Lady Sybil's Choice: A Tale of the Crusades

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by Emily Sarah Holt


  *CHAPTER XIII.*

  _*WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE*_*.*

  "Oh, hard to watch the shore-lights, And yet no signal make! Hardest, to him the back on Love, For Love's own blessed sake! For me the darkness riseth, But not for me the light; I breast the waters' heaving foam For love of Love, to-night."

  She has given him up,--my Guy, my hero, my king of men!

  No, I could never have believed it! One short month ago, if all theprophets and wise women and holy monks in Palestine had come in a bodyand told me this thing, I should have laughed them to scorn,--I shouldhave thought the dead would rise first.

  Ah! this is not our Sybil who has played this part. The Sybil whom Iloved, next to Guy himself, has vanished into nothingness, and in herstead has come a creature that wears her face, and speaks with hervoice,--cold, calculating, false!

  It was again Lady Judith who told me. I thought I was prepared forthis. But I found that I was not. By the crushing pain which struck me,I knew that I had not really believed it would be thus,--that I hadclung, like a drowning man, to the rope which failed me in thisextremity--that I had honestly thought that the God to whom I had criedall night long would have come and saved me.

  That Sybil should fail was bitterness enough. But what was I to do whenChrist failed me? Either He could not hear at all, or He would not hearme. And I did not see that it was of much consequence which it was,since, so far as I was concerned, both came to the same thing.

  The comfort Lady Judith tried to offer me sounded like cruel mockery.Even the soft pressure of her hand upon my head rasped my heart like afile.

  "Poor, dear child!" she said. "It is so hard to walk in the dark. Ifthe Lord have marked thee for His own--as by the strivings of His Spiritwith thee, I trust He has--how sorry He must be for thee, just now!"

  Sorry! Then why did He do it? When I am sorry for one I love, I do notgive him bitter pain. I felt as if I should sink and die, if I did notget relief by pouring out my heart. I broke from Lady Judith,--shetried in vain to stop me--and I dashed into Lady Sybil's chamber. Queenor villein, it was all one to me then. I was far past anyconsiderations of that sort. If she had ordered me to be instantlybeheaded, I should not have thought it signified a straw.

  I found her seated on the settle in the window. Oh, how white and wornand weary she looked! Dark rings were round her eyes, worn by pain andweeping and watching through that dreadful night. But I heeded not thesigns of her woe. She deserved them. Guy's wrong burned in my heart,and consumed every thing but itself.

  She rose hastily when she saw me, and a faint flush came to her whitecheek.

  "Ah,--Helena!"

  She spoke in a hesitating tone, as if she scarcely knew what to say.She might well tremble before Guy's sister!

  What a strange thing it is, that when our hearts are specially wrungwith distress, our eyes seem opened to notice all sorts of insignificantminutiae which we should never see at another time, or should neverremember if we did see them. I perceived that one of the buttons ofLady Sybil's robe had caught her chatelaine, and that a bow of ribbon onher super-tunic was coming loose.

  "May it please your Grace," I said--and I heard a hard metallic ring inmy own voice,--"have I heard the truth just now from Lady Judith?"

  "What hast thou heard, Helena?"

  I did not spare her for the crushing clasp of her hands, for the slightquiver of the under lip. Let her suffer! Had she not wronged my Guy?

  "I have heard that your Grace means to give way before the vulgarclamour of your inferiors, and to repudiate your wedded lord at theirdictation."

  No, I would not spare her so much as one adjective. She pressed herlips close, and a sort of shudder went over her from head to foot. Butshe said, in a calm, even voice, like a child repeating some formallesson--

  "Thou hast heard the truth."

  If she would have warmed into anger, and have resented my words, I thinkI might have kept more within bounds. But she was as cold as ice, andit infuriated me.

  "And you call yourself a Christian and a Catholic?" cried I, raising myvoice.

  "The Lord knoweth!" was her cool answer.

