CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE SUN BREAKS OUT.
"If from Thine ordeal's heated bars, Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done!"--Whittier.
Heliet's penetration had not deceived her. The mean, narrow, witheredarticle which Vivian Barkeworth called his soul, was unable to pardonClarice for having shown herself morally so much his superior. That hiswife should be better than himself was in his eyes an inversion of theproper order of things. And as of course it was impossible that heshould be to blame, why, it must be her fault Clarice found herself mostcruelly snubbed for days after her interference in behalf of hergraceless husband. Not in public; for except in the one instance ofthis examination, where his sense of shame and guilt had overcome himfor a moment, Vivian's company manners were faultless, and a surfaceobserver would have pronounced him a model husband. Poor Clarice hadlearned by experience that any restraint which Vivian put upon himselfwhen inwardly vexed, was sure to rebound on her devoted head in the formof after suffering in private.
To Clarice herself the reaction came soon and severely. On the eveningbefore Rosie's funeral, Heliet found her seated by the little bier inthe hall, gazing dreamily on the face of her lost darling, with dry eyesand strained expression. She sat down beside her. Clarice took nonotice. Heliet scarcely knew how to deal with her. If something couldbe said which would set the tears flowing it might save her greatsuffering; yet to say the wrong thing might do more harm than good. Thesupper-bell rang before she had made up her mind. As they rose Clariceslipped her hand into Heliet's arm, and, to the surprise of the latter,thanked her.
"For what?" said Heliet.
"For the only thing any one can do for me--for feeling with me."
After supper Clarice went up to her own rooms; but Heliet returned tothe hall where Rosie lay. To her astonishment, she found a sudden andtouching change in the surroundings of the dead child. Rosie lay nowwreathed round in white rosebuds, tastefully disposed, as by a handwhich had grudged neither love nor labour.
"Who has done this?" Heliet spoke aloud in he surprise.
"I have," said a voice beside her. It was no voice which Heliet knew.She looked up into the face of a tall man, with dark hair and beard, andeyes which were at once sad and compassionate.
"You! Who are you?" asked Heliet in the same tone.
"You may not know my name. I am--Piers Ingham."
"Then I do know," replied Heliet, gravely. "But, Sir Piers, _she_ mustnot know."
"Certainly not," he said, quietly. "Tell her nothing; let her think, ifshe will, that the angels did it. And--tell me nothing. Farewell."
He stooped down and kissed the cold white brow of the dead child.
"That can hurt no one," said Piers, in a low voice. "And she may beglad to hear it--when she meets the child again."
He glided out of the hall so softly that Heliet did not hear him go, andonly looked up and found herself alone. She knelt for a few minutes bythe bier and then went quietly to her own room.
The next morning there were abundance of conjectures as to who couldhave paid this tender and graceful tribute. The Earl was generallysuspected, but he at once said that it was no doing of his. Everybodywas asked, and all denied it. Father Bevis was appealed to, as beingbetter acquainted with the saints than the rest of the company, to statewhether he thought it probable that one of them had been the agent. ButFather Bevis's strong common sense declined to credit any but humanhands with the deed.
Clarice was one of the last to appear. And when the sweet, fair tributeto her darling broke suddenly upon her sight, the result was attainedfor which all had been more or less hoping. That touch of nature setthe floodgates open, and dropping on her knees beside the bier, Claricepoured forth a rain of passionate tears.
When all was over, and Rosie had been hidden away from sight until theangel-trump should call her, Clarice and Heliet went out together on theCastle green. They sat down on one of the seats in an embrasure. TheEarl, with his thoughtful kindness, seeing them, sent word to thecommandant to keep the soldiers within so long as the ladies chose tostay there. So they were left undisturbed.
Heliet was longing intensely to comfort Clarice, but she felt entirelyat a loss what line to take. Clarice relieved her perplexity by beingthe first to speak.
"Heliet!" she said, "what does God mean by this?"
"I cannot tell, dear heart, except that He means love and mercy. `Allthe ways of the Lord are mercy and truth unto the lovers of His will andtestimony.' Is not that enough?"
"It might be if one could see it."
"Is it not enough, without seeing?"
"O Heliet, Heliet, she was all I had!"
"I know it, beloved. But how if He would have thee to make Him all thouhast?"
"Could I not have loved God and have had Rosie?"
"Perhaps not," said Heliet, gently.
"I hope He will take me soon," said Clarice. "Surely He can never leaveme long now!"
"Or, it may be, make thee content to wait His will."
Clarice shook her head, not so much with a negative air as with ashrinking one. Just in that first agony, to be content with it seemedbeyond human nature.
Heliet laid her hand on that of her friend. "Dear, would you have hadRosie suffer as you have done?"
