CHAPTER TEN.
FOUR YEARS LATER.
"When the shore is won at last, Who will count the billows past?"
Keble.
It was winter again; and the winds blew harshly and wailingly around theCastle of Arundel. In the stateliest chamber of that Castle, where thehangings were of cramoisie paned with cloth of gold, the evening taperswere burning low, and a black-robed priest knelt beside the bed where anold man lay dying.
"I can think of nothing more, Father," faintly whispered the penitent."I have confessed every sin that I have ever sinned, so far as my memoryserveth: and many men have been worse sinners than I. I never robbed achurch in all my wars. I have bequeathed rents and lands to the Prioryof God and Saint Pancras at Lewes, for two monks to celebrate day by daymasses of our Lady and of the Holy Ghost,--two hundred pounds; and formatins and requiem masses in my chapel here, a thousand marks; and fourhundred marks to purchase rent lands for the poor; and all my debts Ihave had a care to pay. Can I perform any other good work? Will thatdo, Father?"
"Thou canst do nought else, my son," answered the priest. "Thou hastright nobly purchased the favour of God, and thine own salvation. Thysoul shall pass, white and pure, through the flames of Purgatory, to betriumphantly acquitted at the bar of God."
And lifting his hands in blessing, he pronounced the unholyincantation,--"_Absolvo te_!"
"Thank the saints, and our dear Lady!" feebly responded the dying man."I am clean and sinless."
Before the morrow dawned on the Conversion of Saint Paul, that old manknew, as he had never known on earth, whether he stood clean and sinlessbefore God or not. There were no bands in that death. The river didnot look dark to him; it did not feel cold as his feet touched it. Buton the other side what angels met him? and what entrance was accorded,to that sin-defiled and uncleansed soul, into that Land wherein thereshall in no wise enter anything that defileth?
And so Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel, passed away.
Two months later,--by a scribe's letter, written in the name of herhalf-brother, the young, brave, joyous man upon whose head the oldcoronet had descended,--the news of the Earl's death reached PhilippaSergeaux at Kilquyt. Very differently it affected her from the mannerin which she would have received it four years before. And verydifferently from the manner in which it was received by the daughters ofAlianora, to whom (though they did not put it into audible words) thereal thought of the heart was--"Is the old man really gone at last?Well, it was time he should. Now I shall receive the coronet he left tome, and the two, or three, thousand marks." For thus he had rememberedJoan and Alesia; and thus they remembered him. To Mary he left nothing;a sure sign of offence, but how incurred history remains silent. But tothe eldest daughter, whose name was equally unnamed with hers--whoseears heard the news so far away--whose head had never known the fall ofhis hand in blessing--whose cheek had never been touched by loving lipsof his--to Philippa Sergeaux the black serge for which she exchanged herdamask robes was real mourning.
She did not say now, "I can never forgive my father." It is not when weare lying low in the dust before the feet of the Great King, oppressedwith the intolerable burden of our ten thousand talents, that we feeldisposed to rise and take our fellow-servant by the throat, with thepitiless, "Pay me that thou owest." The offensive "Stand by,--I amholier than thou!" falls only from unholy lips. When the woman that wasa sinner went out, washed and forgiven, from that sinless Presence, withthe shards of the broken alabaster box in her hand, she was less likelythan at any previous time in her life to reproach the fellow-sinnerswhom she met on her journey home. So, when Philippa Sergeaux's eyeswere opened, and she came to see how much God had forgiven her, thelittle that she had to forgive her father seemed less than nothing incomparison. She could distinguish now, as previously she could not--butas God does always--between the sin and the sinner; she was able to keepher hatred and loathing for the first, and to regard the second with thedeepest pity. And when she thought of the sleep into which she couldhave little doubt that his soul had been lulled,--of the black awakening"on the brink of the pit,"--there was no room in her heart for anyfeeling but that of unutterable anguish.
They had not sent for her to Arundel. Until she heard that the end wasreached, she never knew he was near the end at all.
It is not Christianity, but Pharisaism, which would shut up the kingdomof heaven against all but itself. To those who have tasted that theLord is gracious, it is something more than mere privilege to summon himthat is athirst to come. "Necessity is upon them--yea, woe is unto themif they preach not the gospel!" Though no Christian is a priest, everyChristian must be a preacher. Ay, and that whether he will or not. Hemay impose silence upon his lips, but his life must be eloquent in spiteof himself. And what a terrible thought is this, when we look on ourpoor, unworthy, miserable lives rendered unto the Lord, for all Hisbenefits toward us! When the world sees us vacillating between rightand wrong--questioning how near we may go to the edge of the precipiceand yet be safe--can it realise that we believe that right and wrong tobe a matter of life and death? Or when it hears us murmuringcontinually over trifling vexations, can it believe that we honestlythink ourselves those to whom it is promised that all shall work forgood--that all things are ours--that we are heirs of God, andjoint-heirs with Christ?