  "The Lord look upon it, and avenge us!" I cried. "Do you know how Iloved you? Next to my love for Guy himself,--better than I loved anyother, save you two, in earth or Heaven! You!--was it you I loved? Mysister Sybil loved Guy, and would have died rather than sacrifice him toa mob of parvenu nobles. She is gone, and you are come in her stead,the saints know how! You are not the Sybil whom I loved, but astranger,--a cold, calculating, politic, false-hearted woman. Heartless,ungenerous, faithless, false! I sweep you out of my heart this day, asif you had never entered it. You are false to Guy, and false to God. Iwill never, never, never forgive you! From this hour you are no more tome than the meanest Paynim idolatress whom I would think scorn totouch!"

  I do not know whence my words came, but they poured out of me like therain in a tempest. I noted, without one spark of relenting, the shudderwhich shook her again from head to foot when I named Guy,--the tremblingof lips and eyes,--the pitiful, appealing look. No, I would not spareone atom of misery to the woman who had broken my Guy's heart.

  Perhaps I was half mad. I do not know.

  When I stopped, at last, she only said--

  "It must look so to thee. But trust me, Helena."

  "Trust you, Lady Sybil!--how to trust you?" I cried. "Have I nottrusted you these four years, before I knew you for what you are? Andyou say, 'Trust me!'--Hear her, holy Saints! Ay, when I have donetrusting the scorpions of this land and the wolves of my own,--trust me,I will trust you!"

  She rose, and came to me, holding out both hands, with a look of piteousappeal in those fair grey eyes that I used to love so much.

  "I know," she said,--"I know. Thou must think so. Yet,--trust me,Helena!"

  I broke from her, and fled. I felt as if I could not bear to touchher,--to look at her another moment. To my own chamber I ran, andcasting myself on the bed, I buried my face in the pillow, and lay theremotionless. I did not weep; my eyes were dry and hard as stones. I didnot pray; there was no good in it. Without God, without hope, withoutany thing but crushing agony and a sense of cruel wrong,--I think inthat hour I was as near Hell as I could be, and live.

  It was thus that Marguerite found me.

  I heard her enter the room. I heard the half-exclamation, instantlychecked, which came to her lips. I heard her move quietly about thechamber, arranging various little things, and at last come and standbeside my bed.

  "Damoiselle!"

  I turned just enough to let her see my face.

  "Is Satan tempting my Damoiselle very hard just now?"

  What made her ask that question?

  "No, Margot," I said, sitting up, and pushing the hair off my forehead."God is very, very cruel to me."

  "Ah, let my Damoiselle hush there!" cried the old woman, in a tone ofpositive pain. "No, no, never! She does not mean to cut her old nurseto the heart, who loves her so dearly. But she will do it, if she sayssuch things of the gracious Lord."

  "Now, Margot, listen to me. I thought something was going to happenwhich would wring my heart to its very core. All night long I layawake, praying and crying to God to stay it. And He has not heard me.He has let it happen--knowing what it would be to me. And dost thou notcall that cruel?"

  "Ah, I guessed right. Satan is tempting my Damoiselle, very, very hard.I thought so from her face.--Damoiselle, the good Lord cannot be cruel:it is not in His nature. No, no!"

  "Dost thou know what has happened, Margot?"

  "I? Ha!--no."

  "The Lady Sybil, incited by her nobles, has consented to divorce CountGuy, and wed with another."

  I saw astonishment, grief, indignation, chase one another over oldMarguerite's face, followed by a look of extreme perplexity. For a fewmoments she stood thus, and did not speak. Then she put her handstogether, l
ike a child at prayer, and lifted her eyes upward.

  "Sir God," she said, "I cannot understand it. I do not at all see whythis is. Good Lord, it puzzles poor old Marguerite very much. But Thouknowest. Thou knowest all things. And Thou canst not be hard, norcruel, whatever things may look like. Thou art love. Have patiencewith us, Sir God, when we are puzzled, and when it looks to us as ifthings were going all wrong. And teach the child, for she does notknow. My poor lamb is quite lost in the wilderness, and the great wolfis very near her. Gentle Jesu Christ, leave the ninety and nine safelocked in the good fold, and come and look for this little lamb. IfThou dost not come, the great wolf will get her. And she is Thy littlelamb. It is very cold in the wilderness, and very dark. Oh, do makehaste!"