For a moment Clarice's mental eyes ran forward, over what would mostlikely, according to human prevision, have been the course of Rosie'safter life. The thought came to her as with a pang, and grew upon her,that the future could have had no easy lot in store for VivianBarkeworth's daughter. He would have disposed of her without a thoughtof her own wish, and no prayers nor tears from her would have availed toturn him from his purpose. No--it was well with the child.
"Thou art right," she said, in a pained voice. "It is better for Rosieas it is. But for me?"
"Leave that with God. He will show thee some day that it was better forthee too."
Clarice rose from her seat; but not till she had said the one thingwhich Heliet had been hoping that she would not say.
"Who could have laid those flowers there? Heliet, canst thou form anyidea? Dost thou think it _was_ an angel?"
Heliet had an excuse in settling her crutches for delaying her reply fora moment. Then she said in a low tone, the source of whose tendernessit was well that Clarice could not guess--"I am not sure, dear, that itwas not."
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If Clarice's sufferings had been passive before, they began to be activenow. Vivian made her life a torment to her by jealousy on the one hand,and positive cruelty on the other; yet his manners in public were socarefully veiled in courtesy that not one of her friends guessed howmuch she really suffered. As much time as she could she spent in heroratory, which was the only place where Vivian left her at peace, undera vague idea that it would bring him ill luck to interrupt any one'sprayers. Unfortunately for Clarice, he had caught a glimpse of Piers,and, having no conscientiousness in his own composition, he could notimagine it in that of another. That Piers should be at Berkhamstedwithout at least making an effort to open communication with Clarice,was an idea which Vivian would have refused to entertain for a moment.For what other earthly purpose could he be there? Vivian was a man whohad no faith in any human being. In his belief, the only possible meansto prevent Clarice from running away with Piers was to keep her eitherin his sight or locked up when out of it. The idea of trusting to herprinciples would have struck him as simply ridiculous.
Sir Piers, however, had completely disappeared, as completely as thoughhe had never been seen. And after a while Vivian grew more confident,and not so particular about keeping the key turned. Clarice knewneither why he locked her in, nor why he gave over doing so. Had shehad a suspicion of the reason, her indignation would not have beensmall.
Public affairs meanwhile maintained their interest. The King marchedhis army to Scotland, and routed Wallace's troops in the battle of
Falkirk; but his success was somewhat counterbalanced by the burning ofWestminster Palace and Abbey before he left home. It was about thistime that Piers Gavestone began to appear at Court, introduced by hisfather with a view to making his fortune; and to the misfortune of theyoung Prince Edward, their musical tastes being alike, they became fastfriends. The Prince was now only fourteen years of age; and, led byGavestone, he was guilty--if indeed the charge be true--of a mischievousboyish frolic, in "breaking the parks" of the Bishop of Chester, andappropriating his deer. The boy was fond of venison, and he was stillmore fond of pets; but neither of these facts excused the raid on theBishop of Chester, who chose to take the offence far more seriously thanany modern bishop would be likely to do, and carried his complaint tothe King. The royal father, as his wont was, flew into a passion, andweighted the boys' frolic with the heavy penalty of banishment forGavestone, and imprisonment for the Prince. In all probability youngEdward had never looked on his action in any other light than as a pieceof fun. Had his father been concerned about the sin committed againstGod--exactly the sin of a boy who robs an orchard--he might, with lessoutward severity, have produced a far more wholesome impression on hisson; but what he considered appears to have been merely the dignity ofthe Prince, which was outraged by the act of the boy who bore the title.A quiet, grave exhortation might have done him good, but imprisonmentdid none, and left on many minds the impression that the boy had beenhardly used.
One striking feature in the conduct of Edward the Second is theremarkable meekness and submission with which he bore his father's angryoutbursts and severe punishments--often administered for mere youthfulfollies, such as most fathers would think amply punished by a stronglecture, and perhaps a few strokes of the cane. Edward the First seemsto have been one of those men who entirely forget their own childhood,and are never able in after life to enter into the feelings of a child.
His Majesty, however, had other matters to attend to beside theprovocation received from his heir; for in the month of Septemberfollowing (1299) he was married at Canterbury to the Princess Margueriteof France. It was a case approaching that of Rachel and Leah, for itwas the beautiful Princess Blanche for whom the King had been in treaty,and Marguerite was foisted on him by a process of crafty diplomacy notfar removed from treachery. However, since Marguerite, though not sofair as her sister, proved the better woman of the two, the King had noreason to be disappointed in the end.
The Council of Regency established in Scotland, discontented withEdward's arbitration, referred the question of their independence to thePope, and that wily potentate settled the matter in his own interests,by declaring Scotland a fief of the Holy See. The King was stillwarring in that vicinity; the young Queen was left with her baby boy inYorkshire to await his return.
