awkwardness; itsignified to nobody whether she looked well or ill. In a word, _she_signified to nobody. The tears might burn under her eyelids, oroverflow and fall,--she would never be asked what was the matter; shemight fail under her burdens and faint in the midst of them,--and if itoccurred to any one to prevent material injury to her, that was the veryutmost she could expect. Not that the Lady Alianora was unkind to herstepdaughter: that is, not actively unkind. She simply ignored herexistence. Philippa was provided, as a matter of course, with necessaryclothes, just as the men who served in the hall were provided withlivery; but anything not absolutely necessary had never been given toher in her life. There were no loving words, no looks of pleasure, noaffectionate caresses, lavished upon her. If the Lady Joan lost hertemper (no rare occurrence), or the Lady Alesia her appetite, or theLady Mary her sleep, the whole household was disturbed; but whatPhilippa suffered never disturbed nor concerned any one but herself. Tothese, her half-sisters, she formed a kind of humble companion, asuperior maid-of-all-work. All day long she heard and obeyed thecommands of the three young ladies; all day long she was bidden, "Comehere", "Go there", "Do this", "Fetch that." And Philippa came, andwent, and fetched, and did as she was told. Just now she was off duty.Their Ladyships were gone out hawking with the Earl and Countess, andwould not, in all probability, return for some hours.
And what was Philippa doing, as she sat gazing dreamily from thecasement of her turret-chamber--hers, only because nobody else liked theroom? Her eyes were fixed earnestly on one little spot of ground, a fewfeet from the castle gate; and her soul was wandering backward nineteenyears, recalling the one scene which stood out vividly, the earliest ofmemory's pictures--a picture without text to explain it--before which,and after which, came blanks with no recollection to fill them. She sawherself lifted underneath a woman's veil--clasped earnestly in a woman'sarms,--gazing in baby wonder up into a woman's face--a wan white face,with dark, expressive, fervent eyes, in which a whole volume of agonyand love was written. She never knew who that woman was. Indeed, shesometimes wondered whether it were really a remembrance, or only apicture drawn by her own imagination. But there it was always, deepdown in the heart's recesses, only waiting to be called on, and to come.Whoever this mysterious woman were, it was some one who had loved her--her, Philippa, whom no one ever loved. For Alina, who had died in herchildhood, she scarcely recollected at all. And at the very core of theunseen, unknown heart of this quiet, undemonstrative girl, there lay oneintense, earnest, passionate longing for love. If but one of herfather's hawks or hounds would have looked brighter at her coming, shethought it would have satisfied her. For she had learned, long yearsere this, that to her father himself, or to the Lady Alianora, or to herhalf-brothers and sisters, she must never look for any shadow of love.The "mother-want about the world," which pressed on her so heavily, theywould never fill. The dull, blank uniformity of simple apathy was allshe ever received from any of them.
Her very place was filled. The Lady Joan was the eldest daughter of thehouse--not Mistress Philippa. For the pleasure of the Countess had beenfulfilled, and Mistress Philippa the girl was called. And when Joan wasmarried and went away from the castle (in a splendid litter hung withcrimson velvet), her sister Alesia stepped into her place as a matter ofcourse. Philippa did not, indeed, see the drawbacks to Joan's lot.They were not apparent on the surface. That the stately young noble whorode on a beautiful Barbary horse beside the litter, actually hated thegirl whom he had been forced to marry, did not enter into hercalculations: but as Joan cared very little for that herself, it was theless necessary that Philippa should do so. And Philippa only missedJoan from the house by the fact that her work was so much the lighter,and her life a trifle less disagreeable than before.
More considerations than one were troubling Philippa just now. Blanche,one of the Countess's tire-women, had just visited her turret-chamber,to inform her that the Lady Alesia was betrothed, and would be marriedsix months thence. It did not, however, trouble her that she had heardof this through a servant; she never looked for anything else. Had shebeen addicted (which, fortunately for her, she was not) to that mostprofitless of all manufactures, grievance-making,--she might have weptover this little incident. But except for one reason, the news of hersister's approaching marriage was rather agreeable to Philippa. Shewould have another tyrant the less; though it was true that Alesia hadalways been the least unkind to her of the three, and she would havewelcomed Mary's marriage with far greater satisfaction. But that oneterrible consideration which Blanche had forced on her notice!
"I marvel, indeed, that my gracious Lord hath not thought of yourdisposal, Mistress Philippa, ere this."
Suppose he should think of it! For to Philippa's apprehension, love wasso far from being synonymous with marriage, that she held the two barelycompatible. Marriage to her would be merely another phase of Egyptianbondage, under a different Pharaoh. And she knew this was her probablelot: that (unless her father's neglect on this subject should continue--which she devoutly hoped it might) she would some day be informed byBlanche--or possibly the Lady Alianora herself might condescend to makethe communication--that on the following Wednesday she was to be marriedto Sir Robert le Poer or Sir John de Mountchenesey; probably a man whomshe had never seen, possibly one whom she just knew by sight.
Philippa scarcely knew how, from such thoughts as these
, her memoryslowly travelled back, and stayed outside the castle gate, at that Junemorning of nineteen years ago. Who was it that had parted with her sounwillingly? It could not, of course, be the mother of whom she hadnever heard so much as the name; she must have died long ago. On herside, so far as Philippa knew, she had no relations; and her aunts onthe father's side, the Lady Latimer, the Lady de l'Estrange, and theLady de Lisle, never took the least notice of her when they visited thecastle. And then came up the thought--"Who am I? How is it that nobodycares to own me? There must be a reason. What is the reason?"
"Mistress Philippa! look you here: the Lady Mary left with me this pieceof arras, and commanded me to give it unto you to be amended, andbeshrew me but I clean forgot. This green is to come forth, and thisblue to be set instead thereof, and clean slea-silk for the yellow.Haste, for the holy Virgin's love, or I shall be well swinged when shecometh home!"
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