CHAPTER SIX.
ELAINE.
"No has visto un nino, que viene A dar un doblon que tiene, Porque le den una flor?"
Lope de Vega.
Philippa determined to return home by way of Sempringham. She could nothave given any very cogent reason, except that she wished to see theplace where the only peaceful days of her mother's life had been passed.Perhaps peace might there come to her also; and she was far enough fromit now. It would have been strange indeed if peace had dwelt in a heartwhere was neither "glory to God" nor "good-will to men." And while herveneration for her mother's memory was heightened by her aunt'snarrative, her feeling towards her father, originally a shrinkingtimidity, had changed now into active hatred. Had she at that momentbeen summoned to his deathbed, she would either have refused to go nearhim at all, or have gone with positive pleasure.
But beside all this, Philippa could not avoid the conclusion that hersalvation was as far from being accomplished as it had been when shereached Shaftesbury. She felt further off it than ever; it appeared torecede from her at every approach. Very uneasily she remembered Guy'sfarewell words,--"God strip you of your own goodness!" The Living Waterseemed as distant as before; but the thirst grew more intense. And yet,like Hagar in the wilderness, the Well was beside her all the time; butuntil the Angel of the Lord should open her eyes, she could not see it.
She reached Sempringham, and took up her abode for the night in theconvent, uncertain how long she would remain there. An apparentlytrivial incident decided that question for her.
As Philippa stood at the convent gate, in a mild winter morning, sheheard a soft, sweet voice singing, and set herself to discover whencethe sound proceeded. The vocalist was readily found,--a little girl often years old, who was sitting on a bank a few yards from the gate, witha quantity of snowdrops in her lap, which she was trying with partialsuccess to weave into a wreath. Philippa--weary of idleness, Books ofHours, and embroidery--drew near to talk with her.
"What is thy name?" she asked, by way of opening negotiations.
"Elaine," said the child, lifting a pair of timid blue eyes to herquestioner's face.
"And where dwellest thou?"
"Down yonder glade, Lady: my father is Wilfred the convent woodcutter."
"And who taught thee to speak French?"
"The holy sisters, Lady."
"What wert thou singing a minute since?"
The child drooped her head shyly.
"Do not be afraid," said Philippa gently. "I like to hear singing.Wilt thou sing it again to me?"
Elaine hesitated a moment; but another glance at Philippa's smiling faceseemed to reassure her, and she sang, in a low voice, to a sweet, weirdtune:--
"`Quy de cette eaw boyra Ancor soyf aura; Mays quy de l'eaw boyra Que moy luy donneray, Jamays soyf n'aura A l'eternite.'"
"This must be very widely known," thought Philippa.--"Who taught theethat--the holy sisters?" she asked of the child.
"No," answered Elaine, shaking her head. "The Grey Lady."
"And who is the Grey Lady?"
The look with which Elaine replied, showed Philippa that not to know theGrey Lady was to augur herself unknown, at least in the Vale ofSempringham.
"Know you not the Grey Lady? All in the Vale know her."
"Where dwelleth she?"
"Up yonder"--but to Philippa's eyes, Elaine merely pointed to a clusterof leafless trees on the hill-side.
"And is she one of the holy sisters?"
On this point Elaine was evidently doubtful. The Grey Lady did notdwell in the convent, nor in any convent; she lived all alone, thereforeit was plain that she was not a sister. But she was always habited ingrey wherefore men called her the Grey Lady. No--she had no other name.
"A recluse, manifestly," said Philippa to herself; "the child does notunderstand. But is she an anchoritess or an eremitess?--Does she everleave her cell?" [See Note 1.]
"Lady, she tendeth all the sick hereabout. She is a friend of everywoman in the Vale. My mother saith, an' it like you, that where thereis any wound to heal, or heart to comfort, there is the Grey Lady. Andshe saith she hath a wonderful power of healing, as well for mind asbody. When Edeline our neighbour lost all her four children by feverbetween the two Saint Agneses, [see Note 2], nobody could comfort hertill the Grey Lady came. And when Ida my playmate lay dying, and veryfearful of death, she said even the holy priest did her not so much goodas the Grey Lady. I think," ended Elaine softly, "she must be an angelin disguise."
The child evidently spoke her thought literally.
"I will wait and see this Grey Lady," thought Philippa. "Let me see ifshe can teach and comfort me. Ever since Guy of Ashridge visitedKilquyt, I seem to have been going further from comfort every day.--Canst thou lead me to the Grey Lady's cell?"
"I could; but she is not now there, Lady."
"When will she be there?"
"To-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen," replied Elaine, whowas evidently well acquainted with the Grey Lady's proceedings.
"Then to-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen, thou shalt cometo the convent gate, and I will meet with thee. Will thy mother givethee leave?"
"Ay. She alway giveth me leave to visit the Grey Lady."
The appointment was made, and Philippa turned back to the convent.
"I was searching you, Lady de Sergeaux," said the portress, whenPhilippa re-entered the gate. "During your absence, there came to thepriory close by a messenger from Arundel on his road toward Hereford;and hearing that the Lady de Sergeaux was with us, he sent word througha lay-brother that he would gladly have speech of you."
"A messenger from Arundel! What can he want with me?"
Philippa felt that all messengers from Arundel would be very unwelcometo her. She added, rather ungraciously, that "perhaps she had bettersee him." She passed into the guest-chamber, whither in a few minutesthe messenger came to her. He was a page, habited in deep mourning; andPhilippa recognised him at once as the personal "varlet" attendant onthe Countess. The thought rose to her mind that the Earl might havefallen in Gascony.