It was a hot July day, and Vivian, who highly disapproved of thestagnation of Berkhamsted, declared his intention of going out to hunt.People hunted in all weathers and seasons in the Middle Ages. Ademardeclined to accompany him, and he contented himself by taking two of theEarl's squires and a handful of archers as company. The Earl did notinterfere with Vivian's proceedings. He was quite aware that the quietwhich he loved was by no means to everybody's taste; and he left hisretinue at liberty to amuse themselves as they pleased.
Vivian did not think it necessary to turn the key on Clarice; but hegave her a severe lecture on discreet behaviour which astonished her,since her conscience did not accuse her of any breach of that virtue,and she could not trace the course of her husband's thoughts. Claricemeekly promised to bear the recommendation in mind; and Vivian left herto her own devices.
The day dragged heavily. Mistress Underdone sat with Heliet and Clariceat work; but not much work was gone through, for in everybody's opinionit was too hot to do anything. The tower in which they were was at theback of the Castle, and looked upon the inner court. The Earl'sapartments were in the next tower, and there, despite the heat, he wasgoing over sundry grants and indentures with Father Bevis and hisbailiff, always considering the comfort and advantage of his serfs andtenants. The sound of a horn outside warned the ladies that in allprobability Vivian was returning home; and whether his temper were good,bad, or indifferent was likely to depend on the condition of hishunting-bags. Good, was almost too much to hope for. With a littlesmothered sigh Clarice ventured to hope that it might not be worse thanindifferent. Her comfort for the next day or two would be much affectedby it.
They looked out of the window, but all they saw was Ademar crossing theinner court with rapid steps, and disappearing within the Earl's tower.There was some noise in the outer court, but no discernible solution ofit. The ladies went back to their work. Much to their surprise, tenminutes later, the Earl himself entered the chamber. It was not at allhis wont to come there. When he had occasion to send orders to Clariceconcerning his household arrangements, he either sent for her orconveyed them through Vivian. These were the Countess's rooms whichthey were now occupying, and the Earl had never crossed the thresholdsince she left the Castle.
They looked up, and saw in his face that he had news to tell them. Andall at once Clarice rose and exclaimed--"Vivian!"
"Dame, I grieve to tell you that your knight has been somewhat hurt inhis hunting."
Clarice was not conscious of any feeling but the necessity of knowingall. And that she had not yet been told all she felt certain.
"Much hurt?" she asked.
"I fear so," answered the Earl.
"My Lord, will you tell me all?"
The Earl took her hand and looked kindly at her. "Dame, he is dead."
Mistress Underdone raised her hands with an exclamation of shockedsurprise, to which Heliet's look of horror formed a fitting corollary.Clarice was conscious only of a confused medley of feelings, from whichnone but a sense of amazement stood out in the foreground. Then theEarl quietly told her that, in leaping a wide ditch, Vivian had beenthrown from his horse, and had never spoken more.
No one tried to comfort Clarice. Pitifully they all felt that comfortwas not wanted now. The death of Rosie had been a crushing blow; butVivian's, however sudden, could hardly be otherwise than a relief. Theonly compassion that any one could feel was for him, for whom therewas--
"No reckoning made, but sent to his account With all his imperfections on his head."
The very fact that she could not regret him on her own account lay aweight on Clarice's conscience, though it was purely his own fault.Severely as she tried to judge herself, she could recall no instance inwhich, so far as such a thing can be said of any human sinner, she hadnot done her duty by that dead man. She had obeyed him in letter andspirit, however distasteful it had often been to herself; she hadconsulted his wishes before her own; she had even honestly tried to lovehim, and he had made it impossible. Now, she could not resist theoverwhelming consciousness that his death was to her a release from herfetters--a coming out of prison. She was free from the perpetual dragof apprehension on the one hand, and of constantly endeavouring on theother to please a man who was determined not to be pleased. The spiritof the uncaged bird awoke within her--a sense of freedom, and light, andrest, such as she had not known for those eight weary years of hermarried slavery.
Yet the future was no path of roses to the eyes of Clarice. She was notfree in the thirteenth century, in the sense in which she would havebeen free in the nineteenth, for she had no power to choose her own lot.All widows were wards of the Crown; and it was not at all usual for theCrown to concern its august self respecting their wishes, unless theybought leave to comply with them at a very costly price. By a singularperversion of justice, the tax upon a widow who purchased permission toremarry or not, at her pleasure, was far heavier than the fine exactedfrom a man who married a ward of the Crown without royal licence. Thenatural result of this arrangement was that the ladies who were eitherdowered widows or spinster heiresses very often contracted clandestinemarriages, and their husbands quietly endured the subsequent fine andimprisonment, as unavo
idable evils which were soon over, and well worththe advantage which they purchased.