  "Thou seemest to think that God Almighty is sure to hear thee, Margot,"said I wearily.

  Yet I could not help feeling touched by that simple prayer for me.

  "Hear me?" she said. "Ah no, my Damoiselle, I cannot expect GodAlmighty to hear me. But He will hear the blessed Christ. He alwayshears Him. And He will ask for me what I really need, which is farbetter than hearing me. Because, my Damoiselle sees, I make so manyblunders; but He makes none."

  "What blunders didst thou make just now, Margot?"

  "Ha! Do I know, I? When He translated it into the holy language ofHeaven, the blessed Christ would put them all right. Maybe, where Isaid, 'Be quick,' He would say, 'Be slow.'"

  "I am sure that would be a blunder!" said I bitterly.

  "Ha! Does it not seem so, to my Damoiselle and her servant? But thegood God knows. If my Damoiselle would only trust Him!"

  "'Trust'!" cried I, thinking of Sybil. "Ah, Margot, I have had enoughof trusting. I feel as if I could never trust man again--nor woman."

  "Only one Man," said Marguerite softly. "And He died for us."

  After saying that, she went away and left me. I lay still, her lastwords making a kind of refrain in my head, mingling with the one thoughtthat seemed to fill every corner.

  "He died for us!" Surely, then, He cannot hate us. He is not trying togive us as much suffering as we can bear?

  I rose at last, and went to seek Guy. But I had to search the housealmost through for him. I found him at length, in the base court,gazing through one of the narrow windows through which the archersshoot. The moment I saw his face, I perceived that though we might beone in sorrow we were emphatically two in our respective ways of bearingit. The quiet, patient grief in that faraway look which I saw in hiseyes, was dictated by a very different spirit from that which actuatedme. And he found it, too.

  Not a word would he hear against Sybil. He nearly maddened me by calmlyassuming that her sufferings were beyond ours, and entreating me not tolet any words of mine add to her burden. It was so like Guy--alwayshimself last! And when I said passionately that God was cruel,cruel!--he hushed me with the only flash of the old impetuosity that Isaw in him.

  "No, Elaine, no! Let me never hear that again."

  I was silent, but the raging of the sea went on within.

  "I think," said Guy quietly, "that it is either in a great sorrow or aserious illness that a man really sees himself as he is, if it pleaseGod to give him leave. I have thought, until to-day, in a vague way,that I loved God. I begin to wonder this morning whether I ever did atall."

  His words struck cold on me. Guy no true Christian!--my brave,generous, noble, unselfish Guy! Then what was I likely to be?

  "Guy," I said,--"_will_ she?" I could bear the torture no longer. AndI knew he would need no more.

  "I think so, Elaine," was his quiet answer. "I hope so."

  "'_Hope_ so'!"

  "It is her only chance for the kingdom. The nobles are quite right,dear. I am a foreigner; I am an adventurer; I am not a scion of anyroyal house. It would very much consolidate her position to get rid ofme."

  "And canst thou speak so calmly? I want to curse them all round, if Icannot consume them!"

  "I am past that, Elaine," said Guy in a low voice, not quite so firmlyas before. "Once, I did---- May the good Lord pardon me! His thundersare not for mortal hands. And I am thankful that it is so."

  "I suppose nobody is wicked, except me," I said bitterly. "Every bodyelse seems to be so terribly resigned, and so shockingly good, and soevery thing else that he ought to be: and--I will go, if thou hast noobjection, Guy. I shall be saying something naughty, if I don't."

  Guy put his arm round me, and kissed my forehead.

  "My poor little Lynette!" he said. "We can go home to Poitou, dear, andbe once more all in all to each other, as we used to be long ago.Monseigneur will be glad to see us."

  But I could not stand that. Partly Guy's dreadful calm, and partly thatallusion to the long ago when we were so much to each other, broke medown, and laying my head down upon Guy's arm, I burst into a passionateflood of tears.