O Lord, pardon the iniquities of our holy things! Verily, without Theewe can do nothing.
On the morning that this news reached Kilquyt, an old man in the garb ofthe Dominican Order was slowly mounting the ascent which led from theVale of Sempringham. The valley was just waking into spring life. Inthe trees above his head the thrushes and chaffinches were singing; andjust before him, diminished to a mere speck in the boundless blue, alark poured forth his "flood of delirious music." The Dominican pausedand rested on his staff while he listened.
"Sing, happy birds!" he said, when at length the lark's song was over,and the bird had come down to earth again. "For you there are no vainregrets over yesterday, no woeful anticipations of to-morrow. But whatkind of song can _she_ sing when she hath heard the news I bring her?"
"Father Guy!" said a voice beside him.
It was a child of ten years old who stood in his path--a copy of Elainefour years before.
"Ah, maid, art thou there?" answered Guy. "Run on, Annora, and say tothe Grey Lady that I will be at her cell in less than an hour. Thy feetare swifter than mine."
Annora ran blithely forward. Guy of Ashridge pursued his weary road,for he was manifestly very weary. At length he rather suddenly halted,and sat down on a bank where primroses grew by the way-side.
"I can go no further without resting," said he. "Ten is one thing, andthreescore and ten is another. If I could turn back and go nofurther!--Is the child here again already?"
"Father Guy," said Annora, running up and throwing herself down on theprimrose bank, "I have been to the cell, but I have not given yourmessage."
"Is the Lady not there?" asked Guy, a sudden feeling of relief comingover him.
"Oh yes, she is there," replied the child; "but she was kneeling atprayer, and I thought you would not have me disturb her."
"Right," answered the monk. "But lest she should leave the cell ere Ireach it, go back, Annora, and keep watch. Tell her, if she come forth,that I must speak with her to-day."
Once more away fled the light-footed Annora, and Guy, rising, resumedhis journey.
"If it must be, it may as well be now," he said to himself, with a sigh.
So, plodding and resting by turns, he at length arrived at the door ofthe cell. The door was closed, and the child sat on the step before it,singing softly to herself, and playing with a lapful of wild flowers--just as her sister had been doing when Philippa Sergeaux first made heracquaintance.
"Is she come forth yet?" asked Guy.
Annora shook her flaxen curls. Guy went to the little window, andglanced within. The grey figure was plainly visible, kneeling inprayer, with the hea
d bent low, and resting against a ledge of the rockwhich formed the walls of the little dwelling. The monk sat down on apiece of rock outside the cell, and soon so completely lost himself inthought that Annora grew weary of her amusement before he spoke again.She did not, however, leave him; but when she had thrown away herflowers, and had spent some minutes in a vain search for a four-leavedclover, fairly tired out, she came and stood before him.
"The shadow is nearly straight, Father Guy. Will she be much longer, doyou think?"
Guy started suddenly when Annora spoke.
"There is something amiss," he replied, in a tone of apprehension. "Inever knew her so long before. Has she heard my news already?"
He looked in again. The grey veiled figure had not changed itsposition. After a moment's irresolution, Guy laid his hand upon thelatch. The monk and the child entered together,--Guy with a face ofresolute endurance, as though something which would cost him much painmust nevertheless be done; Annora with one of innocent wonder, notunmixed with awe.
Guy took one step forward, and stopped suddenly.
"O Father Guy!" said Annora in a whisper, "the Grey Lady is notpraying,--she is asleep."
"Yes, she is asleep," replied Guy in a constrained voice. "`So Hegiveth His beloved sleep.' He knew how terribly the news would painher; and He would let none tell it to her but Himself. `I thank Thee, OFather, Lord of Heaven and earth!'"
"But how strangely she sleeps!" cried Annora, still under her breath."How white she is! and she looks so cold! Father Guy, won't you awakeher? She is not having nice dreams, I am afraid."
"The angels must awake her," said Guy, solemnly. "Sweeter dreams thanhers could no man have; for far above, in the Holy Land, she seeth theKing's face. Child, this is not sleep--it is death."