It seemed, however, as if blessings, no less than misfortunes, were notto come single to Clarice Barkeworth. A few weeks after Vivian's death,the Earl silently put a parchment into her hand, which conveyed to herthe information that King Edward had granted to his well-beloved cousin,Edmund, Earl of Cornwall, the marriage of Clarice, widow of VivianBarkeworth, knight, with the usual proviso that she was not to marry oneof the King's enemies. This was, indeed, something for which to bethankful. Clarice knew that her future was as safe in her master'shands as in her own.
"Ah!" said Heliet, when that remark was made to her, "if we could onlyhave felt, dear heart, that it was as safe in the hands of his Master!"
"Was I very faithless, Heliet?" said Clarice, with tears in her eyes.
"Dear heart, no more than I was!" was Heliet's answer.
"But has it not occurred to thee, Heliet, now--why might I not have hadRosie?"
"I know not, dear Clarice, any more than Rosie knew, when she was a babein thine arms, why thou gavest her bitter medicine. Oh, leave all thatalone--our Master understands what He is doing."
It was the middle of September, and about two months after Vivian'sdeath. Clarice sat sewing, robed in the white weeds of widowhood, inthe room which she usually occupied in the Countess's tower. Thegarments worn by a widow were at this time extremely strict and veryunbecoming, though the period during which they were worn was much lessstringent than now. From one to six months was as long as many widowsremained in that condition. Heliet had not been seen for an hour ormore, and Mistress Underdone, with some barely intelligible remarks verydisparaging to "that Nell," who stood, under her, at the head of thekitchen department, had disappeared to oversee the venison pasty.Clarice was doing something which she had not done for eight years,though hardly aware that she was doing it--humming a troubadour song.Getting past an awkward place in her work, words as well as music becameaudible--
"And though my lot were hard and bare, And though my hopes were few, Yet would I dare one vow to swear My heart should still be true."
"Wouldst thou, Clarice?" asked a voice behind her.
Clarice's delicate embroidery got the worst of it, for it dropped in aheap on the rushes, and nobody paid the slightest attention to it for aconsiderable time. Nor did any one come near the room until Heliet madeher appearance, and she came so slowly, and heralded her approach bysuch emphatic raps of her crutches on the stone floor, that Claricecould scarcely avoid the conclusion that she was a conspirator in theplot. The head and front of it all, however, was manifestly EarlEdmund, who received Sir Piers with a smile and no other greeting--adistinct intimation that it was not the first time they had met thatday.
The wedding--which nobody felt inclined to dispute--was fixed for thefifteenth of October. The Earl wished it to take place when he could bepresent and give away the bride, and he wanted first a fortnight'sretreat at Ashridge, to which place he had arranged to go on the lastday of September. Sir Piers stepped at once into his old position, butthe Earl took Ademar with him to Ashridge. He gave the grant ofClarice's marriage to Piers himself, in the presence of the household,with the remark:--
"It will be better in your hands than mine; and there is no time likethe present."
Into Clarice's hand her master put a shining pile of gold for thepurchase of wedding garments and jewellery.
"I am glad," he said, "that your path through life is coming to theroses now. I would hope the thorns are over for you--at least for sometime. There have been no roses for me; but I can rejoice, I hope, withthose for whom they blossom."
And so he rode away from Berkhamsted, looking back to smile a farewellto Heliet and Clarice, as they stood watching him in the gateway. Longyears afterwards they remembered that kind, almost affectionate, smile.
As the ladies turned into their own tower, and began to ascend thestaircase--always a slow process with Heliet--Clarice said, "I cannotunderstand why our Lord the Earl has such a lonely and sorrowful lot."
"Thou wouldst like to understand everything, Clarice," returned Heliet,smiling.
"I would!" she answered. "I can understand my own troubles better, forI know how much there is in me that needs setting right; but he--why heis almost an angel already."
"Perhaps he would tell thee the same thing," said Heliet. "I am afraid,dear heart, if thou hadst the graving of our Lord's gems, thou wouldststop the tool before the portrait was in sufficient relief."
"But when the portrait _is_ in sufficient relief?" answered Clarice,earnestly.
"Ah, dear heart!" said Heliet, "neither thine eyes nor mine are fineenough to judge of that."
"It seems almost a shame to be happy when I know he is not," repliedClarice, the tears springing to her eyes; "our dear master, who has beento me as a very angel of God."
"Nay, dear, he would wish thee to be happy," gently remonstrated Heliet."I believe both thou and I are to him as daughters, Clarice."
"I wish I could make him happy!" said Clarice, as they turned into herrooms.
"Ask God to do it," was Heliet's response.
They both asked Him that night. And He heard and answered them, but, asis often the case, not at all as they expected.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
IN THE CITY OF GOLD.