"God keep thee, good Hubert!" she said. "Be thy tidings evil?"
"As evil as they might be, Lady," answered the page sadly. "Two daysbefore the feast of Saint Hilary, our Lady the Countess Alianora wascommanded to God."
A tumult of conflicting feelings went surging through Philippa's heartand brain.
"Was thy Lord at home?"
She inwardly hoped that he was not. It was only fitting, said thevindictive hatred which had usurped the place of her conscience, thatAlianora of Lancaster should feel something of that to which she hadhelped to doom Isabel La Despenser.
"Lady, no. Our Lord abideth in Gascony, with the Duke of Lancaster."
Philippa was not sorry to hear it; for her heart was full of "envy,hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness."
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When the shadow began to lengthen on the following day, Philippa wrappedher mantle around her, and called to her damsel to follow. Her varletfollowed also, at a little distance behind. She found Elaine and ayounger child waiting for her outside the gate. Elaine introduced hercompanion as her sister Annora. Annora proved much less shy thanElaine, and far more ready with her communications. But she was notasked many questions; for as they turned away from the convent gate,they were met by a monk in the Dominican habit, and Philippa knewdirectly the face of Guy of Ashridge.
"Christ save you, Father," said she.
"And you, daughter," he answered. "Are you yet seeking comfort, or haveyou found it?"
"I am further from it than ever," she replied, rather petulantly.
"No wonder," said Guy. "For comfort hath another name, which is--Christ. Who is a stranger to the One shall needs be a stranger to theother."
"I have tried hard to make my salvation," responded Philippa more sadly;"but as yet I cannot d
o it."
"Nor will you, though you could try a thousand years," answered Guy."That is a manufacture beyond saints and angels, and how then shall youdo it?"
"Who then can do it?"
"God," said Guy, solemnly.
"God hates me," replied Philippa, under her breath. "He hateth all minehouse. For nigh fifty years, He hath sent us sorrow upon sorrow, andhath crushed us down into the dust of death."
"Poor blindling! is that a proof that He hateth you?" answered Guy moregently. "Well, it is true at times, when the father sendeth a varlet inhaste to save the child from falling over a precipice, the child--whoseheart is set on some fair flower on the rock below--doth think it cruel.You are that child; and your trouble is the varlet God hath sent afteryou."
"He hath sent His whole meynie, then," said Philippa bitterly.
"Then the child will not come to the Father?" said Guy, softly.
Philippa was silent.
"Is the flower so fair, that you will risk life for it?" pursued themonk. "Nay, not risk--that is a word implying doubt, and here is none.So fair, then, that you will throw life away for it? And is the Fathernot fair and precious in your eyes, that you are in so little haste tocome to Him? Daughter, what shall it profit you, if you gain the wholeworld--and lose your own soul?"
"Father, you are too hard upon me!" cried Philippa in a pained tone, andresisting with some difficulty a strong inclination to shed tears. "Iwould come to God, but I know not how, nor do you tell me. God is afaroff, and hath no leisure nor will to think on me; nor can I presume toapproach Him without the holy saints to intercede for me. I have soughttheir intercession hundreds of times. It is not I that am unwilling tobe saved; and you speak to me as if you thought it so. It is God thatwill not save me. I have done all I can."
"O fool, and slow of heart to believe!" earnestly answered Guy. "Can itbe God, when He cared so much for you that He sent His blessed Son downfrom Heaven to die for your salvation? Beware how you accuse the Lord.I tell you again, it is not His will that opposeth itself to yourhappiness, but your own. You have built up a wall of your ownexcellencies that you cannot see God; and then you cry, `He hath hiddenHimself from me.' Pull down your miserable mud walls, and let the lightof Heaven shine in upon you. Christ will save you with no half norquarter salvation. He will not let you lay the foundation whereon Heshall build. He will not tear His fair shining robe of righteousness topatch your worthless rags. With Him, either not at all, or all in all."
"But what would you have me do?" said Philippa, in a vexed tone.
"Believe," replied Guy.
"Believe what?" said she.
"`Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"
"The easiest thing in the world," answered Philippa, a littlecontemptuously.
"Is it so?" responded the monk, with a pitying smile. "It seems to methat you have found it since last June the hardest thing in the world.Whither go you now?" he asked, suddenly changing his tone.
"I go," she rejoined, "with this child, to the cell of an eremitess ofwhom she hath told me, `that hath,' quoth she, `great power ofcomforting the sorrowful.' All about here seem to know her. They callher the Grey Lady."
Guy looked on her long and earnestly, an expression creeping over hisface which Philippa could not understand.
"Be it so," he said at last. "`I will lead the blind by a way that theyknow not.' Let my voice be silent when He speaketh. Verily"--and hisvoice fell to a softer tone--"I never passed through the deep waterswherein she has waded; nor, perchance, where you have. Let God speak toyou through her. Go your way."
"But who is she--this Grey Lady?"
Philippa asked in vain. Guy either did not hear her, or would notanswer. He walked rapidly down the hill, with only "Farewell!" as hepassed her; and she went her way, to meet her fate--rather, to meetGod's providence--in the cell of the Grey Lady.
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Note 1. Anchorites never left their cells, though they receivedvisitors within them, and sometimes taught children; hermits wanderedabout freely.
Note 2. Saint Agnes' Day is January 21; but the 28th, instead of theoctave of Saint Agnes, was commonly called Saint Agnes the second.
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