Ay, in the attitude of prayer, her head pillowed in its last sleep onthat ledge of the rock, knelt all that was mortal of Isabel LaDespenser. With her had been no priest to absolve--save the HighPriest; no hand had smoothed her pathway to the grave but the Lord's ownhand, who had carried her so tenderly through the valley of the shadowof death. Painlessly the dark river was forded, silently thepearl-gates were thrown open; and now she stood within the veil, in theinnermost sanctuary of the Temple of God. The arras of her life,wrought with such hard labour and bitter tears, was complete now. Allthe strange chequerings of the pattern were made plain, the fairproportions no longer hidden: the perfected work shone out in itsfinished beauty, and she grudged neither the labour nor the tears now.
Guy of Ashridge could see this; but to Annora it was incomprehensible.She had been told by her mother that the Grey Lady had passed a life ofmuch suffering before she came to Sempringham; for silent as she wasconcerning the details of that life, Isabel had never tried to concealthe fact that it had been one of suffering. And the child's childishidea was the old notion of poetical justice--of the good being rewarded,and the evil punished, openly and unmistakably, in this world; a stateof affairs frequently to be found in novels, but only now and then inreality. Had some splendid litter been borne to the door of the littlecell, and had noblemen decked in velvet robes, shining with jewels, andriding on richly caparisoned horses, told her that they were come tomake the Grey Lady a queen, Annora would have been fully satisfied. Buthere the heavenly chariot was invisible, and had come noiselessly; thewhite and glistering raiment of the angels had shone with no perceptiblelustre, had swept by with no audible sound. The child wept bitterly.
"What troubleth thee, Annora?" said Guy of Ashridge, laying his handgently upon her head.
"Oh!" sobbed Annora, "God hath given her nothing after all!"
"Hath He given her nothing?" responded Guy. "I would thou couldst askher, and see what she would answer."
"But I thought," said the child, vainly endeavouring to stop crying, "Ithought He had such beautiful things to give to people He loved. Sheused to say so. But He gave her nothing beautiful--only this cell andthose grey garments. I thought He would have clad her in goldenbaudekyn [see Note 1], and set gems in her hair, and given her a horseto ride,--like the Lady de Chartreux had when she came to the Conventlast year to visit her daughter, Sister Egidia. Her fingers were allsparkling with rings, and her gown had beautiful strings of pearl downthe front, with perry-work [see Note 2] at the wrists. Why did not Godgive the Grey Lady such fair things as these? Was she not quite as goodas the Lady de Chartreux?"
"Because He loved her too well," said Guy softly. "He had better andfairer things than such poor gauds for her. The Lady de Chartreux mustdie one day, and leave all her pearls and perry-work behind her. But tothe Lady Isabel that here lieth dead, He gave length of days for everand ever; He gave her to drink of the Living Water, after which shenever thirsted any more."
"Oh, but I wish He would have given her something that I could see!"sobbed Annora again.
"Little maid," said Guy, his hand again falling lightly on the littleflaxen head, "God grant that when thy few and evil days of this lowerlife be over, thou mayest both see and share what He hath given her!"
And slowly he turned back to "her who lay so silent."
"Farewell, Isabel, Countess of Arundel!" he said almost tenderly. "Forthe corruptible coronet whereof man deprived thee, God hath given theean incorruptible crown. For the golden baudekyn that was too mean to toclothe thee,--the robes that are washed white, the pure bright stone[see Note 3] whereof the angels' robes are fashioned. For the statelybarbs which were not worthy to bear thee,--a chariot and horses of fire.And for the delicate cates of royal tables, which were not sweet enoughfor thee,--the Bread of Life, which whosoever eateth shall never hunger,the Water of Life, which whosoever drinketh shall never thirst.
"`_O retributio! stat brevis actio, vita perennis; O retributio! caelica mansio stat lue plenis._'"
See Note 4 for a translation.
"How blessed an exchange, how grand a reward! I trust God, but thouseest Him. I believe He hath done well, with thee, as with me, but thouknowest it."
"`Jamais soyf n'auras A l'eternite!'"
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Note 1. Baudekyn, the richest variety of this rich silk, in whichthreads of gold were probably intermingled.
Note 2. Perry-work: goldsmiths' work, often set with precious stones.
Note 3. In Revelations xv. 6, the most ancient MSS., instead of "pureand white linen," read "a pure bright stone."
Note 4:
"`O happy retribution! Short toil, eternal rest; For mortals and for sinners A mansion with the blest!'"
Neals's _Translation_.
The Well in the Desert Page 10