"I am not eager, strong, Nor bold--all that is past; I am ready not to do, At last--at last.
"My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part: I give a patient God My patient heart."
Vespers were over at Ashridge on the last day of September, the eveningof the Earl's arrival. He sat in the guest-chamber, with the Prior andhis Buckinghamshire bailiff, to whom he was issuing instructions withrespect to some cottages to be built for the villeins on one of hisestates. The Prior sat by in silence, while the Earl impressed on themind of his agent that the cottages were to be made reasonablycomfortable for the habitation of immortal souls and not improbablysuffering bodies. When at last the bailiff had departed, the Priorturned to his patron with a smile. "I would all lay lords--andspiritual ones too--were as kindly thoughtful of their inferiors as yourLordship."
"Ah, how little one can do at the best!" said the Earl. "Life is fullof miseries for these poor serfs; shall we, who would follow Christ'ssteps, not strive to lighten it?"
"It is very truth," said the Prior.
"Ay, and how short the boundary is!" pursued the Earl. "`Man isignorant what was before him; and what shall be after him, who can tellhim?' It may be, the next lord of these lands will be a hard man, whowill oppress his serfs, or at any rate take no care for their comfort.Poor souls! let them be happy as long as they can."
"When I last saw your Lordship, you seemed to think that short boundarytoo long for your wishes."
"It is seven years since that," answered the Earl. "It hardly seems sofar away now. And lately, Father--I scarcely can tell how--I haveimagined that my life will not be long. It makes me the more anxious todo all I can ere `the night cometh in which no man can work.'"
The Prior looked critically and anxiously at his patron. The sevenyears which he had passed in sorrowful loneliness had aged him more thanseven years ought to have done. He was not fifty yet, but he wasbeginning to look like an old man. The burden and heat of the day weretelling on him sadly.
"Right, my Lord," replied the Prior; "yet let me beg of your Lordshipnot to over-weary yourself. Your life is a precious thing to alldependent on you, and not less to us, your poor bedesmen here."
"Ah, Father! is my life precious to any one?" was the response, with asad smile.
"Indeed it is," answered the Prior earnestly. "As your Lordship hasjust said, he who shall come after you may be harsh and unkind, and yourpoor serfs may sorely feel the change. No man has a right to throw awaylife, my Lord, and you have much left to live for."
Perhaps the Earl had grown a little morbid. Was it any wonder if hehad? He shook his head.
"
We have but one life," continued the Prior, "and it is our duty to makethe best of it--that is, to do God's will with it. And when it is God'swill to say unto us, `Come up higher,' we may be sorry that we haveserved Him no better, but not, I think, that we have given no more timeto our own ease, nor even to our own sorrows."
"And yet," said the Earl, resting his head upon one hand, "one getsvery, very tired sometimes of living."
"Cannot we trust our Father to call us to rest when we really need it?"asked the Prior. "Nor is it well that in looking onward to the futureglory we should miss the present rest to be had by coming to Him, andcasting all our cares and burdens at His feet."
"Does He always take them?"
"Always--if we give them. But there is such a thing as asking Him totake them, and holding them out to Him, and yet keeping fast hold of theother end ourselves. He will hardly take what we do not give."
The Earl looked earnestly into his friend's eyes.
"Father, I will confess that these seven years--nay! what am I saying?these eight-and-twenty--I have not been willing that God should do Hiswill. I wanted my will done. For five-and-forty years, ever since Icould lisp the words, I have been saying to Him with my lips, _Fiatvoluntas tua_. But only within the last few days have I really said toHim in my heart, Lord, have Thy way. It seemed to me--will you think itvery dreadful if I confess it?--that I wanted but one thing, and that itwas very hard of God not to let me have it. I did not say such a thingin words; I could talk fluently of being resigned to His will, but downat the core of my heart I was resigned to everything but one, and I wasnot resigned to that at all. And I think I only became resigned when Igave over trying and working at resignation, and sank down, like a tiredchild, at my Father's feet. But now I am very tired, and I would fainthat my Father would take me up in His arms."
The Prior did not speak. He could not. He only looked very sorrowfullyinto the worn face of the heart-wearied man, with a conviction which hewas unable to repress, that the time of the call to come up higher wasnot far away. He would have been thankful to disprove his conclusion,but to stifle it he dared not.
"I hope," said the Earl in the same low tone, "that there are quietcorners in Heaven where weary men and women may lie down and rest awhile at our Lord's feet. I feel unfit to take a place all at once inthe angelic choir. Not unready to praise--I mean not that--only tooweary, just at first, to care for anything but rest."