  Oh, what good they did me! I could scarcely have believed how muchquieted and lightened I should feel for them. Though there was no realchange, yet the most distressing part of the weight seemed gone. Iactually caught myself fancying what Monseigneur would say to us when wecame home.

  Guy said he would go with me to my chamber. I was glad that we met noone below. But as we entered the corridor at the head of the stairs,little Agnes came running to us, holding up for admiration a string ofsmall blue beads.

  "See, Baba!--See, Tan'!--Good!"

  These are her names for Guy and me. Every thing satisfactory is "good"with Agnes--it is her expressive word, which includes beautiful,amiable, precious, and all other varieties. I felt as if my heart weretoo sore to notice her, and I saw a spasm of pain cross Guy's face. Buthe lifted the child in his arms, kissed her, and admired her treasure toher baby heart's content. If I were but half as selfless as he!

  "And who gave thee this, little one?"

  "Amma. Good!"

  It was the child's name for her mother. Ah, little Agnes, I cannotagree with thee! "Amma" and "good" must no longer go into one sentence.How could she play, to-day, with Guy's children?

  Yet I suppose children must be fed, and cared for, and trained, andamused,--even though their elders' hearts are breaking.

  Oh, if I might lie down somewhere, and sleep, and awake eighteen yearsago, when I was a little sorrowless child like Agnes!

  The coronation is fixed for Holy Cross Day. And Lady Sybil hasundertaken, as soon as she is crowned, to select her future husband.One condition she has insisted on herself. Every noble, on thecoronation day, is to take a solemn oath that he will be satisfied withand abide by her decision, and will serve the King of her choice forever. This seems to me a very wise and politic move, as it will preventany future disputes. Every body appears to have no doubt on whom herchoice will fall. All expect the Count of Tripoli.

  Guy has requested permission to retire to Ascalon; and she has accordedit, but with the express stipulation that he is to be in his place, withthe rest of her peers, at the coronation. It does seem to me a piece ofneedless cruelty. Surely she might have spared him this!

  I also have asked permission to retire from Court. Of course I go withGuy. Whoever forsakes him, the little sister shall be true.

  For about the first time in my life, I am thoroughly pleased withAmaury. He is nearly as angry as I am--which is saying a great deal.And he is the only person in whose presence I dare relieve my feelingsby saying what I think of Sybil, for Guy will not hear a word.

  Eschine has the most extraordinary idea. She thinks that Sybil's heartis true, and that only her head is wrong. It is all nonsense! Heartand head go together.

  The worst item of the agony is over--the divorce.

  The ceremony was short enough. A speech--from Count Raymond--stating tothe public the necessities of the case; a declaration from both partiesthat they acted of their own free will; a solemn sentence from the holyPatriarch:--and all was over, and Guy and Sybil were both free to wedagain.

  I did think Sybil would have fainted be
fore she could get through thefew words she had to speak. But Guy was as calm and quiet as if he weremaking some knightly speech. I cannot understand him. It seems sounnatural for Guy.

  I expressed some surprise afterwards.

  "O Lynette! how could I make it harder for her!"

  That was his answer. It was all for her. He seems to think himself notworth considering.

  We leave for Ascalon very early to-morrow; and as this was my lastnight, I went to Lady Judith's cell to say farewell to her. On my way Imet Count Raymond, returning from an audience of Lady Sybil, withtriumph flashing in his eyes as he met mine. He evidently agrees withthe multitude that he has a good chance of the crown. My heart swelledagainst him, but I managed to return his bow with courtesy, and passingon, tapped at Lady Judith's door.

  "Helena, dear child!--Come in," she said.

  "I am come to bid you good-bye, holy Mother."

  Lady Judith silently motioned me to a seat on her bed, and sat downbeside me.

  "Is it quite as dark, my child?"

  "Yes, quite!" I said, sighing.

  "Poor child! I would give much to be able to comfort thee. But, pleaseGod, thou wilt be comforted one day."