There were tears burning under the Prior's eyelids; but he was silentstill. That was not his idea of Heaven; but then he was less weary ofearth. He felt almost vexed that the only passage of Scripture whichwould come to him was one utterly unsuited to the occasion--"They restnot day nor night." Usually fluent and fervent, he was tongue-tied justthen.
"Did Christ our Lord need the rest of His three days and nights in thegrave?" suggested the Earl, thoughtfully. "He must have been very wearyafter the agony of His cross. I think He must have been very tired ofHis life altogether. For was it not one passion from Bethlehem toCalvary? And He could hardly have been one of those strong men whonever seem to feel tired. Twice we are told that He was weary--when Hesat on the well, and when He slept in the boat. Father, I ought to askyour pardon for speaking when I should listen, and seeming to teachwhere I ought to be taught."
"Nay, my Lord, say not so, I pray you." The Prior found his voice atlast. "I have learned to recognise my Master's voice, whether I hear itfrom the rostrum of the orator or from the lowly hovel of the serf. Andit is not the first time that I have heard it in yours."
The Earl looked up with an expression of surprise, and then shook hishead again with a smile.
"Nay, good Father, flatter me not so far."
He might have added more, but the sound of an iron bar beaten on awooden board announced the hour of supper. The Earl conversed almostcheerfully with the Prior and his head officers during supper; andAdemar remarked to the Cellarer that he had not for a long while seenhis master so like his old self.
The first of October rose clear and bright. At Berkhamsted, the ladieswere spending the morning in examining the contents of a pedlar'swell-stocked pack, and buying silk, lawn, furs, and trimmings for thewedding. At Ashridge, the Earl was walking up and down the Priorygarden, looking over the dilapidations which time had wrought in hismonastery, and noting on his tables sundry items in respect of which hemeant to repair the ravages. At Romsey, Mother Margaret, in her blackpatched habit and up-turned sleeves, was washing out the conventrefectory, and thereby, she fervently hoped, washing her sins out ofexistence--without a thought of the chivalrous love which would have sether high above all such menial labour, and would never have permittedeven the winds of heaven to "visit her cheek too roughly." Did it neveroccur to her that she might have allowed the Redeemer of men to "makeher salvation" for her, and yet have allowed herself to make herhusband's life something better to him than a weary burden?
The day's work was over, and the recreation time had come. The Prior ofAshridge tapped at the door of the guest-chamber, and was desired toenter.
He found the Earl turning over the leaves of his Psalter.
"Look here, Father," said the latter, pointing out the fifteenth verseof the ninetieth Psalm.
"We are glad for the days wherein Thou didst humiliate us; the yearswherein we have seen evil."
"What does that mean?" said the Earl. "Is it that we thank God for theafflictions He has given us? It surely does not mean--I hope not--thatour comfort is to last just as long as our afflictions have lasted, andnot a day longer."
"Ah, my Lord, God is no grudging giver," answered the Prior. "The versebefore it, methinks, will reply to your Lordship--`we exult and are gladall our days.' All our earthly life have we been afflicted; all ourheavenly one shall we be made glad."
"Glad! I hardly know what the word means," was the pathetic reply.
"You will know it then," said the Prior.
"You will--but shall I? I have been such an unprofitable servant!"
"Nay, good my Lord, but are you going to win Heaven by your own works?"eagerly demanded the Bonus Homo. "`Beginning in the spirit, are yeconsummated in the flesh?' Surely you have not so learned Christ. HathHe not said, `Life eternal give I to them; and they shall not perish forever, and none shall snatch them out of My hand'?"
"True," said the Earl, bowing his head.
But this was Vaudois teaching. And though Earl Edmund, first of all menin England, had drunk in the Vaudois doctrines, yet even in him they hadto struggle with a mass of previous teaching which required to beunlearned--with all that rubbish of man's invention which Rome has builtup on the One Foundation. It was hard, at times, to keep the old ghostsfrom coming back, and troubling by their shadowy presence the soul whomChrist had brought into His light.
There was silence for a time. The Earl's head was bent forward upon hisclasped hands on the table, and the Prior, who thought that he might bepraying, forbore to disturb him. At length he said, "My Lord, thesupper-hour is come."
The Earl gave no answer, and the Prior thought he had dropped asleep.He waited till the board was struck with the iron bar as the signal forsupper. Then he rose and addressed the Earl again. The silencedistressed him now. He laid his hand upon his patron's shoulder, butthere was no response. Gently, with a sudden and terrible fear, helifted the bowed head and looked into his face. And then he knew thatthe weary heart was glad at last--that life eternal in His beatificpresence had God given to him. From far and near the physicians weresummoned that night, but only to tell the Prior what he already knew.They stood round the bed on which the corpse had been reverently laid,and talked of his mysterious disease in hard words of sonorous Latin.It would have been better had they called it in simple English what itwas--a broken heart. Why such a fate was allotted to one of the best ofall our princes, He knows who came to bind up the broken-hearted, andwho said by the lips of His prophet, "Reproach hath broken mine heart."
Ademar was sent back to Berkhams
ted with the woeful news. There wasbitter mourning there. It was not, perhaps, in many of the household,unmixed with selfish considerations, for to a large proportion of themthe death of their master meant homelessness for the present, and tonearly all sad apprehensions for the future. Yet there was a great dealthat was not selfish, for the gentle, loving, humane, self-abnegatingspirit of the dead had made him very dear to all his dependants, andmore hearts wept for him than he would ever have believed possible.
But there was one person in especial to whom it was felt the news oughtto be sent. The Prior despatched no meaner member of the Order, butwent himself to tell the dark tidings at Romsey.
He pleaded hard for a private interview with the Countess, but thereigning Abbess of Romsey was a great stickler for rule, and she decidedthat it was against precedent, and therefore propriety, that one of hernuns should be thus singled out from the rest. The announcement must bemade in the usual way, to the whole convent, at vespers.
So, in the well-known tones of the Prior of Ashridge,--some time theEarl's confessor, and his frequent visitor,--with the customary requestto pray for the repose of the dead, to the ears of Mother Margaret, asshe knelt in her stall with the rest, came the sound of the familiarname of Edmund, Earl of Cornwall.
Very tender and pathetic was the tone in which the intimation was given.The heart of the Prior himself was so wrung that he could not imaginesuch a feeling as indifference in that of the woman who had been thedearest thing earth held for that dead man. But if he looked down thelong row of black, silent figures for any sign or sound, he looked invain. There was not even a trembling of Mother Margaret's black veil asher voice rose untroubled in the response with all the rest--
"_O Jesu dulcis! O Jesu pie! O Jesu, Fili Maria! Dona eis requiem_."
In the recreation-time which followed, the Prior sought out MotherMargaret. He found her without difficulty, seated on a form at the sideof the room, talking to a sister nun, and he caught a few words of theconversation as he approached.
"I assure thee, Sister Regina, it is quite a mistake. Mother Wymarcatold me distinctly that the holy Mother gave Sister Maud an unpatchedhabit, and it is all nonsense in her to say there was a patch on theelbow."
The Prior bit his lips, but he restrained himself, and sat down,reverently saluted by both nuns as he did so. Was she trying to hideher feelings? thought he.
"Sister Margaret, I brought you tidings," he said, as calmly as was inhim.
The nun turned upon him a pair of cold, steel-blue eyes, as calm andirresponsive as if he had brought her no tidings whatever.
"I heard them, Father, if it please you. Has he left any will?"
The priest-nature in the Prior compelled him officially to avoid anyreprehension of this perfect monastic calm; but the human nature, whichin his case lay beneath it, was surprised and repelled.
"He has left a will, wherein you are fully provided for."
"Oh, that is nice!" said Mother Margaret, in tones of unquestionablegratulation. "And how much am I to have? Of course I care about itonly for the sake of the Abbey."
The Prior had his private ideas on that point; for, as he well knew, thevow of poverty was somewhat of a formality in the Middle Ages, since thenun who brought to her convent a title and a fortune was usually nottreated in the same manner as a penniless commoner.
"The customary dower to a widow, Sister."
"Do you mean to say I am only to have my third? Well, I call thatshameful! And so fond of me as he always professed to be! I thought hewould have left me everything."
The Prior experienced a curious sensation in his right arm, which, hadMother Margaret not been a woman, or had he been less of a Christian anda Church dignitary, might have resulted in the measuring of her lengthon the floor of the recreation-room. But she was totally unconscious ofany such feeling on his part. Her heart--or that within her which didduty for one--had been touched at last.
"Well, I do call it disgraceful!" she repeated.
"And is that all?" asked the Prior involuntarily, and not by any meansin consonance with his duty as a holy priest addressing a veiled nun.But priests and nuns have no business with hearts of any sort, and heought to have known this as well as she did.
"All?" she said, with a rather puzzled look in the frosty blue eyes. "Iwould it had been a larger sum, Father; for the convent's sake, ofcourse."
"And am I to hear no word of regret, Sister, for the man to whom youwere all the world?"
This was, of course, a most shocking speech, considering the speaker andthe person whom he addressed; but it came warm from that inconvenientheart which had no business to be beneath the Prior's cassock. MotherMargaret was scandalised, and she showed it in her face, which awoke hercompanion to the fact that he was not speaking in character. That aprofessed nun should be expected to feel personal and unspiritualinterest in an extern! and, as if that were not enough, in a man!Mother Margaret's sense of decorum was quite outraged.