  "The day seems a long way off, holy Mother."

  "It seemed a long way off, dear, to the holy Jacob, the very day beforethe waggons arrived to carry him down to his son Joseph. Yet it wasvery near, Helena."

  I listened with respect, of course: but I could not see what that had todo with me. The waggons were not coming for me--that one thing wascertain.

  "Wilt thou be here for the coronation, my child?"

  "I shall be where Guy is," I said shortly. "But--O holy Mother, shemight have spared him that!"

  Lady Judith's look was very pitiful. Yet she said--

  "Perhaps not, my child."

  Why, of course she might, if she would. What was to hinder her? But Idid not say so, for it would have been discourteous.

  Even between me and my dear old Lady Judith there seemed a miserableconstraint. Was it any marvel? I rose to go. Almost noiselessly thedoor opened, and before I could exclaim or escape, Sybil stood beforeme.

  "And wert thou going without any farewell--me,--little sister, Helena?"

  I stood up, frozen into stone.

  "I ask your Grace's pardon. We are not sisters _now_."

  She turned aside, and covered her face with her hands.

  "O Lynette! thou makest it so hard, so hard!"

  "So hard?" said I coldly. "I hope I do. If your heart had not beenharder than the nether millstone, Lady Sybil, you would never, neverhave required our presence at your coronation. God give you what youdeserve!"

  "That is a terrible prayer, in general," she said, turning and meetingmy eyes. "And yet, Lynette, in this one thing, I dare to echo it. Ay,God render unto me what I deserve!"

  How could she? Oh, how could she?

  Lady Judith kissed me, and I went away. I believe Sybil would havekissed me too, but I would not have it from her.

  It was easy, after that, to say farewell to the rest.

  "I wish I were going too!" growled Amaury.

  Then why does he not? He might if he chose. Just like Amaury!

  "Farewell, dear," said Eschine. "I shall miss thee, Elaine."

  --And nobody else. Yes, I know that.

  So we go forth. Driven out of our Paradise, like Adam and Eva. But theflaming sword is held by no angel of God.

  I always thought it such a dreadful thing, that our first parents shouldbe driven out of Paradise. Why could not God have let them stay? Itwas not as if He had wanted it for the angels. If He had meant to useit for any thing, it would be on the earth now.

  I cannot understand! Oh, why, why, _why_ are all these terrible things?

  "I cannot understand either," says old Marguerite. "But I can trust thegood God, and I can wait till He tells me. I am happier than myDamoiselle,--always wanting to know."

  Well, I see that I marvel if there is any maiden upon earth much moremiserable than I am. Last night, only, I caught myselfwishing--honestly wishing--that I could change with Marguerite, old andpoor as she is. It must be such a comfort to think of God as she does.It seems to answer for every thing.

  The sultry quiet here is something almost unendurable to me. There isnothing in the world to see or hear but the water-carriers crying "Thegift of God!" and strings of camels passing through the gateway, andwomen washing or grinding corn in the courts. And there is nothing todo but wait and bear, and prepare, after a rather sluggish fashion, forour return home when the coronation is over. Here, again, oldMarguerite is better off than I am, for she has constantly things whichshe must do.

  I do not think it likely that Amaury will come with us. Things nevertake hold of him long. If he be furiously exasperated on Monday, he iscalmly disgusted on Tuesday, supremely content on Wednesday, and byThursday has forgotten that he was ever otherwise. And he seemsdisposed to make his home here.

  To me, it looks as though my life divided itself naturally into twoportions, and the four years I have passed here were the larger half ofit. I seem to have been a woman only since I came here.

  Three months to wait!--and all the time we are waiting for a dreadfulordeal, which we know must come. Why does Lady Sybil give us thissuffering? And far more, why, why does the good God give it to us?

  If I could only understand, I could bear it better.

  "Ha!" says Marguerite, with a rather pitying smile. "If my Damoisellecould but know every thing, she would be content not to know more!"

  Well! I suppose I am unreasonable. Yet it will be such a relief whenthe worst is over. But how can I wish the worst to come?

 

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