"How could such thoughts trouble the blessed peace of a holy sister?"she wished to know. "Pardon me, Father; I shall pray for his soul, ofcourse. What could I do more?"
And the Prior recognised at last that to the one treasure of that deadman's heart, the news he brought was less than it had been to him.
He bit his lips severely. It was all he could do to keep from tellingher that the pure, meek, self-abnegating soul which had passed fromearth demanded far fewer prayers than the cold, hard, selfish spiritwhich dwelt within her own black habit.
"It is I who require pardon, Sister," he said, in a constrained voice."May our Lord in His mercy forgive us all!"
He made no further attempt to converse with Mother Margaret. But, as hepassed her a few minutes later, he heard that she and Sister Regina hadgone back to the previous subject, which they were discussing with someinterest in their tones.
"O woman, woman!" groaned the Prior, in his heart; "the patch on SisterMaud's elbow is more to thee than all the love thou hast lost. Ah, mydear Lord! it is not you that I mourn. You are far better hence."
From which speech it will be seen that the Bonus Homo was very far frombeing a perfect monk.
The actions of Mother Margaret admirably matched her words. She gaveherself heart and soul to the important business of securing hermiserable third of her dead lord's lands and goods. Not till they weresafe in her possession did she allow herself any rest.
Did the day ever come when her feelings changed? During the ten yearswhich she outlived the man who had loved her with every fibre of hiswarm, great heart, did her heart ever turn regretfully, when Abbesseswere harsh or life was miserable, to the thought of that tender,faithful love which, so far as in it lay, would have sheltered her lifefrom every breath of discomfort? Did she ever in all those ten yearswhisper to herself--
"Oh, if he would but come again, I think I'd vex him so no more!"
Did she ever murmur such words as--
"I was not worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you!"
...words which, honestly sobbed forth in very truth, would have been farnearer real penitence than all the "acts of contrition" which passed herlips day by day.
God knoweth. Men will never know. But all history and experience tendto assure us that women such as Margaret de Clare usually die as theyhave lived, and that of all barriers to penitence and conversion thereis none so hard to overthrow as indulged malice and deliberate hardeningof the heart against the love of God and man.
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There was not, as Piers and Clarice had feared there might have been,any misfortune to them in the way of preventing their marriage. KingEdward had great respect for justice and honour, and finding that hiscousin had, though without legal formalities, granted Clarice's marriageto Piers, he confirmed the grant, and Father Bevis married them quietlyin the chapel of Berkhamsted Castle, without any festivity orrejoicings, for the embalmed body of the master to wh
om they owed somuch lay in state in the banquet-hall. It was a mournful ceremony,where--
"The cheers that had erst made the welkin ring Were drowned in the tears that were shed for the King."
Clarice and Piers made no attempt to obtain any further promotion. Theyretired to a little estate in Derbyshire, which shortly afterwards fellto Piers, and there they spent their lives, in serving their generationaccording to the will of God, often brightened by visits from Ademar andHeliet, who had taken up their abode not far from them in theneighbouring county of Rutland. And as time went on, around Claricegrew up brave sons and fair daughters, to all of whom she made a veryloving mother; but, perhaps, no one was ever quite so dear to her heartas the star which had gleamed on her life the brighter for thesurrounding darkness, the little white rosebud which had been gatheredfor the garden of God.
"In other springs her life might be In bannered bloom unfurled; But never, never match her wee White Rose of all the world."
It was not until the spring which followed his death was blooming intogreen leaves and early flowers that the coffin of Edmund, Earl ofCornwall, was borne to the magnificent Abbey of Hales inGloucestershire, founded by his father. There they laid him down byfather and mother--the grand, generous, spendthrift Prince who had sonearly borne the proud title of Caesar Augustus, and the fair, soft,characterless Princess who had been crowned with him as Queen of theRomans. For the Prince who was laid beside them that Easter afternoon,the world had prepared what it considers a splendid destiny. Throne anddiadem, glory and wealth, love and happiness, were to have been his, sofar as it lay in the world's power to give them; but on most of allthese God had laid His hand, and forbidden them to come near the soulwhich He had marked for His own. For him there was to be anincorruptible crown, but no corruptible; the love of the Lord thatbought him, but not the love of the woman on whom he set his heart.Now--whatever he may have thought on earth--now, standing on the sea ofglass, and having the harp of God, he knows which was the betterportion.
He wore no crown; he founded no dynasty; he passed away, like a namewritten in water, followed only by the personal love of a few heartswhich were soon dust like him, and by the undying curses and calumniesof the Church which he had done his best to purify against her will.But shall we, looking back across the six centuries which lie between usand him who brought Protestantism into England--shall we write on hisgravestone in the ruined Abbey of Hales, "This man lived in vain?"
THE END.
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